Kiss me I'm Irish

Last night, while grabbing a drink with Ms. Dog Walker--one of my last remaining single women friends--and after having sobbed through most of Rent, I met an Irishman. It wasn't that kind of a meeting--he wasn't what I consider within my dating range--however, he did have an intoxicating brogue and a lot to say. For me the Irish, have always been the most romanticized, exotic race. I know this has everything to do with my own mysterious roots, my desire to visit the Motherland, and well, there have been a fuck of a lot of brilliant Irish writers. Seamus is one of my favorite names, Guinness one of my favorite beers, and Gabriel Byrne, my ideal man. And I did once date an Oden Connolly.

We were talking about body language. And about horse language--of course, he was a gambler. He admitted he was a man who had learned a lot about body language in order to pick up women. He said the Irish were much more subtle than Americans. Americans would just out and tell you what they thought, if they were interested in talking more or if they wanted you to bugger off. But the Irish woman would look you in the eye and lie to you. Never tell you what she was thinking. So you had to learn to read the body. Because that was where she spoke her true feelings. It was obvious stuff, crossing her leg towards you or away from you, that kind of a thing.

That's it. It was just a pleasant bar room conversation. So in honor of him, I am streaming a Gaelic radio show this morning. Harps n'all. It's a lovely way to start the morning. Lots of brogue to go with my coffee and breakfast.