The weekend that never ends finally ended (more or less) yesterday afternoon. After which, several of us went out for drinks -- because alcohol is the only thing that makes sense at that point. Regardless of how little sleep we'd had, we needed liquor. So we head over to the Chili's in Framingham for a couple of margaritas. (God, how I love the Presidente margarita. I want to marry it.) We are laughing and having a rocking good time -- the way that anyone would after working 20-hour days and consuming three margaritas. Our waiter thinks we're hysterical, mainly because one of my friends said that she wanted to kiss him when he poured her first drink for her. Most of this time, we're alone in this section of the restaurant, but as it gets later, they seat a family across from us -- man, woman, two children. So we keep shushing ourselves any time we curse -- and since we were bitching about the work we'd just completed, and we'd had three margaritas, we were letting fly like sailors. Eventually, the family finishes their dinner and leaves, and our waiter comes over to check on us.
"That was Alan Embree," he says. Two of my friends are Sox fans like me, and we all bust out with, "That was Alan Embree??" He laughs and confirms that we had just been acting like morons in front of Alan f-ing Embree. Alan f-ing Embree. And then it hits us. We swore in front of Alan f-ing Embree's children. We swore in front of ALAN F-ING EMBREE'S CHILDREN. We can't get over it. We're horrified, yet amused. We can't stop talking about how we didn't even realize it was Alan f-ing Embree. And then friend X says, "Who's Alan Embree?" and my other friend, who had unfortunately just taken a large sip of margarita, bursts out laughing and sprays margarita everywhere. And now that's it. We can no longer control ourselves. We are laughing hysterically while we wipe margarita off of our faces and continue to mutter about Alan f-ing Embree, the Red Sox pitcher.
Our loud laughter brings over another staff person, who says, "Alan Embree, huh?" Which prompts our tipsy selves to produce the entire story, complete with margarita spray and hysterical laughter. The tortilla chips have now been ruined, so we consider some other food options and ask our waiter for menus as he comes by. When he delivers the menus, he hunkers down next to the table and lowers his voice. "Just so you know, that guy who just came by was my manager, and I think you're totally fine, but he won't let me serve you any more drinks."
We got cut off. At Chili's. In Framingham. And now that we think about it, we're beginning to suspect that we may have been cut off by Alan f-ing Embree. This may rival the "I got pulled over by Curt Schilling" in Red Sox fandom.
(And don't worry, people. Once they cut us off at Chili's, we just went over to John Harvard's to continue with our evening.)
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