Yeah I’m not proud of that headline either, but you knew I couldn’t write headlines when you married me so we can all just muddle through until Manolo or the Good Lord provides me with a copy editor because I’ve never written a decent headline in my life and I’m certainly not going to start now.
So I’ve been in Ireland and I’m not gonna lie: Ireland is simply FILLED with irresponsibly good-looking men and shockingly plain women.*
Dublin in particular, which I didn’t even like all that much, has within its blessed borders the finest collection of male backsides I have ever had the honor of callously objectifying from the back row of a bright green open-top double-decker bus.
I’m not even sure I’m still on speaking terms with my friend in Dublin who, despite living there for YEARS, failed to tell me there is an entire island full of men glorious behinds almost all of whom love either soccer OR rugby or –be still my heart– both. Plus they have freckles.
Why would you do that to me Krista? Why?
Oh the freckles.
My fondness for freckles goes back to the very first boy I ever had a crush on. Years later. the Australian rugby player who gave me my first kiss had them too. The One Who Keeps Getting Away has a dusting across his nose and even my current gentlemen caller, who uh, hasn’t really gotten the rundown of my trip yet (oh man, can’t imagine that ending well) is built on the Xabi Alonso/Fernando Torres (trust me kids, you want to click that Torres link) model as one of the most delectable of all creatures: the Hot Latin Boy With Freckles.
Well you can’t say I don’t have a type.
Quick sidebar re: types. So we all know how your pal Plummy has the slightest tendency to date athletes, particularly soccer players, right? I was chatting with my friend Glasgow Drew (Glasgow Drew and I dated, but then he thought I was dude. Then when he realized I wasn’t a dude he proposed. Then he thought I was a dude again. Then he proposed again. He kind of goes back and forth. Did I mention he got hit in the head a lot during his rugby career? He got hit a lot in the head during his rugby career.) and asking him if he thought my current gentleman friend –who is an artist and only ever played very minor club soccer– looked like Xabi Alonso. Well, he went on a tear about how sickening it was that I called footballers artists and blah blah y blah and it took me a good 45 minutes to explain to him that he was, in fact, an actual artist and not a soccer player at all. See? Head injuries. Bless his heart.
Anyhoodle the point is, Irish men are FINE and frankly I think we’re all surprised I didn’t come back pregnant (thanks Megh! It takes a village!) And why?
Because of this:
Seriously, they’re all like this. Not EXACTLY like this, but not far off. And did I mention the pouting and the blue eyes?
It’d ridiculous. Now, you’d think since both my pout and my blue eyes have been getting me both into and out of trouble since I was old enough to well, pretty much breathe, I’d have developed some sort of immunity. FALSE. It is by the grace of God that I didn’t actually walk into any walls (I did fall into a dry cree kbed my first night in town, but I was completely sober and not alone so I don’t think that counts.)
By the way, that is Cillian Murphy. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen exactly one movie he’s in –the hugely watchable Breakfast on Pluto, also featuring Liam Neeson in clericals…rrrowr– and I don’t usually go for pretty but when pretty is done this well? A girl’s gotta give it up.
I’d never seen The Tudors until I went to Dublin and let me tell you, I don’t care how good it is, I saw twenty seconds of it when they were filming in the chapter house of Canterbury Cathedral and I was filled with NOT AT ALL IRRATIONAL RAGE because THEY were in MY chapter house of MY cathedral and I pretty much spewed obscenities at the screen until Kirk changed it (see also: why I can’t watch Viking invasion programs because I get really violently angry when the pretend Vikings invade MY island of Lindisfarne.)
Speaking of giving it up:
I know, I know Colin Farrell is all syphhy and needs to be bathed in turpentine, but come on, you KNOW he’d be a laugh and you would never EVER have to have one of those awful Where Is This All Going conversations and that is worth its weight in penicillin (except not, because I’m allergic.)
*This is most likely because all the pretty girls are home with even hotter men, but I am blissfully ignoring that prospect, lest my life lose all meaning until I return to the land of Yeats and Joyce.