I could have bright ideas if my head was a lamppost. My first idea would be to get my human head back.

           After reading about Saint Patrick, I thought his holiday would involve sharing the Gospel and loving people from all cultures. This message must have gotten lost in translation over the years since I only saw the sharing of Guinness and an Irishman and an Asian woman snogging.

We watched the Saint Patrick’s Day parade from our box office seats on a roof top. This was grand, because I would not want to see any of the “creative” things we witnessed that day up close. Don’t get me wrong, I love dancing potato chips, people with lampposts for heads, and a sinister wiener dog on wheels as much as the next lass, but I draw the line at creepy  twelve-foot tall walking dolls that blink. In theory, these all would belong at a trippy yet fun medieval festival. But, like the clown doll in my grandma’s guest bedroom that looks like it’s being strangled by the balloons it’s holding as it watches you sleep, it really isn’t that fun at all.  



Monster dog is ornery because his head is too big to wear a shamrock hat.

 

The potato chips couldn't reach us from here, even though they had arms.

                  We then attended a match of the fastest sport in the world-hurling. It involves chugging a gallon of milk and then seeing who can make it come back up the quickest. That’s how the Americans play it at least. The Irish pros play by using lacrosse sticks and a ball, and they run to and fro for an hour while scoring both in a net and through a football goal post. Gaelic football is played the same way, but without sticks. We didn’t really know what was going on or who was playing, so we picked the team with the prettiest jersey or the guy with the coolest hair and rooted to our hearts’ content. The Christmas Colors were slayed by the Yellow Zebras! The Colors’ spirits were broken and they resumed their usual life back in the north.   


Baby Jack is wonders why we're making faces at him
 when he's clearly too old for that nonsense.

                A few of us meandered over to Temple Bar area and dined at Quay’s. Emily Day and I walked across the street where we were meant to meet her friend. I started taking pictures of the crowd around us, when a young Brazilian man approached us.

Brazil: Would you like me to take your picture?

Audrey: Ohh, no thank you. [I don’t want you to steal my camera.]

He chatted us up a bit (probably because he was 5’5”), and before he left, said, “It was very nice to meet you.” He extended his hand, and I began to shake it. But then, my hand started moving upward, and it wasn’t just because of the shaking. He was going in for the kiss. My hand was being sucked upward toward his alien spaceship of a mouth. I wasn’t even wearing a “Kiss me I’m Irish” shirt.

                Emily and I returned to the pub. However, there was a bouncer the size of a full grown man blocking the door. I pretended not to see the giant and make my way in, but he stopped us. We were not to be allowed upstairs. “We have a table up there already,” I protested. He then let us in. Now I know what to say if I ever need to lie to a bouncer. 



If I told St Peter I already had a table, I don't think he'd believe me.

                 Back in the Temple Bar arena once again, an Irish lad approached us with his friends. I don’t think he told us one true statement. He was from Maryland, which was in Wisconsin. He also had Justin Bieber’s hair. Strike two. His friend, we shall call him Spike, then began a proposal.

                Spike: “Ladies, I know this is very strange, but my friend is turning 21 and we’re trying to get him 21 kisses. Would you be willing to help a fellow out?”
                Girls: “No.”

[In addition, the guy we believe he was addressing looked to be 28 and had the type of facial hair that would erupt in a full-blown beard in a matter of hours.]         

He persisted in asking for a few more minutes. Then, he made a monumental discovery, revealing why we would not say yes.

                Spike: “…You don’t drink, do you?”
                Still sober girls:“ Correct!”

                Spike: “Hey! Me neither. Look, I have viht-ah-min water!...So, will you kiss him?”
                Audrey: “I just ate, so my mouth has had enough action for one night.”

                We soon after made our way back to the DART. But before the night was over, one girl celebrated the holiday in true St Patrick’s Day fashion by hurling on the pavement. Even though she didn’t drink, the food poisoning, ear infection, and stress made sure she finished her Irish night properly.

Justin Beaver must have thought I was giving him a high five

I have so much sodium I could assault the devil

I would drink the Irish Sea if I could.

Lent is upon us. I traditionally give up sweets, but I knew exactly what else I had to give up: my beloved salt shaker. I have so much sodium in my body, people started picking me up and throwing me over their shoulder to ward off the devil. I talked to my mom on Facebook chat, and she was unsure about what to give up for Lent.

Audrey: I just ate a candy bar after realizing Lent is in three days.
Mom: OMG I better think of something to give up!
Audrey: How about teen acronyms?

Giving up sweets isn’t too difficult, but I do miss my salt. My food tastes so bland. Lasagna tastes like lasagna now instead of salt, and I can’t stand it.

Fat Tuesday was just that

I had fish and chips for the first time in Ireland in the legit fishing village of Howth. Not only did they have fish, they had seals! Not for eating, for admiring lovingly from a distance. They were just chilling out in the harbor waiting to be fed. Seals are lazy buggers. They howl, “AR AR AR” instead of properly articulating “Are you going to feed me, kind lass?” Or maybe they just have a worse stutter than Moses.

Sing "Kiss From a Rose"!

We hiked the Bray Head trail and came across a field of semi-wild horses. Their ropes were frayed, so I’m guessing they went rogue. I’ve learned to always carry food with me in case I come across wildlife, so I whipped out some white bread and started making equine acquaintances. Dan wanted to get on one, but was unsure if he should. I encouraged him to do so because it was a win-win situation. If the horse stays still, then I can get on him. If the horse runs wildly away with Dan on his back, I won’t ever have to see Dan again. The horse stood still, and so I was also able to take a turn on him. However, once I mounted him, he started moving away. The others started yelling at me to jump off. It looked like I might have been attempting to dismount, but I was trying to reach the rein and ride off into the mountains. But, I couldn’t reach it. I yelled, “Abort! Abort!” and let the steed gallivant off. I think he wanted to take me on a tour of the countryside as a token of gratitude for the delectable grains.

Mounting on a mountain

We’ve been watching The Story of Ireland for the past six weeks. It’s a show about Ireland’s history that plays at 10pm, a time where I’m ready for bed and can’t absorb any information said in a monotone. The only thing I’ll remember from the seven hours we’ve spent reliving Ireland’s history is the presenter, Fergal Keane. He looks like Bono from a distance, but unlike Bono, you don’t want to listen to what comes out of Fergal’s mouth.

Example:

Fergal Keane is holding a picture of a woman wearing a white dress and veil walking out of a church with a man in a tuxedo:

Is this a photo of you on your wedding day?

No, that’s from when she went to play Skeeball at Chuckee Cheez. Come on, Fergal!

Not too keen are we, Fergal?

Q: What color was the Red Sea? A: Jesus

We met Simon Harris last week. He’s a 24-year-old politician jockeying to be a TD (in American terms, it’s a government position located somewhere between Obama’s gig and student council treasurer.  I’m not very keen on politics).  He stayed for a group picture, and I was lucky enough to be situated at his left flank. I touched his arm. Twice. It was not an accidental elbow graze.

Simon Harris puts the TD in stud

               

                Last week, an 85-year-old woman from church named Joan took us to Avoca Handweavers, a garden/café/shop three-for-one deal. Joan is awesome.  While most women burn themselves by touching caramelized sugar, Joan once received third degree burns on her face from climbing in the Alps.  But, like most other women, she’s a pretty horrid driver. At least she can blame it on her age.

I’ve been going to my church’s Bible study held at Simon’s house (not Simon Harris). We have tea and coffee beforehand, and I’m guessing on Bible study nights, Hebrews it himself. I feel a bit out of my element because it seems those guys have as much knowledge about the Bible as Jesus had loaves and fish.

                Simon: Who was the first person Moses met in the desert?

                Ryan: Aaron.______________________________________________          

    Simon: How did God plan to implement His plan?

                Anthony: Jesu—

                Simon: No.

                Eoin: Moses.

                [Note to self: Jesus is not always the answer]____________________

    Simon: How many times does the word ‘love’ appear in the Bible?

    Ryan: 341 times in the King James Version [is how he would have correctly responded if

    this question had been asked.]

I'm planning to keep going to Bible study until I'm as good at Jesus knowledge as Moses was at stuttering, or until Simon's adorable white cockapoos run away.