For As Long As We Both Shall Live.

There was a story featured on the news last week about an Oregon woman’s recent trip to the oral surgeon. She went in for a standard procedure, received general anesthesia and woke up with a very heavy, very foreign Scottish accent.

Her husband was quoted saying he’s having a hard time understanding his wife of thirty years, and that the last few weeks have been “very difficult”.

I pressed pause, shouted to Exchange Student that there was an emergency and could he please come right away; rewound and played the segment back for him.

“What a load of COCK!” he shouted. Only he was referring to the husband’s inability to understand his wife’s accent, NOT that this woman went to sleep sounding like an American and woke up sounding like Shrek.

I know exactly what that husband is going through. I can’t understand a damn word Exchange Student says. Never have. We’ve been married two years and it’s only getting worse.

"Don’t be ridiculous Erin, you can understand me just fine, stop exploiting me!”

“Come again?”

With a foreigner for a husband and no translator in house, you have a recipe for lots of misunderstandings: Directions, voicemails, marriage proposals….

How about when he orders out for Chinese? These are LITERALLY the greatest moments of my life. He is in a pure state of frustration, close to tears, as he attempts over and over to order General Tso chicken and some dumplings. I put it on speaker phone so I can laugh hands-free. Only after three tried and failed attempts will I put him.. and Dong, out of their mutual misery.

Never mind eating in, dinners out are an extra treat:

“Can you behave yourself tonight, ‘cause I’m not in the mood for that shit you pull.”

“What?”

Obligatory eye roll. Which I love. And it’s a good thing, ‘cause I get it a lot. He then buckles down for a long night of what he assumes will consist primarily of me forcing him to do all sorts of things he doesn’t want to. He’s bracing himself... annoyed IN ADVANCE. “Calm down Paddy, I’m not feeling that annoying tonight anyway.”

Strike one: I’m talking to the table next to me. He quickly realizes I've made instant besties with my fellow food snobs and he will now be required to participate otherwise risk looking like a mail order husband. Begrudgingly, he joins the conversation giving me the "I fucking knew it" look.

Don’t feel bad for him. He knew exactly what he was getting into. His cold, dark Irish charm is only endearing until about date #3. From there it loses out big time to obnoxious, louder, funnier, super slut Yank.

While I'm now eating off my new friend’s plate, he has in a matter of moments, become the most popular patron in the restaurant. Our new friends are planning the next couples sleep over and the restaurant owner is giving him a handy while spoon feeding him mashed potatoes. And for the rest of the evening I watch from the corner as the crowd, sitting cross-legged at his feet, listens to Exchange Student a he sips Guinness and tells tales from the old country.

I've lived in Minnesota almost my entire life; I have four and half friends. The half includes my financial adviser who gets paid to talk to me.

“This is horseshit! I’ll be at the strip club."