I like to think I’m full of funny stories. This is because I have a penchant for drama, a ken for nonsense, and a natural magnetism for drunkenness.
Tonight I was out at the Cornish Pasty having a drink with Lover when I decided we should do an Irish car bomb shot. We cheers-ed to a three day weekend (his through work, mine through PTO) and drank as quickly as we could. He said he couldn’t remember the last time he did an Irish car bomb. I remembered vividly the last time I did one.
It was a little over a year ago, mid-October, before the first time Lover came to visit me. We were talking nonstop, but hadn’t yet kissed. A man we shall call Hairy Karl texted me and asked me to meet him for a drink. We had met on Labor Day when Melbourne and I had a bunch of friends join us for a pool party. Melbourne had spent the day hitting on him and telling him how much she loved his hairiness.
(Melbourne loves hairy men, and she was pretty close to breaking up with her boyfriend, so I had an aha moment.)
Aha! I thought. Hairy Karl will meet Melbourne and I for a drink, and I will hook them up, and all will be well.
Yeah . . . not so much.
The night out was fun. I told them about my upcoming week of endless sex and Halloween festivities. Hairy Karl told us about his new apartment and how he liked living in Scottsdale. Melbourne complained about her boyfriend. We all drank heartily. She and I ordered Irish car bombs and were presented with foamy glasses. We looked at each other helplessly.
“Did he pour the shot in already?” she asked.
“I . . . hope not, but I can’t tell,” I answered.
We hesitated, then cheers-ed and drank.
About a minute later, the bartender returned with the shots. We looked at each other helplessly. The bartender apologized. (Apparently it wasn’t the first time.) He gave us more beer.
Car bombs were consumed.
The night ended with Hairy Karl calling an Uber, and Melbourne and I walking home. I learned on the way that Hairy Karl wanted to date me, and I had embarrassed the shit out of him by bringing Melbourne. I couldn’t tell her that I was hoping she and he would hook up, so I just acted abashed (which was not entirely an act).
I enjoyed retelling this for Lover and thought you, dear readers, might enjoy it too.
So here’s to Irish car bombs and other people’s bad relationships.