She says I don’t, but I know better.
See, it was St. Patrick’s Day, and my sister and I always celebrate by tossing off a shot of Bushmills. That in and of itself is not a big deal, but I got the bright idea to go out and really celebrate my Irish. So my sister and I went to a local bar.
Little did I know that my sister would show up utterly smashed. OK, so she made it over here. That’s a good thing. Anyway, we went off to the bar and got a bit toasted. My sister cried uncle, mostly because she had a head start but also because she’s a lightweight.
So we’re walking home, talking about the best food to get when you’re ripped to the tits, and we decided that it was a sandwich from Primanti Brothers on the Strip in Pittsburgh. Not being anywhere near Pittsburgh, however, we found ourselves in a bit of a quandary. We were both jonesing for food, but the nearest place for grub was well out of walking distance. Needless to say, Pittsburgh was a bit out of reach, like 200 miles out of reach.
So we walk in the house, thinking that Robin would be out cold. It was 1:15, after all. Suddenly Robin says hello, surprising the hell out of me. My sister and I, emboldened by liquor, talk her into dragging herself out of bed and taking us to the local Sheetz.
Yes, I am going to pay. Again and again and again. It’s always good to know that your wife will do anything for you, but I know better. This one is going to hurt one day, when I least expect it. I’ll be doing my thing, and BAM!, suddenly I’ll be reminded of my debt. She says it’s no big deal, but I chalk that up to sleepiness. No, this debt will be collected, I guarantee it.
I’m too old for this shit. Getting drunk is a kid’s game. I must say, though, the hot dogs were pretty good. Cheese, sauerkraut, onions and ketchup. Boy, that hit the spot. But at what cost?
I guess I’ll find out tomorrow. Or today. Whatever. You know what I mean.
