the time i was a hot mess dot com in london… part 1

When I was nineteen I studied abroad in London and fell in love with a Welsh barrister. Jon lived in a flat near Buckingham Palace with his sister, Felicity, who was excruciatingly posh. She wore little boots and had shiny hair and nostrils that flared ever so slightly when she was making a point.

I was awestruck and somewhat terrified of Felicity, who Jon lovingly referred to as, “Feliss.” He was twenty-five and she was twenty-one and, in retrospect, it was probably a little unacceptable for one’s older, mid-twenties brother to be dating a teenager. But Jon dated me and I smiled timidly as I felt Felicity watch me, tolerate me, keenly observing my oddly idiotic American tendencies.

When I started spending the night regularly at their flat, I knew I wasn’t imagining Felicity’s resentment.  In the mornings, I would stay in bed while Jon went to work. (I only had class two days a week.) Hours later I would groggily sit up, warming my face on the slice of grey London sun that peeked through the French doors, only to be blasted into consciousness by the motion-detecting theft alarm erupting from outside Jon’s bedroom.

I’d stumble blindly into the hall, the earsplitting siren beating nails into my skull, until I found the keypad and punched off the alarm.  It seemed that whenever I spent the night, Felicity set the alarm in the morning. It was perfect, really. A seemingly well-intentioned effort to protect their flat was an excellent mask for the “fuck you, child girlfriend” that roused me each day.

One night around 3am Jon, my friend Gretchen, and I stumbled back from a bender. I collapsed in the bedroom while Jon set up Gretchen’s cot in the den.  After a million years I screeched,  ”If you don’t come in here and fuck me right now, I’m gonna ralph all over you!”

Jon didn’t reply, so I waltzed back into the living room where he was staring at Gretchen with confusion saying, “Ralph? What does ralph mean?” As I opened my mouth to explain, I felt my stomach rising into my throat. Launching myself back down the hall, I barely made it to the toilet before the blue and purple meaty pasta sauce and liquor combination (this was also the first and only time I drank Absinthe) came sailing forth.

Several minutes later I managed to finish barfing, slip out of my clothes and stumble from the bathroom to the hallway. Just as I opened my mouth to scream the definition of “Ralph,” I came face to face with Felicity. She stood in her doorway, wearing her white Ralph Lauren silk bathroom and rubbing her eyes, her hair shining in the lamplight. I cowered for a moment, hoping she didn’t see me, but there I was, a drunk lump, two feet in front of her, wearing neon rainbow thongs with bows and a blue lace bra.

I gummed my lips together in an effort to explain, but she beat me to it with,

“Feeling a bit ill, are we?”

I wish I could say that screeching about screwing her brother while appearing in my redneck underwear with vomit smeared on my face, was the end of my embarrassment.

But, no.

Three days later, I outdid myself.