Luck 'O the Irish

The day began with serious bodily injury. I slammed my left thumb in the car door, and it bled all over my clothes and swelled up to the size of a kielbasa. I cried my little eyes out as the Mister ran cool water over the offending wound and bandaged me up. In the midst of this tragedy, I realized, “I can marry this man! He would know what to do when our kids skin their knees!” But that thought was quickly replaced by something along the lines of “OOOWWWWCHHH!” He left for work; I pulled myself together, put on a silly green felt newsboy hat in honor of St. Patrick’s day, and went to my office too.

I was especially sad that I slammed my LEFT thumb in the car door, because I was not-so-secretly hoping that the Mister was going to propose later that week. He asked me to my favorite restaurant several days in advance, and I suspected that he would pop the question there. (I can usually tell what the Mister is thinking – it’s as if he has one of those scrolling lighted message boards strapped to his forehead that puts out a running commentary of his thoughts.) If he proposed later that week, he would have to put the ring he designed onto the same hand as the kielbasa thumb. Ick.

But I was still excited; I had no idea what the ring looked like, and I was dying to see it. That’s assuming he even had the ring. I was also thrilled at the thought that I could be engaged to the man ‘o my dreams. So with a heart full of hope and a thumb full of OOOWWWWCHHH, I started planning what I would wear on Friday that would distract from the kielbasa thumb. I contemplated implementing the Miss Piggy plan – if you’re having a bad hair day (or a thumb that looks like a sausage), just put some broccoli in your teeth, and no one will notice your hair/thumb. Note to self: Go to grocery; pick up broccoli.

The Mister and I decided to go to a cool German pub for St. Patrick’s Day. It sounds weird, but this place has the best Irish parties outside of County Cork, and on St. Pat’s Day the place is packed to the rafters with corned beef, cabbage, Irish beer, and green-clad lads and lassies. It’s also the place we had our first kiss (on the very first day we met– sorry Mama!). As we were leaving home for the festivities, the Mister asked me if I needed my cell phone. Doesn’t he know that the less you carry at a drunken Irish party, the less you can lose? So I left the phone at home.

We dragged ole’ sausage thumb over to the pub, and we ate a hearty meal of all things Irish. It was super duper hot inside, so we went outside. By the place we first kissed. It was sprinkling rain as we sat at a pickinic table (yes, I used the Yogi bear spelling). The Mister said, “Hey, look at the guy in the kilt!”

I must stop the story here to tell you that I loooove guys in kilts. The Mister has one too, because he competes in the Scottish Highland Games, which involves throwing really heavy things, like actual rocks and telephone poles, into the air for height or across a field for distance and technique. I go to these games because: (1) I like to show my support for my Mister, and (2) there are guys in kilts.

The Mister is thinking about wearing a kilt to the wedding. I think it’s a great idea. I got to pick out my dress all by myself, so why shouldn’t he pick out what he wants to wear? (I do hope they make Garanimals in formal wear, however.)

His parents think that a kilt is insane. I’m not exactly sure why – his brother picked something pretty nontraditional for his wedding – modern brown tuxedos with gold vests and pink ties. What’s the big deal with the kilt? But it’s not my battle. The Mister will look amazing in whatever he chooses (provided it matches), so I’ll let him make the decision (and engage in whatever negotiation is required to implement it). I’m concerned about the kilt for one other reason: our officiant/friend (who is a very cute young woman) said that, if the Mister wears a kilt, she might just shove me out of the way and marry him herself. I couldn’t blame her, really. Because, if guys in kilts are hot, then my guy in a kilt is absolutely irresistible.

So, you can see why, “Hey, look at the guy in the kilt!” would distract me. As I scanned the crowd for tartan, the Mister got down on one knee. I looked back, and he asked me to marry him, using my full name. Yesyesyesyesyes. And I looked at the ring. HOLY MOLEY! It was perfect. Sparkly and classic, it looks like a family heirloom.

Tears. Joy. Wonder at why anyone would want to propose to a snausage thumb wearing a silly green felt hat. And an overwhelming urge to . . . call my mother. (Why did I leave the danged cell phone at home?!) I commandeered a phone and called Mama. She thought something terrible had happened, because I was screaming unintelligibly into the receiver. When I finally explained, we were on our way to her house, calling best friends and several other parents along the way.

The moral of this story is this: Don’t wear a green felt hat. No, actually, it’s that a silly sausage thumb can’t sour the sweetest moment of your life. So stop worrying and just enjoy yourself, for heaven’s sake.