Oops

On Saturday I was supposed to attened a Girls Night Out to the club in Newmarket. Over the preceeding week I learned exactly how jealous and concerned my husband can be. After finally cornering him and making him tell me the truth about how he felt about my attendance at such an event I realized that staying home with him was necessary. Married women do not belong at a dance club on a Saturday night. There are other options of a Girls Night Out which do not include British pre-teens and sleazy military men grabbing at your ass. I felt so guilty to call my newly found friends and cancel the day of, but I know that I made the right decision. Everyone knows that I’m a total sucker for Matt and I’ve already proven over and over that I would give up anyone for him.

In exchange for my night out with the girls my possessive, yet loving husband tried to organize a party at our house. This attempt failed miserably. The two of us drove to base and ended up taking the only willing soul (pictured left) with us to dinner in Cambridge. Once we had finished our mediocre, badly seviced meal we took off up the road in search of a pub. Two blocks away was the Rose and Crown. Peeking through the windows it appeared to be a hoppin’ place that young bloods like ourselves may enjoy. The music was loud and club lights reflected off the disco ball that hung from the ceiling. Upon entering our company headed straight for the bar while Mat tand I were hit with a wave of hot, musky air. It took me all of two seconds to realize the situation we’d just landed in. I pulled my husband close and with a grin I whispered in his ear “Matt, this is a gay pub.”

He looked back at me in disbelief, but as he took a moment to take in his surroundings – the low female to male ratio, the table of sweaty shirtless boys, the two men grinding to disco music – he realized he’d just entered his own version of Hell. I sat back with an enormous smile while I bathed in his discomfort. I couldn’t help but giggle at the fact that my homophobic, conservative, Texan husband was having a beer in a gay pub. Meanwhile Atkinson was living it up to our left. Dancing and shaking his butt while a man at the bar shamelessly watched. “Why can’t British women look at me like that?” he would later say.

Our time there was short lived, and I doubt there will be a return visit. We meandered in the opposite direction and found a mondernly decorated wine bar where we all felt supremely at home. I had my first cosmopolitian and Matt drank a double vodka Red Bull (aka Robitussin) while the three of us relived the fight that almost took place outside the Rose and Crown. All akwardness aside it was the funniest thing that’s happened to me lately and was certianly better than getting my ass grabbed and having to put up with She Who Wears The Pants.