Leprechauns

A belated Happy St. Patty's Day to you all! Saturday night I went out to a pub and had a few drinks with friends, like a good Irish lass. St. Patrick's Day is a lot like New Year's Eve (amaetur night), but I was persuaded to go out by my friend Liz, who admonished me to "Get out here! We are celebrating your people!" So, I put on the requisite green shirt and dragged my Irish butt to Molly Malone's Pub for some revelry.

I was walking alone down Fairfax Avenue around 7:45pm. Liz and her friends were already in the pub. I was about a block away from the door when three guys in their early 20's came stumbling around the corner. All young, all cute, and all stinking drunk.

The shortest one, a baby faced blonde, came rushing at me. "Yo! OH MY GOD! My friend has a crush on you! He has such a crush on you! You need to talk to him!"

The middle kid, a nondescript brunet, chuckled and kept walking as the third guy, a tall drink of water with dark curly hair under a wool knit cap, threw his arms open and said, "Look at you!"

"Uh, yeah. Look at you," I replied.

"LOOK AT YOU!" He yelled again. "Look how cute you are! Look how green you are!"

"Yeah, you're cute too, and you're not color blind. Congratulations," I said. "How much have you guys had to drink?"

"ZERO!" yelled a very wobbly Shorty.

"Oh yeah, I believe that," I laughed, starting to walk away.

"Hey, wait!" Tall Guy started to follow me. "Hold up a second. Come here. Let me look at you."

I could tell he meant no harm, but I had somewhere to go. "You've looked. I've got friends to meet."

"No, hang on. C'mon." Shorty and the other kid had stumbled down the block and were standing on the street corner, watching.

"Who are you?" I asked. "I don't know you."

"I'm Laaaaaaaance," he slurred. He grabbed and kissed my hands. "Okay, now let's make out."

What? "I don't think so, Lance. I don't know you. Go kiss someone else."

Some guys are blessed with a certain level of cuteness - a level at which they can take it for granted that random women will want to make out with him. Laaaaance was that kind of cute; I'm sure he usually has no trouble acquiring access to willing women's lips on a regular basis. My rejection was utterly confusing to him; he probably didn't realize how old I was, or that I'd seen other Lances in action many times.

"But, it's a holiday! Like, a holiday! You've got to give me a holiday kiss!" He pointed to his sweatshirt, which said "KISS ME, I'M IRISH."

Like I said, Amateur Night.

Readers, a person worth kissing does not take romantic advice from seasonal apparel. I told Lance that I'd have to pass. Cute or not, I don't liplock with complete strangers. I'm silly like that.

"Lance, I'm sure you've tried this routine with about 50 girls already. You'll find someone to kiss soon enough. You guys have a good night," I said, and walked the rest of the way to Molly's.

By the time I found Liz, I was ready for that drink! No beer for me, though. I'm a whiskey girl (Jameson's, of course!).

Predictably, I saw Lance inside the pub about two hours later, working his magic on a very drunk female patron.

I'll bet he wasn't even Irish.