And so it goes that my estranged future ex husband carries on with his new life, new girl, new level of douchebaggery, the likes of which have never been seen, only heard of in urban legends, “Did you hear about the guy who married a yankee who did A B C D to her and had the nerve to E F G?” Yes. It really did happen and it really did happen to me. 

Moving on. 

As I wait this court process out, I have to admit that I have decided to stay and fight the good fight, the long haul that it may end up being. In the meantime, I slowly find myself being able to stop with the heavy sighing, the Victorian hand placed delicately over my brow as I read scripture and hope a miracle happens. One ought to make one’s own miracles sometimes, oughtn’t they? 

So instead of stay in on a Saturday night, I got together with Marie and Val. Marie in her hot little dress and Val in hers, I can’t get enough of mournful widow gear and donned a black ensemble but I Kim Kardashian’d the shit out of my makeup. 

We go to Tiger Lill’s where it is a sausage fest, a dick forrest, a place where the ratio of men to women is 3:1. Equal parts on both sides: some people were good looking, not too drunk, nice to speak to; others not so much. 

I spoke to a a couple of guys but one guy and I hit it off. Basically what I’m saying is he is a nice distraction from the drama and about as opposite as one can be from El Bastardo. 

His name is Liam. He is full on, fresh off the boat IRISH. He is about 6’2 and chalked full of traps and lats and muscles and beefy and linebacker and massive. I needed to give him my number to text me things as I didn’t understand a word he said all night. “TANKS FR DAT, M. AH, YR GRRAND. JUST GRAND.” 

He is an engineer. like, the brainiac ones. He lived and worked in Boston and wishes to go back since that’s where are the Micks are. I asked him if the potato famine was real or made up. If St. Patrick really drove the snakes out of ireland with a flute. if he could do me this one big favor and say the line from the movie, Far and Away: “I’ve no wish to fight you” and “You’re a corker, Shannon.” 

He was a total gentleman. He would say things like, “If you need to get TRUE DIS CROWD, I’ll make a path for you since I’m so big and tough. Watch dis.” And he did. It was a crazy breath of fresh air. I asked if he had a big family since Irish are known for driving the contraception out of Ireland along with the snakes (he totally loved me stereotyping him) he has 4 sisters so he was pretty good at treating a lady like a lady. But he gave as good as he got with his, “Oh, California? Never heard of it.” 

“What part of Ireland are you from?” 

“The better part. The west coast. Should I tell you and have you pretend you know exactly where I’m talking about?” 

“Nah,” says I “better not. I have no clue. you could say Zimbabwe, Ireland and I’ll believe you.” 

I couldn’t help but point out guys saying, “Could you beat that guy up?” He nodded. “Could you beat THAT guy up?” he nodded again then said, “I never like fighting but sometimes I have to go in. It’s terrible. If you’re trying to see if I’d ever stick up for you in a fight—-” he ACTUALLY put his finger on my mouth like funny style—-“shush your purdy mout right now.” comedy. then i asked him to do the university of notre dame fighting irish pose. he obliged me. 

I must admit there was something about hang in out with a beefy guy and not some anti-muscle guy. It was definitely some P.S. I Love You Gerard Butler stuff happening there. He was a cool guy.

But then he started doing a jig. He called it dancing. I called it a jig. But I think that no one would tell a Tank on the dance floor to stop dancing. 

Marie called it: he looked very similar to Scott Speedman. 

Anyhow, he is very nice and I don’t think I should sit around crying. I have to try to move on with my life even if it does feel like it’s on hold here in Perth at the moment. So, if I am going to make a move from pasta and linguine to corn beef and cabbage, so be it. So be it. 

And I gave him a kiss on the cheek and a hug and the girls and I left. On the way home, he texted me, “Happy St. Paddy’s Day. Why weren’t you named Patty?” 

I replied, ” I don’t have time for your irish banter. “ 

He texted me this morning, “It’s officially the next day. Can I see you later on? I’ll let you watch me eat a big dinner somewhere.” 

Should I go on a date with him?