My future wife, the hot mess

“Nothing good happens after midnight” is a maxim that is commonly embraced by parents and other elderly types.

This old adage is meant to convey the benefits of retiring to bed at an early hour. The phrase is often used by parents who worry that the twilight hours will expose their children to the unsavory aspects of life, such as premarital sex, alcohol, drugs and Mexicans.

I thoroughly reject the notion that “nothing good happens after midnight,” as I am a nocturnal being. Every morning, I begrudgingly peel myself out of bed for work, spending the first part of the day in a semiconscious haze. I am a staunch proponent of early evening naps, and I am most productive late at night.

My girlfriend, boqueen, is also a night owl. However, I do not know if she also disagrees with the statement “nothing good happens after midnight,” as she has a tendency to get drunk and black out in the early morning hours. It is difficult to assess the quality of what occurs after midnight when one has no recollection of the events in question.

This is not to suggest that boqueen is an alcoholic. On the contrary, she moderates her alcohol consumption far more than I do. Her tolerance for alcohol is simply far lower than mine. I am blessed with the superhuman ability to consume massive quantities of alcohol without shitting myself, as I come from a long line of alcoholics. boqueen, on the other hand, has a tendency to slur her words, fall over, or vomit after a few stiff cocktails.

Most of the time, the care and feeding of a drunken boqueen is a rather trivial matter. She might spill a glass of wine or require assistance as she staggers to our bedroom. I find her absolutely adorable when this happens. As an added bonus, it gives me the opportunity to serve as the devoted, helpful boyfriend. I have always been skinny and pathetically unathletic, so this is the closest that I ever get to feeling like a superhero.

Occasionally, boqueen will pass the threshold of mere drunkenness, transforming into a belligerent being known for behaving erratically and evacuating the evening’s beverages from her body in whatever manner is most efficient. In these cases, boqueen is, for lack of a better term, a hot fucking mess.

boqueen’s transformation into The Incredible Drunk is most likely to occur when we are out with our friends, who have a penchant for hanging out in bars until closing time, spending massive amounts of money on prohibitively expensive drinks.

::

Surprisingly, the first time I witnessed this ghastly side of boqueen was last fall, after we had been dating for nearly a year.

We had spent the evening at a bar in Wicker Park celebrating our friend Durty Dee’s birthday. Wicker Park is a neighborhood on the north side of Chicago renowned for its highly-trafficked bars, overpriced food and drinks, and a preponderance of douchebag hipsters in skinny jeans.

In order to enjoy an evening in Wicker Park, one must typically secure a large credit line, home equity loan or trust fund from their parents. This particular night in Wicker Park was atypical, as Dee had arranged for an affordable package deal for drinks. However, despite Dee’s best efforts, a large number of hipsters were still present.

For approximately 30 dollars, we enjoyed several hours of unlimited drinks. The exact cost and duration of this package deal have long been forgotten, as I relentlessly consumed beers and gin cocktails like a ravenous fat person at Old Country Buffet six minutes before closing.

Likewise, boqueen dumped massive quantities of Ketel One into her gullet, in hopes of minimizing the average cost-per-drink. Her efforts were a resounding success.

By about 3 A.M., we left the bar, in large part due to the fact that a bouncer had ejected me from the premises. While walking to the bathroom, I had stumbled and fallen onto the floor, giving the bouncer the impression that I had been over-served. I had been over-served and was seeing double at the time, though my fall could be attributed to my unreliably feeble knee, which was badly injured in a car accident in 2008.

Several of our friends were standing outside of the bar smoking cigarettes as we hailed a taxi. Before leaving, I decided to moon these friends. Public exposure of my buttocks is a hallmark of an enjoyable evening for all.

The overpowering stench of curry and butt sweat in the cab lulled boqueen into a slumber. Once we arrived home, I woke her from the ill-timed nap.

boqueen reluctantly obliged, struggling to keep her balance as she exited the cab. I quickly paid the driver and rushed to help her.

I attempted to put my arm around her in an effort to guide her to the door of our apartment. This gesture was quickly rejected.

“I’m fucking drunk you fucking asshole,” she slurred, stumbling away from me. “I want to go fucking home.”

As we crossed the street, boqueen began to vomit. She continued to walk across the street, head bowed as she spewed vodka and bile onto the pavement. Most people would stop walking in order to purge, but she kept stepping across the intersection. boqueen’s multi-taking abilities are admirable.

boqueen finished, and I stood in awe of the impressively long streak of vomit that coated the street. She stood up, wiping small remnants of foamy stomach juice from her chin with her sleeve.

“Why the fuck did you fucking buy me those drinks, you fucking asshole?” she inquired, clearly unappreciative of the fact that I had generously paid for the evening’s activities.

I briefly attempted to rationalize with her, but she quickly interrupted me.

“I need to fucking go the fuck home,” she said, stomping down the street. Unfortunately, she was headed the opposite direction of our apartment, which was no more than 50 feet away.

Eventually, I coaxed boqueen into trusting me, carrying her to our apartment. She was apologetic for her behavior when she finally awoke at 3 P. M.

::

Since Dee’s birthday, I have experienced several instances of boqueen’s aggressively obnoxious drunken behavior. Last weekend, boqueen surpassed her own benchmark for reckless abandon and contempt for me.

On Saturday, we celebrated our friend Mike’s birthday. Mike is the lead singer of Treaty of Paris, and an all-around awesome human being. Also, Mike’s dad came to the party. Old people are fun in moderation.

(We spent the evening at Twisted Spoke, a biker-themed bar on the Near West Side. While the whole biker thing isn’t my bag, this is one of my favorite bars in Chicago. The bar has great food and an incredible beer selection. Most importantly, the bar is designed so the biker theme is ancillary to the customer experience. For example, Exit on the North Side is a punk-themed bar where the bartenders are dismissive assholes and the bathrooms reek of ripened urine. In summary, Exit is a deplorable shithole and The Spoke is rad.)

The evening was marked by drunken debauchery, good conversation and funny moments that were shared with the world on Twitter. Many of us sampled a variety of exotic beers, while others frantically consumed cocktails. A good time was had by all. Our evening ended around 3 A.M. when a friendly bouncer instructed us to leave the bar, which was closed.

boqueen immediately feel asleep at the start of our short cab ride home. After paying the driver, I attempted to wake her up.

“Honey, we’re home,” I said in a comforting, apologetic tone, “wake up.”

boqueen muttered something completely unintelligible.

“Let’s go, dear,” I replied, “I walk you upstairs.”

“Okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay,” boqueen snapped, “okay okay okay.”

She clumsily scooted across the vinyl seat to the door of the cab. She placed her right foot on the ground, and then abruptly halted.

Next, she collapsed onto her side, lying across the seat of the cab.

“Just give me five more minutes,” she instructed as she huddled in a fetal position.

“Let’s go, woman,” I said, growing frustrated. “You can’t sleep in this filthy goddamned cab.”

The driver shot me an icy stare in the rearview mirror.

“No offense, sir,” I said, clutching boqueen’s ankles and pulling her lifeless body from the car. This startled her and she quickly awoke.

“Fuck you. Don’t fucking touch me you fucking asshole,” she said, lazily shoving me aside as she rose to her feet. “Take me to the fucking bathroom.”

I placed my arm around her, guiding her as to the door of our apartment. She clumsily limped along as if she had been shot in both knees.

Despite boqueen’s lack of motor function and the challenges of transporting a booze-seeped cadaver, I was determined to get her into the apartment as quickly as possible. Her insistence on using the bathroom triggered a sense of urgency in me. The prospect of cleaning up her vomit, feces and/or urine was rather unpleasant.

I am madly in love with boqueen, but my love does not extend to her excrement. Poop is gross, even if it came out of a loved one.

After struggling mightily to guide boqueen up the stairs and into our apartment, I carried her into the bathroom. I flicked on the light and announced our current location.

“This is the bathroom,” I said. “Are you going to be okay? Do you need any help?”

“Take me to the fucking bathroom,” boqueen screamed, oblivious to the fact that she was leaning with both hands on the bathroom sink to prevent her drunken body from collapsing onto the floor.

“We are in the bathroom, honey,” I politely explained. “Here is the toilet.”

A lifted the lid of the toilet and gestured towards the bowl.

“Do you need any hel–” I began.

“Fuck you,” boqueen interrupted. “You never fucking do anything for me any fucking way. Take me to the fucking bathroom.”

Clearly, my charm would be ineffective in dissipating her hostility.

“You are in the bathroom right now,” I responded, my slow, terse tone demonstrating my aggravation. “Here’s the sink, and here is the toilet.”

I flushed the toilet in hopes that the auditory cue would serve as a helpful reminder of her current location.

boqueen silent started at me, and her icy sneer made it clear that she was not pleased.

“Okay then,” I said as I backed out of the room, “holler if you need anything.”

I closed the door of the bathroom, which immediately swung back open violently.

“Take me to the fucking bathroom!” boqueen exclaimed, charging towards me with her arms madly flailing. Fortunately, I was not harmed by her lethargic drunken punches.

“I need to use the fucking bathroom you fucking asshole,” she desperately pleaded.

“Fuck you,” she added. When intoxicated, boqueen uses this phrase quite frequently when addressing me, as it is was a form of punctuation.

“You should go to bed, baby,” I said, hoping to diffuse the situation. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

“No, you fucking asshole,” she replied as repeatedly poked me in the chest with her finger. “Take me to the fucking bathroom now. Fuck you.”

By this point, I had grown tired of boqueen’s inability to recognize a bathroom by its defining properties, such as a toilet, sink and bathtub. I wrapped my arms around her waist, lifted her up and walked into the bathroom.

Her feet hit the floor with an empathic thud.

“You are in the bathroom now,” I said. “Piss, shit, puke or douche: do whatever you need to. Call me if you need help.”

Again, boqueen responded with a cold, hateful glare. I carefully backed out of the bathroom, hoping not to further provoke her ire.

As I closed the bathroom door, boqueen lost her balance. She stumbled and quickly propped herself up using the sink.

“Fuck you!” she screamed. “Why the fuck did you fucking push me? You are so fucking abusive, you fucking asshole. Fuck you,”

“Sorry,” I pathetically said as I closed the door. Minutes later, boqueen emerged from the bathroom and stumbled into our bed, fully clothed and carrying her purse.

She was scheduled to work the following day. She woke up Sunday morning about ten minutes after her shift started, still clutching the strap of her purse.

::

I relay this story because it is quite memorable and, hopefully, entertaining. Dealing with boqueen’s drunken antics can be a harrowing, but quite memorable, experience.

I just hope that she appreciates the shit that she puts me through.

2 responses to 'My future wife, the hot mess'

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1. Great story man!

   Guilmar

   04.19.10 05:24 AM

    

2. This is all small beans compared to what it’s like living with you.

   I love you. This is hilarious and I certainly don’t recall ANY of the second night.

   boqueen

   04.19.10 11:45 PM

    

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