It all began innocently enough.

A friend and I were going to join another woman and see Capitalism on Friday night. Unfortunately,  woman #3 bailed on us, so my friend (note to self: she needs a Blog Name, and stat!) and I decided to just go get dinner and not waste our night out. I got to the Irish pub/grill and was seated after an awkward five minutes standing in the lobby, checking my SlackBerry, waiting for my friend to arrive. I need to work on always being early, especially when the rest of the world, well, isn’t. I’m a Virgo, sue me… just show up on time, please.

(Hahaha! I have a name for her! She will now be “Betty Bop,” because every time I saw her at the Equality March last weekend, she was literally just boppin’ along with her son strapped to her back.) ( New note to self: change her name in the event of pre-coffee lameness.)

It was before the Friday dinner rush, so the Pub was fairly empty, and I perused the menu for my veggie options. Our server came over, and in his Irish brogue, he told me that I shouldn’t wait on my friend, that I should go ahead and order a drink while I waited. I couldn’t argue with that logic, even as I saw Betty Bop walking to the door. Being seated by the window has its advantages… most of the time (foreshadowing, cue music).

Betty Bop sits down as the Irish server and I were discussing just how dirty I wanted my martini. “Filty!” he exclaims, and then says something about being new to the country and unsure of our drinks. His “filty” was hilarious, and I’m renaming my drink of choice in his honor. Melia now only drinks Filty Martinis, the more sludge, the better. No, I don’t really want to know what you put in there, Mr. Irish Server Man, just bring ‘em as filty as you can, baby.

As we discuss the drink, Betty Bop orders something “sour.” Irish Server Man proclaims that she and I must be in miserable moods (filty and sour) and we spend much of our dinner telling him how our service is horrible, atrocious and completely wrong, to which he answers, “great, I’m doing m’job!” and we laugh, and move on.

At some point after our food is delivered, we noticed a man standing outside of the window by our table. The tables are a little higher than street-level, so it was really just the back of his head making an appearance at our table. Had he been inside, I could have reached over and thumped him. He was also wearing an earpiece with the little spiral cord attached. Because of his quasi-invasion of our table, I made a few comments about his ability to hear us through the glass, the back of his head, the patches of hair that weren’t there… and the man moved, like he could hear us.

Oops.

He walked about five more feet away from us and stood out in the rain. He stood there for a good ten minutes, watching the parking lot, watching the people. It was a little bizarre, but whatever. I was only half-dwelling on his presence and whether he really could hear me through the glass. Then, a boy (young man) with a box of flyers walked up to the door of the pub, and Earpiece Man’s head turned (much like a hawk, nose included) to follow the boy’s path. Then he almost ran to the door, chasing the boy.

What. The. Hell?

My friend and I looked at each other, and she brought up the point that maybe there was someone “important” inside. We live outside of DC, so its not unheard of for a politician or other important people  to be in our area, eating our food, or using our bathrooms (just wash your hands!), etc.  I’m into politics on the right day, so I shrugged and scanned the crowd just as a man with an entourage walked through… I thought it was one of the men running for Governor in Virginia, but it was “just” one of the Delegates to our House…

The same delegate that I went to church with, five years ago, during my revival of Jesus-like behavior (it puts the wafer in its mouth).

His name means “fish” in French. Well, awesome. It was a mini-rally or something. We asked Irish Server Man what was going on, and he explained who it was (because, I really did think it was someone else). But then, his whole demeanor changed. No longer were there jokes about my filty martini, or how sad our little table was. No, that server was gone, and in his body, Angry Irish Server Man had arrived.

Evidently, AISM was a lawyer in Ireland, who had come to the US to practice law. He only needed to pass the bar in New York. “But, you’re in Virginia,” I said.

Something about New York has less red tape. His friends have done it, etc.

“Ok,” I said, and he explained further that he worked for the Justice Department in Ireland. I was remotely interested, I probably would have been more interested if there wasn’t a brogue and background noise from a rally in the way. So we listened to AISM.

“AND I AM A WOMAN!” someone screamed.

“It would be really funny if some man said that,” I said to my friend (or, at least I said it in my head), after AISM (Angry Irish Server Man) walked away… briefly.

He came back. He was angry. No, he was sad. He had tears in his eyes as he explained what he saw in Ireland because of the IRA. Then, he got angry. Really angry. He mentioned Pelosi and I think that had he not been a server, he would have punched our table. His fists were clenched as he walked away to “take a break for a moment.”

“AND I VOTED FOR POISSON!” Applause erupts. Whistles. AISM is nowhere to be seen and I’m still wondering if Earpiece Man really heard me, and whether he’d tackle me if I tried to get a photo with the Delegate. And, since WHEN do state-level politicians get bodyguards?

I down the rest of my Filty Martini and we head out. What have I learned from this? That aside from Earpiece Man, flyer-carrying box boy, AISM or the Fish, I may have found someone to hang out with who attracts extremely, er, eventful events. Or, maybe that when I’m late to things, it sets the world on a different path, and that just by being five minutes early, I interrupt the cosmos just enough to create twilight zone fun.  As Shallow Month continues:  its all about me.

P.S. I am in no way trying to make light of the IRA. I am smart enough to know that there are certain groups of people you just don’t mock, and generally those groups are those discussed for about 30 seconds and then you’re told to keep your pie hole shut. I’m talking to you, Masons… and to you, Ninjas.