People have celebrated St. Patrick’s Day for over 1,000 years originating as a saint’s religious feast day in remembrance of Saint Patrick’s death. I’m not sure when it devolved into dressing like leprechaun pimps…
Or green-haired… um, sailors?
But, if the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, then my intentions must have been God-like yesterday. Despite my plan on spending a few hours out among the St. Patrick’s Day crowds and safely tucking my semi-sober self in at a reasonable hour, I woke up this morning with a scratched eyeball and one less credit card. Clearly, someone intervened and that someone was vodka.
I could have used Kato Kaelin’s stellar chronological memory to help me out, but my phone delivered telling evidence of last night’s timeline.
The “celebration” began at 3pm at the Landmark Tavern on 11th Ave. and 46th St. The extreme-West location had been selected with the hope that practically drinking in the Hudson River would aid us in avoiding the Curse of St. Pat’s: Vomiting Mob Insanity.
Somewhere amid the night, I noticed my husband had left the bar. Left the bar without me! In previous incidences, this would be an indication that I had done or said something very very wrong. My pal Maggie and I had been chatting up some Irish guards who were jolly and handsome, maybe that was it? In a panic to make amends for, well, I wasn’t sure what, I grabbed my coat and purse and dashed for home. My telephone revealed we spoke twice each for one minute followed by five outgoing calls. Somewhere in the cab between Hell’s Kitchen and Washington Heights, loyal wife that I am, I forgot all about Jon and began foraging for food.
He arrived twenty minutes later in a panic yelling, “Where the hell did you go!? You just disappeared!”
“YOU left me the bar! You want a cheeseburger?”
Infuriated at me, his shrill tone was piercing, “I was in the bathroom, god damnit! And yes, I would very much like a cheeseburger!”
Considering I was in no condition to operate a gas stove, that was the best perfectly seasoned cheeseburger I’d had in a long time and I was tucked into bed at 9:30pm. Amateur indeed.
What comforts me most here is upon waking up at 6:00am and having a look at Facebook, my friend Mike Geoghegan had posted moments after I opened my bloody eye:
1. Why am I awake?
2. How did I get these scars?
3. And who is this broad next to me?
