Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Deny, deny, de--...Ok, I confess.

So the hubby and I were reading the weekly secret postcards over at Post Secret this past Sunday. Well, I was reading them to him when I found one I thought he'd like. It's not like we get all romantic in the morning, snuggling on the couch with a laptop upon our adjacent knees. The most romance our mornings see is when someone says, "Should I leave the creamer out for you?"

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 my research for writing, my times spent drinking and coerced, my twenty-something, I-guess-its-ok-to-have-some-stories-to-tell past. And it was totally a blast. Sure, it's a mild story, but we've got to start somewhere. I mean, I've introduced you to my neurosis, right? Give me some space people!


  1. that one is a winner! happy st. pat's :)

  2. You couldn't understand an Englishman, and you major in English.

    That's what I get out of this story, anyway. Or you had a fuckin' Scot and couldn't tell, which probably points back to the drinkin'.

    Anyway, don't be afraid of your stories. Even the crazy non-motherly ones. You need to teach your kids somehow, right? And if I can find a Guiness that doesn't involve a bar tonight (unlikely), I'll drink to that.

  3. He was indeed English. And it wasn't his accent that was hard to understand, it was his slurring!
    My favorite detail of that night: realizing that our one friend was ordering shots three at a time . . . for herself. And then she walked around the T trying and held hands with random strangers. I have photo evidence!

  4. HA! I forgot about that minor detail!
    We're all, "Wow, I guess we hold our liquor damn well!" Mmmm, notsomuch.

    And now the T ride is coming back to me much more clearly...and I'm even more surprised we're still alive.

    Ah, the slurring Englishman. I remember his face clearly, maybe because I didn't concentrate much on what he was saying.

  5. that one is a winner! happy st. pat's :)