Buffet Line

(I can write about this now, given the time and distance allowed since...)

I’d never really been in that situation before. Two very different guys, two very different feelings. If Rabbit had never needed to fill a room in her house and resorted to Craigslist, I would have never met Mr. Clean. He was cute, he was goofy, he was fun. He laughed at me, I laughed at him, we laughed together. We talked and talked. Gchat really is the 21st century form of the love letter. He was genuine and sweet, but silly and carefree. We made a bet, we had dinner, we kissed, we held hands. He skipped out of work to bring me a breakfast bagel. A bagel with cream cheese (ew) no less. But I ate it, because he had got it for me. A bagel had never tasted so good. The way he looked at me in the mornings simultaneously scared and excited me.

But I needed this to stop. Mr. Clean came along at the wrong time. There was already another guy. But everything was happening so fast. I couldn’t stop myself. He was always there, whenever I asked him to be, there he was. I took a step back. I told myself “don’t text him that,” “don’t say what you want to say”… don’t let him like you, you have invested yourself elsewhere. Don’t hurt him.

A friend told me to “get out of the buffet line already,” choose one and follow through. Put your heart into one or the other, see what happens. But how did I choose, when I didn’t know if either wanted to be chosen? Because sometimes, they don’t.

And then he went away for a while. A week is not long enough to be considered a “while,” but when you realize the person you want to talk to everyday has been gone for even a few days, it seems like forever. This is good, I thought. I can clear my head and figure out where to go from here. But I wanted him to come home. My heart would jump if I saw him on gchat. Not wanting to seem too eager, I backed off, didn’t message right away. Wait for him, don’t annoy, he’s on vacation. And then all of a sudden, I was playing games. This hadn’t happened before with him. I was in unfamiliar territory. I missed him. I cared.

I was at my friend’s wedding when it all became clear. I’m not sure why it took me so long to figure it out, but then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Apparently, it was obvious to everyone, but me. The entire time I was pushing Mr. Clean away, emotionally at least, I had inadvertently fallen hard. I hadn’t felt like this since I had a ridiculous high school crush. He just got me. He felt right. It just all felt natural, the way it should be.

Maybe it was my happiness from seeing my good friend marry the love of her life, or maybe it was the giggly wine-induced coma I was in, but I texted my friend that night: “I made the choice. I’m happily leaving the buffet line.”

And it was never really a choice to begin with.

Just Class and Craic

Well, top o’ the mornin’ to ya! The day is upon us – my favorite holiday: St. Paddy’s Day. I never really appreciated the value of this day until about four years ago, when my journalism conference, which was held in NYC, happened to fall upon the weekend of St. Patrick’s Day. I had visited before, but on the way to our hotel, I remember thinking that NYC must have little Irish pubs stocked away under the streets that popped up like a children’s book when that day of green debauchery approached. I had never seen so many damn Irish pubs in my life. Little did I know, an Irish pub would soon be the death of me (and my dear friend Rabbit).

Rabbit and I ventured into a small little pub near Times Square called Connelly’s. It must have been mid-week because the bar was pretty empty. A creepy older man, and two younger Irish lads approached us and started buying us drinks, so of course, we went with it. Despite the destitute bar, there were still three cute Irish boys workin’ it behind the counter. With the free drinks flowing, I must have been drunk when I went to close out my tab from earlier in the night. You know those receipts where they ask you to write your phone number at the bottom? Well, most sane people probably don’t even know what I’m referring to because you just scan over this part. If you do know what I’m referring to, you realize that nobody has EVER filled out this portion of the receipt. It’s seriously just a waste of a tree. Well, in my drunk state, I felt it necessary to completely fill this receipt out. I mean, I am a diligent student, I dot all my I’s, cross all my Ts’ and write my cell phone number at the bottom of the receipt. Readers, if you take anything from this blog, I hope it is this: do not fill out this portion of the receipt. Ever.

Anyways, the three Irish boys start hootin’ and hollerin’ when they realize I “gave them my number.” ‘Scuse?? No, no dear little irish men who I can’t understand. I am just doing my part, filling out my shit, yadda yadda yadda. I forget about this and pass out in our hotel only to wake up to a missed call from my cell phone. 212 area code. That’s a NYC number? But I don’t know anyone in this city? Until Rabbit reminds me that I may have written my damn cell phone number on my receipt last night. After a quick 411 call, we realize that, yes, indeed I just had a missed called from the bar last night. Well, two can play that game boys!

The next night, we decide we really must go back to this bar. I mean, they already have my number, what else do I have to lose? I’m not sure if I met him the first night, but I certainly remember him from the next night. Leprechaun. Of course he was the least cute of the 3 bartenders there, and of course I fell for this red-haired, crazy little Leprechaun. I mean look at his pour! Actually, gentlemen listen up. The way to this lady’s heart: As I stand there at the crowded bar, a annoying young man approaches me. This man, will not, despite my rolling eyes and cold shoulder, leave me alone. I’ve momentarily lost my friends. I am in dire straights. But this will not go down in Leprechaun’s bar! Leprechaun rushes to my aide and softly explains to the man to “please leave my wife alone.” Oh Leprechaun, my knight in shining armor and savior from creepy men. Now, maybe I should have been equally creeped out by Leprechaun’s savior tactics, but he had me at “Can I get you another apple martini?”.

The next day was Paddy’s day. No one but Rabbit and I wanted to go out, but damnit, we were going to live it up on this evening of regret. And then, standing semi-naked, frantically trying on clothes in the dressing room of an H&M I received this text: Hi love! Where’d you go last night? Will I see you tonight?” My Leprechaun lover was calling for me! And who says love?…..swoooon (texting was also the only form of communication I could actually understand what he was saying). Rabbit and I quickly knew what our plans were for the evening: hang out with cute Irish bartenders. On St. Patty’s Day. God, we are so cliché.

That night got a little blurry. When we finally did stumble into Connelly’s after midnight, chaos ensued. I’m not really sure how exactly we passed the next 5 hours at that bar. All I know is that at one point Leprechaun was kissing me from behind the bar and the bouncer was glaringly at us menacingly. I mean, is that even really legal? Also, I lost Rabbit for a solid hour. When she finally reappeared the only thing she kept repeating was, “Have they played 50 Cent yet, I put that on the jukebox and they haven’t played it yettttt”. Oh girl, not only had they played it, the whole bar bust out in “Go, go, go, go / Go, go, go shawty / It's your birthday / We gon' party like it's yo birthday / We gon' sip Bacardi like it's your birthday”. And let’s be honest, this is just a song Irish chaps should just not even attempt.

As the morning drew near and we returned to our hotel, Leprechaun needed one last goodbye before I left the next morning. I was staying in a nice hotel, but sharing a room with 3 other girls (including Rabbit who was now, beyond drunk and passed out), so Leprechaun and I said our goodbyes in the hotel lobby and sitting out in the hallway. I made out with a Leprechaun on St. Patty’s Day, and I’m damn proud of it. We stayed up talking and kissing all night. Literally, I had to tell him to leave so I could pack my shit and go to the airport. I surpressed his request to go get breakfast, or stay and just leave the next day. I was on a legit field trip, I am a responsible student, Leprechaun!

And that was my first St. Patty’s Day spent with a true Irishman. While other Irishmen have come and gone over the years (that’s a story for another time), four years later, that same little Leprechaun still has a soft spot in my heart. Is he a gentleman? That is debatable. Is he a little crazy? Most definitely. Does the fact that he is a bartender and hooks us up with drinks add to his appeal? How could it not?? Will I always remember him on this here holiest day of drinking? Ya betcha. He’s just class and craic, and that’s how I like ‘em. 

Blackouts and Breakdowns

This past weekend, my good friend Rabbit (this name is suitable for a variety of reasons) and I made our annual trip to New York City. This trip started four years ago when we went to this fair city, as young, innocent college students for a journalism conference. Little did we know we’d be leaving there with massive hangovers, a new love for the Irish and the beginning of a life-long friendship. When the other girls said they would prefer to stay in and watch Titanic on St. Patty’s Day eve, and our last night in the city that never sleeps, I knew Rabbit and I would soon be best friends as we gazed at each other and silently thought, “Well, F*ck that. “ What ensued that night included being over served by our friendly bartender (Leprechaun) and leaving the bar with NO TAB. Happy St. Patty’s Day, indeed. I got no sleep and we had to pack Rabbit’s suitcase for her (she lost any motor packing functions around 3 a.m.). I’ll never forget when she put her puke bag through airport security. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

We now refer to these trips in volumes. Vol. 1 was our awakening to bars (for her really), and the fact that the lot of Irish folk travel to NYC for Patty’s Day. A minor obsession also begin, but more on that later. During Vol. 2 Rabbit was still in college, and I was just fresh out in the working world, but we managed to cross paths. (Unfortunately, she was not victim of an Elton John sing-along in the Upper East Side that lasted well past sunrise and the being locked in the bar from the inside—it’s good to be friends with the bartender). Vol. 3 was basically a shitshow of ridiculous shenanigans on both our parts; beautiful Irish and American boys, Brooklyn and town cars featured prominently in this trip. Score one for the hometown team! (and by hometown team, I mean Rabbit and an underage college lad. Way to pull a Demi Moore.)

Although by Vol. 4 (aka this past weekend) we had both matured considerably (she now has a boyfriend, no more lucky charms for her!), we still found ourselves in situations that only the two of us could find ourselves in. Standing there in the TKTS booth, looking like such obvious tourists, we made friends with a fabulous gay fellow who was giving us recommendations for a show. He squealed in delight when he discovered we were from D.C. and promptly introduced us to his friend who, also, used to live in D.C., although hates it with a passion (awkward for us, the tourists from this town of hatred). Said friend had just published a book. A book, you say? Why this sparked our interest:

Rabbit: Oh, congratulations! What’s the name of your book?

Gay book writer: (light chuckle): Blackouts and Breakdowns

Rabbit: (after we have exchanged quick know-this-concept-all-too-well glances and suppressing laugher) Ah, yes sound familiar.

Bahaha, sounds familiar? Sounds about right. We could have co-authored this book, especially in reference to our NYC trips. We decided henceforth to label Vol. 4. Blackouts and Breakdowns.

Although no actual blackouts and breakdowns occurred, we still have another memorable NYC trip to add to the record books. And, as always, we learned a little bit more about the city we adore from afar, and ourselves.

• Do not visit the Empire State Building in the middle of a hurricane, or other hurricane-like conditions, such as gales and squalls. This does not make for a pleasant view of the skyline, but does create some entertaining videos on your camera. Also, the ESB smells pungently like whiskey. Or maybe that was just us.

• Dudes from Iceland can be very creepy. That is all, Sven.

• An all you can drink brunch can only be made better by subsequently visiting the Museum of Sex. Be sure to grab a cab, and instead of telling him the cross streets, shout loudly, “We are going to the Museum of Sex! Oh, you didn’t hear me, I said the MUSUEM OF SEXXX” and giggle like the 14-year old girls you become after 3 hours of constantly flowing champagne.

• Control your umbrella, bitch. If you happen to lose control and slam it into your unsuspecting friend’s forehead, do not then, ask if she got hit in the face – when you can clearly see the red mark. Concussed!

• If you are lucky enough to be friends with an Irish bartender, he will hook you up. Chicken wings, 4-5 coronas, 3-4 Magner’s and 4 shots (combined here, I’m no alchy!) does not equal a $19 tab. And I thank you, Leprechaun.
  

• Having the entire bar bust out in song after you play “Come Sail Away” is just awesome. And when you play a single country song, it’s much easier to make friends with “the onlyyy red-blooded republican gals in New York!!!!” or so said the overzealous girl who proceeded to play the Dixie Chicks album anthology. Don’t know if I’m a red-blooded republican, but a Dixie Chicks fan can do no wrong in my book.

• And when you promised your friend you’d only stay for 2 drinks, and she stays for 5 hours so you can play kissy face with a Leprechaun, you know you have a true blue friend.
  

So, no, there were no blackouts or breakdowns this year. But there was food, drink, endless laughter, and a puke-free ride home by all. And really, what more can you ask for?