My beloved, took downing Dead Nazis to a new level, putting away nine of them in a ridiculously short amount of time.

My boyfriend (now husband), Tim, and I had been dating for a few months when we went to a Halloween party. It was in a run-down house belonging to one of Tim's friends whom I hadn't met yet. I knew no one there other than the three people we came with. Tim and I had agreed that, since these were his friends, I would be the designated driver.

As Tim had a job in a town about thirty miles away, he was happy to see his old cronies again and plunged right into the booze. First came a couple of beers, a couple of weak mixed drinks, then the dreaded Dead Nazis (a double shot of Jagermeister and Rumplemintz). My beloved, took downing Dead Nazis to a new level, putting away nine of them in a ridiculously short amount of time. Needless to say, he was sitting next to me on the couch with a sweaty, gray pallor about him before too long.

Then the alcohol all started to come back up, as expected. Tim's first toss was in the first floor bathroom sink - the hot dogs we'd eaten before the party. The smell was so awful that I dumped some nearby bleach into the sink to kill the nasty stench. This prompted several other fellow party-goers to wrinkle their noses at me and say, "Aw, what smells like bleach?" I asked if they'd rather smell vomit--none did.

Since the three friends we'd come with had left, I had nothing to for the next two hours, but rub Tim's back while he barfed, and barfed, and barfed in the toilet (he'd moved into the bathroom after the sink incident). His former drinking buddy, Jessie, a tiny girl who could put away a surprising amount of liquor, joined him a little later. After about a half hour of dual vomiting, Jessie passed out on the bathroom floor. I asked some people around that knew Jessie to maybe find a place to put her, being that the bathroom floor wasn't the cleanest place to take a nap. A couple of guys quickly showed up to haul poor Jessie out of the bathroom - by her feet. In the state she was in, I don't think she cared one way or the other.

When Tim seemed to have subsided his barf-fest, I hauled him out to my car - only to find out that he wasn't finished. He threw up on my car all the way back to my apartment. The minute we got inside, he spent another fifteen minutes heaving in the bathroom.

I think he threw up the entire contents of his stomach that night - and probably mine as well. When he was finally finished, I was able to roll him into my tiny single bed. As he spent the entire night hogging the bed or trying to push me out, I finally gave up and crashed on the floor. I woke up to his face above mine saying, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry--so, so sorry."

I told him that if that didn't prove to him that I love him, I don't know what else would!