Runny Memories

Every few years, the Cap'n gives me an unforgettable, alcohol-soaked experience that makes me check my pockets to see whose bleak and lothesome life I've unwittingly tripped into, and then, later, thank my lucky stars that it happens so infrequently.  I should probably let such tales lie in the beer-soaked ground, but hey, it's not my fault it makes for a good story.

Last time, it was a spectacular tears (not mine) and vomit (also not mine) soaked journey home from a wedding using various forms of public transportation and a very pissed-off cab driver.  I'm sure there are people in the city who still remember the culmination of that night, the Cap'n's Technicolor display out the window of the car during gridlock on the Queensboro Bridge, while I lovingly propped his ass on my leg so as to allow him to clear the safety window that only went down half way.  Words could not convey his regret and apology the next day, particularly after I filled him in on the details, which also included careening and collapsing into the middle of a busy Union Square street, and using the wedding centerpiece as a puking focal-point.  Poor guy.  Pretty stuff.

I had a feeling I was in for it again when our friends pulled up with two cases of beer, a bottle of Jameson's, and a big bag of weed.  Out of the party of four, two were pregnant, so some quick math tells you the sheer insanity of the ratios we were dealing with that night.  My pleas of making it last through the weekend were placated but ultimately ignored.  They were having such an amazing time, those two.  They were like brothers.  Very, very drunk brothers.  This night's atrocities included simple yet embarrassing annoyances...one count of sloppily attempting to welcome late-arriving customers who were already taken care of, one count of rousing me past midnight to check-in some folks who dropped by and needed a room, and thirty counts of then forgetting they were in the room, deciding upon that room for a 3 am guitar jam-session, walking in on the poor sleeping people, scaring the bejesus out of them and making us the official worst innkeepers of the year.

For some reason, in both scenarios, I'm pregnant, and therefore stone-cold sober to appreciate the subtleties and specialness of the occasion.  Perhaps this will be our last foray into both pregnancy and blinding inebriation?  I think that would be just fine.