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How I Caught a Scot

Back when I lived and worked in the city, I used to take vacations. Real, get away from it all vacations.

Not to say that we don’t go places with the kids. We do! And I love it! It’s just a different dynamic from when it was just my husband and I, I had an income from working, and we had the time/desire to go someplace far away for two weeks.

One such vacation was to Ireland. It was beautiful. We flew in to Shannon, rented a car and drove around sightseeing for a week. Then about halfway through our trip, we parked the rental and took a train into Dublin.

Dublin is a fun city, with lots to see and do. We stayed in a hotel that was within walking distance from pubs galore. One evening, after we had hit all the touristy spots, my husband and I decided to check out the night life at one of the pubs.

At this point I need to note that it was soccer (er, football? I’m American, and confused. When I say football it’s a totally different sport for me. I’ll leave it at that.) season. And there was a big tournament being held in Dublin. A bunch of teams were staying at our hotel…pretty hard to miss all those strapping boys sporting their team jerseys.

So we were at the pub and the athletes start entering in droves. I don’t mind crowds, but it started getting hot, and stuffy, and lets face it, a little smelly in this pub. Everyone was having roaring good time, to the point that I couldn’t even hear the thoughts in my own head. So my husband and I decide to walk back to the hotel and call it a night. When I stand to leave, however, I realize that my bladder will not allow me to make it to the hotel. So my husband says he will wait outside (where one could actually draw a breath of air) while I answered the call of nature.

Of course the ladies room was at the rear of the pub, so to exit I must wend my way through the crowd of boisterous athletes to the door (and fresh air). One of these teams in the pub were obviously of Scottish persuasion, as they were decked out in full regalia…kilts, the whole bit. The crowd was so dense that it was necessary for me to shuffle sideways and squeeze between the Scottish lads as I loudly shouted, “so sorry!, excuse me!” over the din.

It must be stated that at least to my discerning eye, the Scottish lads were some of Scotland’s finest specimens. All of them well over 6 foot and solid muscle. I am not a diminutive person at 5’7″, but next to these boys I was completely dwarfed.

I was almost to the door, still shuffling between Scottish lads, when suddenly I wasn’t able to shuffle any more. Caught, as it were.

I look down, and to my horror, the front belt loop of my jeans was caught on the decorative metal of a Scot’s sporran. In layman terms, the sporran is the purse Scots wear in lieu of having pockets in their kilts. It was very nice, black leather, with beautiful silver hardware. I tried to shuffle along again, hoping (praying) my pants would become unstuck and I could safely escape the pub. But no such luck.

I had caught a Scot.

I look up. And up, and up, and up. The Scot, grinning ear to ear, speaks. “Ach, lass, we seem to be stuck!”

He says this in the deepest, gravel-iest, brogue I have ever heard. My heart goes pitter-pat, faints, and stops completely.

Quick poll! What do you think I did at this point?

a. Swoon

b. Stutter “oh, ah, oh, eh” incoherently

c. Say in my best Greta Garbo voice, “so we are, handsome, so we are.”

Well, of course, the answer is ‘b’! I never faint, and I am well known for my decidedly ungraceful acting moves. Now back to the story!

The naughty Scot, seeing my discomfiture, grinned even wider and raised his arms above his head in a clear message that I would be the one using her hands to get us unstuck.

And so I did. I must have been a sight. A fair-skinned, auburn haired girl, completely beet red and slightly sweaty from the hot pub; working the belt loop with trembling hands off of his decorative hardware.

Finally, after what seemed eons, my belt loop was free from his sporran. I look up again, and his grin turns to boisterous laughter. I finally find my voice (not sultry, very Midwest) and say, “I have to go now.” I know. Very original, right? In between chortles, my Scotsman shouts, “See ya, lassie!”

So I push my way (literally) through the rest of the Scottish herd (most of whom witnessed the event and are laughing uproariously) to the door of the pub and out into the cool night air.

My husband is standing there, (im)patiently waiting, and exclaims, “what took you so long!?”

“I got caught on a Scottish guy!” And I tell him the whole story.

And just like the Scotsmen, my handsome American husband bursts into uproarious laughter and chuckles all the way back to the hotel.

Have a GREAT day!



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