Stories from Ireland

So my dad has this habit of telling stories for entertainment value.  The problem is that he is likely to change a detail or two for "entertainment" purposes, or to make a story better, thus resulting in a twisting of events the likes of which haven't been seen by those other than History textbook editors.  Last night, while out for dinner with Dad, StepDad and Stepdad's high school friends, my dad starts to tell a story about my most drunken night in Ireland.  Most of the events were the same, and I'll admit I've had my fun getting a little mileage out of the story myself, but it's always awkward to hear about one's own antics.

The Real Story, as I tell it:

It starts with a couple of beers at a local pub in Cork.  Dad's friend, H, who lived there was determined to send us back to Dublin with a raging hangover.  Some time after my third beer, Dad comes back from the bathroom and tells me that there is a 29 year old girl from Chicago and she had two guys buying her drinks.  He comments that I am prettier than this girl and I could certainly get those guys to buy me drinks instead.  I laugh, but think nothing more of it.  Then H brings us all a shot of Whiskey, after which my dad says, "I bet you could."  And I started thinking, "I bet I could."

So I go over to the bar area, under the pretense of buying a round for the table.  I hear the girl talking to the guys and at first I think twice about embarking on this bet.  But then I hear her using the, what I call, "stupid girl" routine.  You know the one.  Anything and everything they said she knew absolutely nothing about and would they please tell her everything because they were absolutely the most interesting people in the entire world.  They asked her what type of drink she would like and she asked them for an "Irish Car Bomb." First of all, that is just rude.  Second of all, they don't drink those in Ireland.  She has to explain to the bartender and the guys exactly what it is.

I take that opportunity to interrupt the conversation and tell her that I couldn't help but notice she was American. She tells me she's from Chicago and I immediately ask her about Devil In The White City. She had heard of it but hadn't read it yet.  So I launch into my respect for Landscape Architects and how it's akin to the Space Progam, etc.  The guys say, "you're very passionate."  I say "About Landscape Architecture?  Naw, I just read the book.  Now what I'm really passionate about is...."  They ask me what kind of drink I want and refer to Chicago's "Car Bomb."  I say I can drink anything they can and if they wanted to test it they should pick a whiskey off the shelf.  They did and were amazed that I could drink it with relative ease.

Dad interrupts the story at this point to say that he was returning from yet another bathroom trip and he sees the girl furiously text message someone while I'm conversing.  She eventually excuses herself and leaves for the evening. It's then that I realize not only have I won, but I have the full attention of these two Irish gents.  So it would have been rude to go sit down with my friends and ignore them the rest of the night.  I talk to both of them and then the one I didn't find particularly attractive asks me, "How strong are your hands?"

My mind thinks of all sorts of answers and reasons why he would ask this, none of them I would repeat to my father.  So instead I say, "Why do you need to know?"

"Because I have 70 cows to milk in the morning," he says.  This is by far the worst pick-up line I've ever heard.

"Does that usually work with local girls?" I ask.  The the attractive one backs him up and say that he is indeed a dairy farmer.  But the unattractive one has already moved on to greener pastures.  Pretty much that is the meat of the story.  I stayed and talked a little bit with the attractive guy and even exchanged e-mail addresses.  I had no fear of drinking anything because I knew I had three people who would make sure I didn't leave without them.  (And H is pretty scary at 6 feet.)  Dad came over eventually and told me it was time to go, by that point I'd already had another two beers and one more shot of whiskey so I was ready to leave.

I stumbled back to the hotel somehow and then realized walking up stairs was not going to work.  So I ended up crawling up the carpeted stairs on my hands and knees.  I know it wasn't pretty, but it was better than falling down.