I spent a quiet and peaceful evening yesterday. W called, said he was going to have a Boys Night. Could hardly complain, as tomorrow is Ladies Night Out. (We are Ladies. They are Boys. Hmmm.) Of course, it would have made more sense for the Boys to go out tomorrow, in that case, but when have men ever been sensible?

Plus, I figure they wanted someone available to bail them out if they got in trouble.

And I didn't really mind. I hardly ever do, which apparently makes me a pearl among wives. But at 12:30 or so, I started to worry. But not too much, as W said they were going to the Roialto. I like the Roialto. They have comfy couches and oriental rugs and a last days of the empire feel, albeit in what appears to be a converted aircraft hangar, easy on the conversion. Until about ten or so (when the Italians start to come out to play), they also have surly waiter service. I figure that they're surly, at least in part, because they have to wear sarongs, so it doesn't phase me too much. After 10-10:30, it's standard bar: you pay for your drinks first, then take the scontrino to the bar and try futilely to get a bartender to serve you. Unless you're young and nubile with enormous breasts. I'm not, but I still get served faster than the men. The waiters still stalk around, snatching away not quite empty glasses and trying to look dignified despite the sarongs. I've never seen sarong-slippage, but I keep hoping. It would serve them right.

Anyhow, this place is open until two or so, so I didn't really worry much. Just a little. I tried to sleep, succeeded in dozing. Then W rolled in around 2:15. He was clearly having trouble walking, and he sounded like he was dancing at the monster's ball: one two, pause, three, one two... his footsteps made him sound like he was doing a demented waltz. So he lurched in to the bedroom, missed the corner of our bed, went flying. If I hadn't been awake at this point, I would have.

"I must apologize profoundly for my extreme lateness," he said. I was impressed: two three syllable words in one sentence, not bad, especially since I could now appreciate just how smashed he was.

"It's Yuri's fault. He made me drink the last two shots of Jack Daniels. The first I had myself, but the last two... It's a Russian Conspiracy." And I thought Russians stuck to vodka. Silly me. Then W started giggling. Oh dear. I started laughing, too. It was pretty funny.

So he went off to make a cup of tea, after I made him promise he wouldn't sit on the couch and smoke a cigarette, and I settled down to sleep. Except, of course, he came back. Hit the same corner of the bed, and now I'm wide awake. He asked if I needed to get up early. Yes, I did. 7 o'clock. He was sad because he thought I could come talk to him, but it's by this time past 3 am, and out of the question. He lurched off, and I felt guilty. Still, I was managing to drift off when:

"Smell this."

Ever had a drunken man say this to you, out of the blue, at 3:30 in the morning? It's an indescribable feeling. I hoped he was just raiding the fridge, although I don't appreciate being forced to smell possibly spoiled food at any time of the day. But it wasn't: it was roses. Three of them. "There were four, but I threw one away because it was crap." He also informed me that he was planning to throw up before the night was over. Nice, but it was sweet of him to think of me while he was getting tanked up, even though I never let him buy from the rose pushers when we're out together. Couldn't get back to sleep after the vomit-warning though, so I just laid there listening. Couldn't have slept anyway, as he kept hauling in the cat, complaining loudly (both), and dumping her on the bed. She did not, needless to say, have any intention of staying there. Between times, W sat at his computer and smoked until he was ready for the big event. At least he stayed off the couch, as I really wasn't in the mood to put out a fire. Which has never happened, but I still worry.

It was 4:45 when he came in to bed.

I got up at 7:30 and went to Italian like a good girl.

W called in sick, which is the bit that pisses me off. Hangover is not sick, and when you drink to the point that it affects your work, it is a problem. I said this to W, after I came back laden with groceries and found him in a shower, his clothes piled in the living room, kitchen table a mess.

He didn't answer, but I think he's mad. Probably, if I know W, at himself, but a little bit at me too. It's the truth though. He's gone out to get something to eat. Actually, he maybe should be back by now. Perhaps he's walking. He does that sometimes. I wonder if we'll fight when he gets back. I don't want to: I am very, very tired. 2.5 hours of sleep is not enough to deal with this.