T.G.I. Friday’s Almost Ruined My Marriage

05/04/2011 · 41 comments

in Adrian, Love, What Is Wrong With You?

When Adrian and I got married, we were so happy. We had a smallish wedding that was absolutely our own, and to top off the night, we got to stay at the Big Texan for our wedding night.


And it was glorious for a wedding night, I assure you. Let me show you our ACTUAL ROOM.

That's velour cowhide, my friends.

The photo sadly does not show the saloon doors to the bathroom, and the odd cedar bits stapled to the cinder block.

That, surely might have ruined the day of some brides, but not me. I was resilient. I rolled with it. I was chill.

Since Adrian runs his own business, we couldn’t take a lot of time off when we got married, so we took a mini-moon to Santa Fe.

Santa Fe, if you’ve never been, is the weirdest fucking place I have ever been. It’s an odd conglomeration of Native American art (most of which is made by whitey), 60 year-old hippies, and a shitload of weed and red desert.

It was short–just a weekend, and in a weird place, and surely, that would have angered some brides. But not me. I knew the constraints of Adrian’s job, I knew what I was up against.

And anyway, my in-laws were fucking awesome and put us up in their Hawaiian timeshare for a week-and-a-half 6 months after our wedding.

Maui, motherfuckers. Nothing–NOTHING–could have dampened my excitement for this vacation. In the span of 6 months, we got married, moved across the state, and Adrian started a new job, with me working with him on our 60-hour weeks.


Nothing could get me down.

The day before we flew to Maui was terrible. If it could have gone wrong that day, it did. We got yelled at, it poured rain all day, our heater gave out, goblins attacked our home, Adrian ended up with a raging migraine and a piss poor mood by the time we got home, and we still hadn’t totally finished packing.

I finished packing while Adrian relaxed, because HAWAII. Even that couldn’t put me in a bad mood.

The next day, we got to the airport a bit early, and decided to have a quick snack at TGI Friday’s. We thought, “Hey, let’s relax, we’re on vacation! Let’s order drinks.”

That was the one of the worst decisions we made for our marriage.

The margaritas were just green tequila, really. It would have been more efficient to bring us the bottle of Patron with a crazy straw. Adrian finished his…and then mine…and may have had a mojito. On our walk to the gate, it was like leading a toddler around the way he was off in his own blissfully alcohol-filled world.

Me: “Seriously, Adrian, you need to stop shouting.”
Adrian: “THEY’RE ASIAN.”

He was a delight.

Adrian spread-eagled in a chair, one foot up on the bag, one on my thigh. People walked by, pointing and staring, wondering why I was taking a mentally handicapped man to Maui.

This is okay, I told myself. He’s relaxed, and after yesterday, it’s a good thing.

On the way to the gate, Adrian looked like a newborn giraffe attempting an Olympic-level beam routine. It was a shitshow. He had to go 30 feet, and the entire way looked like he had a terrible palsy and I had deprived him his walker for my own pleasure.

I had hopes that he might just pass for disabled to the gate agents; and then he lost his ticket in his own hands and stumbled right into the gate agent. The agent ripped the ticket out of his hands and glared at me, while Adrian wandered away into the jet way.

Agent: “How much has that man had to drink?”
Me: “I swear it wasn’t that much.”
Agent: “He’s almost in a blackout.”
Me: “He’ll be fine, I promise. He’ll get on the plane and go to sleep.”

Adrian had just rammed his shoulder into one of the plastic windows, creating a God-awful boom that echoed for the ages.

Agent: “If he causes any problems, we’re pulling you both out.”

This was going to be like trying to contain a methed-out crocodile, getting Adrian to sit down and shut up. The vacation was going to go right out the window, I was going to lose my fucking mind, and a shitty family restaurant was to blame. If we got kicked off this plane, I might actually evolve into the Hulk and rip DFW airport apart, starting with Goddamn TGI Friday’s.

As I started to walk down the jet way, I realized that Adrian was nowhere to be found. I panicked; if he had chosen to mosey back into the airport, there was no way they were letting us back on the plane. If he had chosen to go into the plane, there was no telling the ridiculous shit he had already done.

I was sweating, shaking, knowing for sure we were not going to go on this vacation–it was all for naught.

I rounded the corner, almost bitch-slapping the steward who wished me Aloha–to find Adrian, in his seat, who asked right before he began open-mouthed snoring, “Where did you go baby? It’s vacation time!”

TGI Friday’s is the source of all evil in marriages.

Have a crazy honeymoon story? Drunk story? Drunk honeymoon story? Do share.

Shane May 4, 2011 at 5:48 am

I ate a jungle rat on my honeymoon, in Belize. It was a hundred times better than the chicken dish that gave everyone else the shits.

Noa May 4, 2011 at 1:04 pm

To be fair, I bet the jungle rat was as big as a chicken anyway, so really, you wouldn’t know the difference. Awesome.

hoodyhoo May 4, 2011 at 6:25 am

Okay, so not only are you and I the same person, but so are Adrian and Chuckweasel. The night we got all the free jello shots from the sad and lonely bartender, The Weasel spent the entire night regaling me with the importance of the Covington, KY/Cincinnati area in the Underground Railroad… a story I HAD JUST TOLD HIM THAT VERY AFTERNOON! But I get drunk and start fights with teenagers at hockey games, so we’re a good match. (BTW, 15-year-olds apparently don’t know what “Come and get a taste if you think you’re ‘ard enough” — shouted in a bad fake Cockney accent — even MEANS. Kids today).
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Noa May 4, 2011 at 1:02 pm

I’m baffled by your choice of roughing up hooligans at a hockey game–with a cockney accent. Just…what?

hoodyhoo May 5, 2011 at 6:23 am

they freaking STARTED with me, Noa! Jeez. And I often do accents when I’m drunk, sometimes even on purpose!
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Noa May 5, 2011 at 3:37 pm

I’m still trying to imagine this scene, and in every iteration of it, it’s awesome.

Kelly May 4, 2011 at 8:33 am

I don’t have a crazy honeymoon story because we didn’t have one, and I have a bazillion drunk stories, none of which I ran remember all of the details *cough*boozer*cough*, so I’ll share how my husband expressed his love for me the night we renewed our vows (we got married a la courthouse two days before he deployed to Iraq, so after he came home we did it up fancy style in a church):

Him: slur…burp…slur…grope…trip over own shoes… “Honey, I really want a threesome someday….nnngghhaaaww….faceplant/snore.”

Me: *starts digging for bottle of stolen wine in duffel bag*
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Noa May 4, 2011 at 1:01 pm

Awww, magical memories. Reminds me of all the times I told Adrian that I loved him, and he replied with a fart.

Kelly May 4, 2011 at 8:57 pm

Nothing says “I love you” like serenading the one you love with your own swamp ass.
Kelly recently posted..Insomnia- youre a dirty whore

Amanda May 4, 2011 at 10:26 pm

I’m so, so, so glad I’m not the only one who gets sent fart gas in reply to my expressions of tolerance.
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Noa May 5, 2011 at 3:35 pm

Nope! It’s a lovely delight of marriage that no one tells you about!

Noa May 5, 2011 at 3:33 pm

At least he wears pants at home most of the time now. It’s apparently Eastern-European tradition to never ever wear pants in your own home.

Johi May 4, 2011 at 9:07 am

I’m so sorry to laugh at your near tragedy but that is some funny shit.
I’ve NEVER been drunk to the point of losing all muscle control, yet somehow still painfully aware of every thing that I am doing…. like slumping into a park bench in the middle of a crowded street with a group of people 10 years younger than me, or slumping into a gutter of the same area, or giving myself a scar on my foot from stepping on myself with my own high heel. Nope. never. Thank goodness, because that would be embarrassing.
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Noa May 4, 2011 at 1:01 pm

I’ve also never been so drunk that I went down a two-story firepole upside down. I’ve also never gotten a huge bruise from that. Goddamn we’re classy.

Johi May 4, 2011 at 6:22 pm

Awesome. Yes, two classy broads.
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The Young Girl May 4, 2011 at 11:09 am

The traveling part of our honeymoon almost ruined our marriage. We went to Italy for 2 weeks and I had never done any travelling to europe so I really wasn’t prepared for spending so much time on planes and trains. I hadn’t slept in 3 days because I was wigging out about the wedding. Our wedding night I only got about 2 hours of kinda sleep and since I had also not eaten anything because of the stress I was sick. So one plane from Austin to New Jersey then a 5 hour layover then a 9 hour plane ride to the Rome Airport then a 30min train to acutal Rome then a 2 hour train ride to Florence then a 10min cab to our hotel. We left 4am Sunday morning and didnt get to our hotel until 3pm Monday afternoon. I thought I was going to die. About the time I’m waiting on the platform for the train to Florence I look over at my gleeful new husband and had the urge to strangle him for planning this trip. It was all his fault that we were doing this. Now granted I really wanted to go to Italy and it sounded like the most perfect trip in the world we were planning it before the wedding but at that moment I was ready to kill him or divorce him right there. I was so tired and sick and I sure as hell didn’t want to get on a train for another 2 hours and have to stay awake in fear someone would steal our shit.

Now after the traveling part and once I had some tasty Italian food in my tummy I was one happy new wife living it up in Florence and it was great. but for about 2 hours I was ready to fuck up my new husband. Thank God we don’t drink. I think it could have been really bad!
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Noa May 4, 2011 at 12:57 pm

Adrian once got so drunk in Florence (good lord I have a lot of these stories) off of red and white wine–he wandered the city, alone, with a bottle of each in each hand.


Apparently Florence and TGI Fridays is the source of all evil.

The Young Girl May 6, 2011 at 1:56 pm

Funny, I told this story last night and thought of this post.
My husband really likes the doughnuts from Starbucks so sometimes he just goes to get a doughnut. We drive up to starbucks and see a couple of cops outside. My “The Man” hating husband mumbles to me that there better be doughnuts left *grumble grumble* Of course there are no doughnuts left. So when we walk outside my husband starts berating the cops. “There are no doughnuts left? Did you cops eat them all?” They smile and were like “yeah yeah we’ve heard that one before.” But he keeps at it until I push him into car saying “GET IN THE CAR! I’M NOT GETTING ARRESTED BECAUSE OF DOUGHNUTS!!” yeah… and he wasn’t even drunk. I wish he was because then he would have some sort of excuse for being a dick head.
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Noa May 9, 2011 at 4:52 pm

Remind me to tell you about Adrian and the Taiwanese hobos.

That’s the classiest thing I’ve ever heard anyone yell ever. I cannot wait to use that phrase.

Lindsay May 4, 2011 at 12:24 pm

TGI Friday’s is the source of all evil.

FTFY. Every time I go there I get sick. And I don’t eat meat, so it’s something in their vegetables…which scares me more than salmonella poisoning.
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Noa May 4, 2011 at 12:56 pm

Holy crap what do they put in the vegetables? That’s terrifying.

Miss Yvonne May 4, 2011 at 2:19 pm

Mine is more of a pre-honeymoon story. We had our rehearsal dinner in a country bar. We had a karaoke machine and I got drunk and sang a 2LiveCrew song. My parents were horrified. My in-laws loved it.
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Noa May 4, 2011 at 5:16 pm

You’re my hero. Oh God, you’re amazing.

nova May 4, 2011 at 3:03 pm

Hahahaha! Wow.
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Noa May 4, 2011 at 5:16 pm

It was equally as startling to live through.

Andi May 4, 2011 at 6:18 pm

I don’t have a honeymoon story because we didn’t have a honeymoon — we were THAT young and poor, we couldn’t even afford a weekend away. Also, Firstborn was conceived that weekend….probably that night, if you do the math. I then spent the next 9 months puking. The Hubs likes to tell the story of the evening he came home from work, walked in the door, and I took one look at him and ran for the bathroom. I barely made it.

I don’t do anything dramatic when I’m drunk — I just get drunk, flirt a lot, fall asleep — but in college, I had a boyfriend who came in drunk, stumbled over to where I was studying on the couch, mumbled something and face-planted on the floor. I checked to make sure he was still breathing, then stepped over him and went to class. Shut up, I had things to do. I found out later that someone else had called an ambulance for him, he had gone to the hospital, someone had called his parents, his parents had called the student life advisor, etc etc. The place where I found this out? A meeting of student leaders about the drinking problem on campus. Cause obviously I suck at leadership, nursemaiding, and recognizing when anyone has a drinking problem. Also at noticing when my boyfriend is no longer laying on the floor. Ever since, I’ve been very careful to only date people who can take care of themselves. It seems safer that way.
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Noa May 5, 2011 at 3:31 pm

You did what you needed to do. 1. Is he alive? Yes? Then 2. Go to class–he needs to not bitch out next time. You have priorities.

KatieBee May 4, 2011 at 7:07 pm

Ahhhhh, our honeymoon. We got married in Las Vegas. It was totally awesome. I got shitfaced drunk the day before our wedding….at 10AM. I clearly remember walking down the street with my 3-foot funnel full of alcohol and screaming at the top of my lungs that I was there to make Vegas my bitch. I am full of awesome.

For our honeymoon, we decided to drive from Las Vegas to San Fransisco via Death Valley. Well, nobody tells you there’s a friggin mountain range separating the two. Or that there is still snow on those mountains at the end of April. So there we are, in our rented Mustang convertible, trying to cross the Sierra Nevada. And every. single. mountain pass is CLOSED.

After driving up one particularly winding mountain road for almost 2 hours, we got to the top of the fucking thing only to find that, in fact, that road was closed as well. And I mean CLOSED. The state does not fuck around with this sort of thing. There was a giant 20-foot high, 30-foot wide WALL on the goddamn road with about 6 feet of snow beyond that. I thought my new husband was gonna lose his mind. He actually stood in the road screaming at the sign and then proceeded to scream at me because I must have missed the “Road Closed” sign at the bottom of the mountain. Well fuck you, sir. Maybe I did. I was looking at all the beautiful goddamn scenery. Besides, I never claimed to be Magellan with the road map.

It was amazing. We talk constantly about going back and making that drive again.

Noa May 5, 2011 at 3:33 pm

I’m going to use the line, “I’m not goddamn Magellan, okay?” next time we get lost somewhere and Adrian the Navigator suddenly turns on me, as he is prone to do in situations where we have no idea what’s going on but there’s Puerto Ricans with wrenches.

Everyone but my sister was appalled when I took a shot on my wedding day before we got married. I thought it useful. Keep representin’.

elizabeth- flourish in progress May 4, 2011 at 10:19 pm

Me? Husband? Drunk? Stories?

God, I’m really combing through my memories right now, but it’s just hard to come up with a story that fits those requirements…you see, my husband and I don’t believe in consuming alcohol because we feel that is the devil at work. We don’t like the devil. The devil is bad. As is alchohol.

Welllll, now that i think about it, there was one time we had some rum peanut brittle in New Orleans. Afterwards, we went wild and ate a hot dog from a street vendor. Then we went swimming without waiting the recommended 30 minutes. The rum led us astray. Never again.
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Noa May 5, 2011 at 3:35 pm

Christ, Liz, I’ve seen you throw down harder than that through Twitter. Did Cal write this for you? Is that the craziest night out she could ever come up with in her innocent tween brain?

Amanda May 4, 2011 at 10:34 pm

To have drunk stories, one must be able to remember what has happened when one was drunk.

Actually, my husband annoys the crap out of me when he’s drunk b/c he gets all sentimental and starts calling all of his guy friends “brother” and telling them how much their friendship means to him. I’m more of a get loud, obnoxious, and giggly drunk, or I get really mean. It doesn’t mesh well. Disappointing at times, but there’s always a designated driver.
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Noa May 5, 2011 at 3:36 pm

UGH–there is nothing worse than the overly-sentimental drunk. I rage when I get drunk, either in sheer ecstasy or actual rage, so the overly sentimental ones usually end up being the brunt of my, “PARTY HARD,” fists. I might have punched your husband. Once. In Lubbock. Okay twice.

Jaclyn May 5, 2011 at 9:55 am

My friend Nadine and I were at a friend’s house drinking one night and playing beer pong on his deck. We were playing in groups of 4 and after a couple of rounds nobody wanted to play anymore. So Nadine didn’t realize that and set up another round of cups for 4 people. I think it’s also worth mentioning that we weren’t actually playing with beer, we were mixing screwdrivers for each player and using that in the cups instead of beer. So Nadine has the cups set up and we tell her we aren’t going to play anymore, so she drinks all 4 sets of cups in like 5 minutes.

You can always tell when Nadine has had too much to drink because her drinks will get progressively stronger and then she stops mixing drinks all together. At some point in her drunkeness, she will decide that drinking straight from the bottle is much more efficient, and you will see her carrying it around with her calling everyone else a pussy for not drinking more.

So she had gotten to that point and the bottle she was carrying around was Captain Morgan’s. We were like 19 or 20 at this time and our group of friends included a few guys around the same age. So the boys were hungry and were rummaging through the cabinets looking for food and they found a box of Captain Crunch. But there was no milk. But they did find heavy cream and decided that would be great on their cereal and ate it like that (gross and weird). Nadine, to this very day, swears she didn’t eat any Captain Crunch, but, as I saw large quantities of it in her vomit several minutes later, I always tell her that I am absolutely certain she did. So the captains, yeah. You can’t have two captains. I don’t think I have to tell you which Captain won that fight.

So after puking on our friend’s mom’s decorative couch pillows, then covering the entire floor of the downstairs bathroom in Captain Crunch vomit and passing out in it so that it was all in her hair and on her clothes, she decided she needed to wash her hair. So we went to the upstairs bathroom to clean her up. There was a shower stall, which made her happy because she could just lay on the floor with her head in the shower to clean off the barf. Except for some reason, she decided she needed to be completely naked to do that. And I was drunk too, just not Captain/Captain drunk, so I didn’t have enough sense to remind her to keep some of her clothes on, or to stay there with her and make sure she didnt choke on her own vomit or drown in the shower. So I just turned on ice cold water and left. I did eventually get worried enough to send my boyfriend to go check on her. Unfortunately I didn’t bother to tell him that she was completely naked and not just passed out on the bathroom floor as he expected. Apparently he would have appreciated a little bit of warning :)
So that is the story of why we don’t drink Captain Morgan’s anymore.

Nadine and I get really debaucherous when we drink. Or we used to at least. There are so many stories (another fave is the time I was having a party and we were both hanging out in the same room with the guys we were hooking up with and her guy just randomly starts going down on her in front of me and the guy I’m hooking up with. Like literally, we were all sitting on my bed and he just starts licking her vagina. That’s just in poor taste.). We have to go out drinking if ever you are in NY/NJ. Your stories of being loud and inappropriate make me think we would have an awesome time.
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Noa May 5, 2011 at 3:39 pm

My “Drink I’m No Longer Allowed,” is the Irish Car Bomb. I had ONE and I decided that roller-skate racing down stairs lined with stucco was the best way ever to party. When I woke up in the holly bush the next day I realized there was a reason it was called a bomb.

Nadine sounds like a hell of a friend. I’ll be honest though, when there’s tongues in vaginas, I’mma go get a camera.

momiss May 5, 2011 at 11:20 am

Too funny. Frankly, I ‘m glad you married him, just for that story!! I can also testify that the flight to Hawaii SUCKS if you are NOT passed out. I’ve done it and I was miserable for – like– 13 fricking hours. If I ever have to go back I’m staying. Screw it. (I am not a good traveler. A good vacationer, but not a good traveler)
What looks like a lack of judgement to you here could possibly be a stroke of genius on his part instead. Men often play this card….were you not responsible for doing all the “work” to get y’all there? “Heh heh heh”, as my men friends would say. Don’t get mad now, you already married him. Focus on the fact that it means he is smart instead.
Also, being drunk often helps couples stay married, but usually only if they both participate. Not that it makes for happier marriages, just longer.
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Noa May 5, 2011 at 3:40 pm

On the flight back to Dallas from Hawaii we got to be on the plane with the Hawaiian State Football Team! YES! 45 testosterone-filled samoans!

Chunky Mama May 15, 2011 at 11:35 pm

When Hubby and I eloped, we were pretty broke and had to wait a few months before taking any kind of honeymoon. We ended up flying to New Orleans for a long weekend a few months after the wedding. Neither of us had ever been there, and we were looking forward to a romantic weekend with lots of good food.
The first night we were there, Hubby ended up getting completely shitfaced. The alcohol pretty much destroyed his stomach, so all night long when he wasn’t snoring next to me reeking of booze, he was in the bathroom shitting out every ounce of food and dignity he’d had.
He was still sick the next day.
Let me tell you… there is nothing sexier than a man with the runs. So much for romance.

Noa May 16, 2011 at 2:22 am

I shouldn’t laugh at that but I can’t help myself–that’s pretty fucking funny. Booze ruins so many honeymoons, apparently.

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