Meeting my sister from another mister.
The first thing, the other Tara Murtha says is, "Oh, I'm glad you're hot too. I mean, who wants to be the Not Hot Tara Murtha?"
She's flanked by her friend Jeff, a bike messenger dude in full regalia. He shakes my hand and explains he's come to protect her in case it's a setup. "I don't want Tara Murtha getting raped," he says. I agree.
We stroll in search of champagne and Tara begins, "Well, my name was actually changed at Ellis Island ... "
I scream. My grandfather Daniel left Ireland with the name Murtaugh, but the ethnicity was shaved off at Ellis Island. An Ellis Island special, my family calls it.
"Exactly," she says.
It's amazing how much we have in common. All our grandparents are deceased. We're blond with blue eyes. We have two brothers. We bitch about Gone With the Wind. Her parents, like mine, were convinced she was a lesbian in college. We both call our moms "Mama," which we discover while calling our families to try to figure out if we're related.
The balloon's not working at the Zoo, so we head for the monkey house. We chat about dating older men, HIV tests, hairstyles and transsexual hookers. All in all, an excellent first date.
Then things get awkward. We're staring at a monkey with, like, perfect breasts. Woman-looking breasts.
"She's got a bigger rack than me!" Tara says before whipping around, slapping me in the arm and laughing. "I'm glad you have small boobs too!"
We're having a great time, but haven't settled the adjective issue. I bring up the offensive Google hit. "What's the deal with calling yourself the 'real Tara Murtha' in the vagina story?" I finally ask. Turns out her friend added the "real" part.
She says she's just fine with being the Other Tara Murtha. So am I. Very Hegelian with a dash of de Beauvoir. Dig it.
Then we discover we'd already put each other's names and numbers in our phones as OTM. And without having to discuss it, we know exactly what to call each other when we do call each other. Crazy.