This past weekend, Chicago boy (who will forever more, until further notice, be referred to as CB) came down to visit.  We did lots of walking about the tree farm across the road from my house and fending off vicious coyotes in the dark.  And also?  We saw three shooting stars!  High five for us!

After showing him around my hometown a bit and driving through a horrible rain storm, we ended up at the Irish Fest (which was really more of a Celtic fest).  Because of the storms around, they weren't allowing any of the musicians at the stages to go electric. 

Now, there aren't many times in life, here, where a man can comfortably wear a skirt in public, but the kilts were out en masse for the festival.  I realized that, actually, I kinda like a man in a kilt…ones with good calf muscles, that is.  Because that's my favorite part of the male body, and kilts seem to accentuate them.  There was even a kilted mile run on Sunday, where I observed most of the participants afterward who had been wearing what appeared to be either bike shorts or Under Armor beneath their kilts.  It was all very fascinating, because I'm sure one would have to wear something when running a mile.

But let me tell you what is not cool to wear with a kilt, folks…and that is a "fanny pack."  That is never okay.  A sporran, yes.  Whatever other accessories you want to include, yes.  But NEVER EVER wear a fanny pack with your kilt.  You will look like an ass hat.

But back to the actual fest, lots of Guinness and Bailey's was had by me, and Bushmills and Killian's by CB (with about 3/4 of a cup of Killian's ending up in his lap thanks to a strong wind).  Also had a bowl of delicious white cheddar potato soup (because, really, potatoes and cheese are two of my favorite things).  There were also exhibitions of Irish dog breeds, including the Irish Wolfhound.  If you've never seen one of these before, please do look them up.  Most of the wolfhounds there had backs as high as my waist.  They are like small horses.  I obviously need one someday, since I don't think you're allowed to have horses in my neighborhood.  Sunday, after CB left, I went back to the fest and saw…wait for it…sheep herding demonstrations.  Now, this might not seem all exciting to you, and I don't know that I would be as excited if they hadn't demonstrated how they train the dogs, which is that they first teach them to herd ducks.  Brilliant.  It was around this time that I decided I need a trained Border Collie to herd my non-existent children.  And I am totally serious about that.

Where are the other *adventures* you may ask?  Well, as it is, I was talking with one of my best friends on my cell last night while trying to uncork a bottle of wine.  Let me inform the reader that this was just plain wine, not Champagne or anything like that.  Y'know how when operating the corkscrew, there's usually a bit of a tug you have to do to get the last bit out?  Well I was doing that one-handed, cell phone in the other, when it came out and the corkscrew hit me like a ton of bricks between my left eye and temple.  I had managed to give myself a black eye, and break open the skin.   I felt somewhat sorry for the friend on the phone, as I was positive I busted her eardrums when I yelled "AWWW F*CK!!" into the phone that was still up by my mouth.  But she said she had heard the cork go, and something hit my head, though apparently the recount I gave her wasn't nearly as exciting as the one she had dreamed up.  Today it looks like someone with a good right hook just laid one into me, but also like I'm wearing purple eyeshadow on that eye.  I briefly considered putting shadow on the other eye to match, because it almost looks good, but then I realized I don't really wear eyeshadow.  Meh.

Here's to hoping I never do that again, though the odds are better than I would like.

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