My husband has a problem with Saint Patrick’s Day, and that problem is, in 2009, I inadvertently attempted to kill him with a potent cocktail of thirty something women and Guinness in a misguided attempt at teaching someone a lesson…it turned into an athletic event the likes of which no one should be forced to endure…ever.
Things didn’t really start out with me thinking, “Today is the day I’m going to murder my husband!” In fact, if memory serves; we were pretty stoked about the whole experience when we struck out into the world on St. Patrick’s Day. Heading to an Irish pub where some friends of ours would be playing the pipes all day long and an assortment of Celtic entertainment ranging from step dancing to folk singing was scheduled to run the whole day through.
My husband donned his kilt, and let me tell you ladies, if you haven’t seen Mr. Gossip in a kilt…you just haven’t lived! A strikingly handsome man by any standard, he honestly would look good in a garbage bag, so in his full regailia from head to toe, complete with beefy calves and sparkling blue eyes, he’s downright devastating. And as we arrived at the pub, which was a little slow since it was still early, we settled into a booth for the day with our friends, going relatively unnoticed since it was mostly performers and friends and family of performers patronizing the bar.
The afternoon entertainment was amazing and the food at this place knocked all of our socks off! But one little thing was deflating my St. Patrick’s Day Fun Balloon… The thirty something, single female bar patrons. As night fell on our celebration, they swarmed the pub like locust. Quickly and silently they arrived in a cloud of Dior and Chanel, tastefully dressed and in groups of three to seven, the tables surrounding ours became occupied…and as the din of chatter slowly rose and the lights in the pub were dimmed, it dawned on me that these women weren’t here for food or entertainment, but something decidedly off menu.
Let me preface by saying that I’m not a jealous type of woman and I honestly cannot blame any lady for treating herself to an eyeful of my husband. We’re also not the kind to sit next to each other all night as if no one else was around, we strike out and mingle, meet new people, catch up with old friends…after all, if we wanted it to be just us, we would have stayed home! But these women began making a spectacle of themselves after their first round…lifting men’s kilts and pinching their butts, sending drinks to their tables as they sat there with their wives and girlfriends…it was embarassing to say the least.
By this time our booth is packed with twelve people, all chatting and laughing, switching seats and running around and in spite of the brisk weather outside, it was sweltering in that place. I ducked outside to the patio to cool of and have a moment of quiet, bagpipes are a beautiful thing, but hearing them all day had my ears ringing! I happened upon a nice bench near an open fire pit to have a moment of peace, when a rather large group of these broads came out, gathering around each other they lit up their slim cigarettes and started chatting….I was shivering by now, the difference between the heat inside and the biting cold meant that the sweat had turned to ice in a matter of minutes and I needed to go back inside before I expired of hypothermia!
Before I could get to the door, I hear someone say, “Excuse me, Miss?’ I turn to see one of the women looking directly at me, with an expectantly pleasant expression on her face…”Can I help you?” I reply. “I hope so,” she says, walking closer to me, surrounded by her friends she says, “I couldn’t help but notice the group you were with….and all those men….that one in particular, the tall blonde one, in the kilt?” I manage not to smirk, after all, how could she possibly guess? “I know he’s married, it’s hard to miss the wedding band, but…could you tell me, is his wife here? If not, I was going to buy him a drink, see if…you know?.”
I can’t really describe the contempt I had for that woman right then…I expected to be asked if he was married, not hear that she knows he’s married and wants to hedge in if his wife’s not around. It was such a blatant and disgusting display of disrespect for marriage, fellow women and good people everywhere, that I decided to tell her what she wanted to hear.
I replied cooly, “I don’t see anyone near him, do you?”
With that, they all smiled, extinguished their cigarettes and returned to their seats where they proceeded to send wave after wave of beer and shots and booze to all of the men at our table, whereupon they were compelled to go thank them…I’m not the only married lady in our group, in fact, with the exception of one gentleman, all of our strapping men are married and have been for some time…but as a group, us wives took a deep sigh of relief for our wallets, and enjoyed the opportunity to talk.
It wasn’t long before I noticed that all of the men in question, who were no farther than I could spit from us, had been overserved by these lupine women. Drooping eyes, slurred words, an overly large amount of swearing and unsteady feet signaled that our time at this pub and with the public, was at an end. One by one the ladies closed out their respective tabs and rescued their men from their clutches…until finally, it was just me, signing the slip for our waiter, Mr. Gossip a lamb at the slaughter as these leering dames urged him to sit, stay…don’t worry about a ride….
I interrupted the ring leader describing her positively orgasmic hot tub to my husband, which was no more than a ten minute drive from where he was sitting, would he like to come see it? And as drunk as that man was…in a moment I will adore him for until the day that I die he said, “No thank you, I’ve had much too much to drink and it’s time for my wife to take me home.”
I locked eyes with that woman, quirked a brow and said, “Married is married whether his wife is here or not…thus endeth the lesson.” And I hauled my sloshing husband out of his seat, he threw an arm around my shoulders and all of the other married women in the pub cheered, after enduring these bawdy women lifting their husband’s kilts, buying them drinks and generally being awful to be around before they set their sights on our table, I suppose it was a moment of heroic justice to see them disappointed, after all, it’s terrible to see men behave in such a fashion, watching women do it is utterly horrifying.
We stumbled out of the pub, me completely sober, my husband a drunken mess, singing show tunes and trying to clap his hands in spite of having one arm firmly braced around my shoulders…I may have taught those women a lesson, but I was about to learn one of my own…
I managed to get him to the car just fine…but as I leaned him up against it to open the door, he kept sliding down the side. Not wanting him to completely collapse, I would stop what I was doing and prop him back up. No sooner did I have him upright with eyes open, then he would start melting into a giggling, moon eyed mess. I finally turned around, put my back to his front, pulled both of his arms over my shoulders and while holding him up, got the back door open and threw my kilted man in the back seat.
Seated in the driver’s seat, my half dead husband in the back, I roll the windows down a crack and think that the drive home should be relatively quiet…I was so very wrong about that. As we hit the highway, I see his legs sticking straight up in the air, he’s pretending to walk along the roof of the car, when he gets too close to his head, the strain of stretching is too much and down flop his legs, almost breaking the window on the other side. That must have hurt, because he actually said, “Ow!” It got quiet again, but before I could relax, he starts apologizing…for getting drunk, The Holocaust, John Stamos and papercuts…it was in that moment, I knew we were in for a long night. We were pulling off the highway when he asked if we were home yet, I told him we were almost there and he says, “Good, tell me when we get there, because throw up, is definately going to happen.”
Five minutes later, I park the car in our driveway, look in the back to see him, passed out cold. I take advantage of the moment, go inside, let the dogs out and prepare the bathroom upstairs for Mr. Gossip, I laid a folded towel on the floor, put a glass of water near the wall and after letting the dogs back in to stay in the kitchen I venture outside to rouse him from the car.
It would have been so much easier if we had a winch…and after no small amount of coaxing, some heavy lifting and few close calls with the rose bushes, I got him inside….I was urging him upstairs when panic set in, it was go time and he was looking for the path of least resistance…he stumbles down the stairs into the unprepped bathroom and unleashes the fury…the dogs run to hide under the kitchen table, the cat comes out on the landing to see what’s going on and I’m left standing in our living room, listening to my husband throw up about $150 worth of booze…
Fifteen minutes later, my sallow faced mate surfaces, sagging against the wall he holds both his arms out to me, limp at the wrists…he needs me to pull him up the stairs because he’s got nothing left. We get all the way up our eleven steps, feeling like I just summited Mount Everest we head for the bedroom when the second wave hits, he ducks into the prepped bathroom and manages to close the door before he starts to put a hurting on it…left with nothing to do until he’s finished, I go downstairs to survey the damage…as I’m standing on a different floor, I hear him vomiting with such force that it’s rattling the plumbing in the walls…then…silence.
Oddly enough, the silence was more frightening than the noise….and it took me a moment to rally the courage to ascend the stairs and see what horror awaited me at the top. As the bathroom door slowly swung open, there was my husband, passed out cold on the floor, head stuck between he wall and the toilet, kilt flipped up and legs ascew with a spilled glass of water soaking his wool…it was tragic.
And as easy as it would have been to leave him there, I knew I was the cause for his current state, so come hell or high water, I was getting that man into bed….exhausted from the fight thus far, I roughly rolled him onto a bathsheet and drug him on his back down the hall to our room. As I pulled and strained he kept telling me he was dying, that I needed to take him to the hospital so that they could sew his feet back on….I ignored all of this when he broke into Danny Boy and started blowing bubbles with his spit….
Unfamiliar with every piece of clothing he was wearing, I struggled to get him out of all of it, heaped it on the dresser and for my final feat, dead lifted him up off the floor and into the bed.
At that point, I wanted someone to congratulate me on completing the St. Patrick’s Day Pentathalon, but I still had quite a mess to contend with and a husband to watch over all night long.
You’ve heard of a three dog night, well, Mr. Gossip had three dogs, one cat, a wife and his electric blanket night…limping him through what I am certain was alcohol poisoning, I have never felt so guilty in all of my life….when the sun finally broke on the next day, he was a sorry sight, but I was a damn site sorrier….when he was clear enough to listen I explained and aplogized for all of it, at which point he sincerely asked me that next time I decide to teach someone a lesson, I use my own liver.