So, skipping over the ones hinting at sadness and mental desperation (hey, I don't need any help), I come across one that makes me grin with familiarity. Well, I kinda grin.
"Hey, did you send this one in to Post Secret?" I slide the laptop across the coffee table. His eyes flicker and he smirks.
"Yeah, sounds like you alright."
Maybe I should let you all in on our romantic moment:
It's kinda true. Becoming a mother has kind of made me want to pretend all my we-do-not-speak-of-those-things days just happened when I was, I don't know, doing research for some writing or something. Which, is kinda true. It goes along with that blog-of-whose-name-we-do-not-speak-because-its-all-still-there-on-archives.org.
But anyway. Maybe this is the wrong approach. I cannot deny the amazingly stunning, carefree, spirited personality that got me into situations like having a 400 pound biker-dude bouncer from Hogs and Heifers try to SCARE THE CRAP OUT OF ME to cure my hiccups. I don't even remember if it worked. That might not even be the time that I tried to hop up on the bar and the bartender not-so-kindly indicated that we'd all had enough of that. Right, because there was more than one time.
So in the spirit of letting my husband win every once in a while, and in the spirit of St. Patrick's Day, we'll revisit my most memorable celebration of this holiday.
Got your beer? Good. Here we go.
I guess it was probably like 2003 or so and since I was living with my parents, my friend and I decided to go visit our other friend in Boston to celebrate St. Pat's. It was over the weekend or something, so I didn't even have to call in sick for work--which was definitely not out of the question.
We ended up trying desperately to cram into any bar we could find. Having not planned ahead and getting there early (Pssht. Lame. Who does that?) everywhere was crowded. The bar we ended up in happened to be one of the oldest in the city--or maybe that was the place we were planning on going to. Whichever. It was a bar.
We promptly started drinking Guinness and doing shots of whateveritwas. Somehow, we befriended an Englishman who was waaaayyysted. He couldn't even explain who he was there with. Or maybe I just couldn't understand him. Language barrier and all. He would come and go, and in between there would be dancing and more drinks. I remember Sweet Caroline ripping through the place like a freaking riot and wondering why the hell people always to the "BAH BAH BAH!" during the refrain. Of course, I did it too.
At some point I notice a man walking around with a sandwhich sign and a boa. Naturally, I approached the fellow and asked him what the f*ck he was doing in a bar, on St. Patrick's Day, with a sandwhich sign and a boa. Why, he was raising money to run in the Boston Marathon, naturally! (Sober thought: how much money does it cost to run a freaking marathon, anyway?)
Of course I didn't give him any money, but I figured my stunning good looks could certainly help his cause. I stole the boa, ignoring his annoyed glare and really just proceeded to go back with my friends and drink. Occassionally when someone would ask me about it, I'd point to the boy fuming in the corner and that would be that. After a while, he came back and snatched it away.
Then our British friend got kicked out of the bar and we promised our honor that he would behave if permitted back in. That wasn't much of a selling point, as luck would have it.
I guess we left around 2, since that's when pansy-Boston closes its drinking establishments. The T ride home was interesting...I think I took some pictures of strangers. (Sober thought #2: God, how did I not end up a headline on CNN featuring decapitation?)
Back at my friend's house, I proceeded to eat a box of macaroni and cheese and Windex the crap out of her mirrored living room...Right, maybe we should stop there.
So, there you have it. A glimpse into