Blame it on the books…

I’m going to blame Nora Roberts.

That’s what I’m going to do.

I mean, of course I’m going to take some responsibility, but for the most part it’s her fault.

You may ask why.

You may ask who Nora Roberts even is.

Well, this quote sums it up nicely.

“Ireland is a land of poets and legends, of dreamers and rebels. All of these have music woven through and around them. Tunes for dancing or for weeping, for battle or for love.” – Nora Roberts

I think that I was about 12 when I read my first Nora novel. I remember being on a flight from Nassau, reading one of her books from cover to cover. If you’re not familiar with her, she writes romance. Sometimes there are mysteries woven in. But, at the core, they are novels about love and human relationships. They are my guilty pleasure books, and I happen to think that she writes beautifully.

She also has an obsession with Ireland.

I’m not quite sure when my fascination with the land of fields, sheep, cliffs and pubs began, but it has been present in me for a very long time. It only intensified when I visited there a few years ago. I guess that my love of all things Irish, despite the fact that I have not one kelly green bone in my body, is one reason why I seem to date a lot of Irish men. There’s something about them that I can’t put my finger on. They are manly and, for the most part, charming. They have cute smiles and pretty eyes. They have an aura of strength that makes me weak in the knees.

I don’t seek them out though. I swear! It’s not like I go out at night with the intention of landing myself a big, strapping Irishman. It just kind of . . . happens.

A few days ago, for instance, I was in a ski town with some friends, drinking at a local dive bar. A few guys were playing pool in the back, but aside from that it was rather empty. As time went on, more people began to file in, drinking away aches and pains they acquired from a day on the slopes. I was discussing what a horrible idea it was to get “Spam Fries” with a guy from London sitting next to me, when a group of Irish boys approached my friend and I. They began to talk to us as a group, but there was one who kept coming over to me. Subtly, at first. But, as time went on we began to have a rather nice conversation. Full of words like “craic” and “deadly” and “to be sure.”

I, of course, was a goner.

Happens EVERY time. For God sakes, almost every single man I write about on here has a last name beginning with Mc or O’. And why would this time be annnny different?

He was cute and sweet and friendly. A bit younger, so everything out of his mouth was a question that made it seem as though he was truly interested in what I had to say. He had reddish hair and a cute smile and though he was only an inch taller than me, his nicely toned arms made up for that fact.

It was not my intention to let things go any further than a kiss.

I wore granny panties and purposely did not shave my legs when I left my room for his.

I would only stay an hour. That was the game plan.

My willpower is zero when it comes to many men. Especially ones with accents. So, we had fun. Lots of it. And I have no real problem admitting that maybe this is just something I need to do. I need to get this kind of thing out of my system. I need to sow those wild oats and maybe even make some for breakfast. It’s taken me some time to admit that I’m the type of woman who may wind up never being married. I like to live with passion. I don’t believe in saving money when you really want to experience things. I live for today, because tomorrow is never guaranteed.

And I’m sure this will come back to bite me in the ass someday, but I’ll just find a way  to blame it on Nora.