St. Paddy's Eve in America

My St. Paddy's Day was far more festive than the one I spent in Dublin last year. Last St. Paddy's Day, Evan and I were at home alone, our latest portion of US-company recently gone, and Andrew was on his way back to DCU from a week-long conference in Belgium; and I felt like I always do after I have a lot of company and they all go home: sort of reflective, like, "Wow, that was a lot of fun..." and sort of relieved, "Wow, now I have the place to myself again..." and sort of lost, like, "Hmmm, wonder what I'm gonna do until the next company arrives." Dublin has big festivities, but I didn't attend on my own with the baby, for fear that the streets would be crawling with drunkards and freaks (oh, BTW, all said drunkards and freaks would be AMERICAN-- while Irish people certainly are drunks and freaks, St. Paddy's Day in Ireland has little to do with Irish people and lots to do with Americans who want their "authentic Oirish" experience. These people are the kinds who buy the big velvety leprechaun tophats from Carroll's. I, being neither a drunkard nor a freak, nor that type of American, stayed home balancing my baby on my hip and looking out the window watching people walk to the bus stop. Awesome.).

Well, my recent St. Paddy's has nothing to do with the last one. During it, I was reminded of why I DO love America. Here is why: American people are drunkards and freaks.

The first stop for the evening was dinner out at the Alibi, a happenin' Troy family restaurant, with my sister Angela and our 17-year-old cousin Sam. Sam is a festive kind of gal, and she was wearing a green t-shirt that said (what else) "Kiss Me I'm Irish" on it. I chose an equally festive but less inviting option, a black sweater that said simply GUINNESS on it in orange lettering (yes, in case you're wondering, I did get it at Carroll's Oirish Gift Store). Angela wore a Playboy bunny shirt, which would get you noticed on a regular day, but definitely NOT on St. Paddy's. After we three had finished our pizza and were sitting around waiting for the check, the guy in the booth across from us, who up until had been quietly eating dinner with his woman and their kids, leaned over and said to Sam, "Your shirt says I should kiss you so maybe I will." And that he did. It wasn't a full-mouth full-tongue thing, but it was definitely wet and loud and reverberated Sam's cheek. She was embarrassed, so I tried to save her: "Hey, man, what about ME?!" I exclaimed, pointing to my GUINNESS shirt. I got a kiss, then, and Angela got one, too. (The moral of this anecdote is: protect your young innocent cousins from quiet men eating pizza at the Alibi. These men are carnivorous cousin-eating devils who stop at nothing to satiate their thirst).

We had a few stops after this that meant nothing. The only things of note are that I didn't buy a book all about Bisquick pies, and that Angela got her engagment ring cleaned at one of the jewelry shops at Lakeside Mall. On our way to these stops we saw a lot of cop cars, and a lot of lines outside of really stupid bars no ond would go to if it hadn't been St. Paddy's.

Our last stop of the evening was at Joe Koolisky's, a sports-bar kind of place that had really good drinks in the early 2000's, but hasn't since. There, we met up with my friend Carolyn, her husband Mario, and a few friends of Mario's from work. Joe Kool's hired a solo guitarist--very poor choice-- to entertain a very large and increasingly drunk crowd. There were many leprechaun tophats in the audience. There's nothing worse than a drunk and hostile leprechaun. These people were downing green beer (ewwwww!) and green chardonnay (more ewww!) like water. Then they started dancing. Then they started singing. Then they hijacked the poor guitarist's microphone and--horror of horrors-- sang "Jessie's Girl." What happened after "Jessie's Girl" was worse. Another man came over to announce his intention to kiss my cousin. OK, fine: but this guy was a 45-year-old drunk Indian man, who made no bones about the fact that he only had eyes for her. So, I took him outside and kicked his ass. I'm pretty sure I flung him into the dumpster, though I can't be sure-- all I heard: bones breaking, then a massive crash, maybe some howling in pain.

(In the above anecdote, I am guilty of the following: drinking-- only a little, just one GUINNESS to match my shirt, dancing, and singing along to "Jessie's Girl.")

I am happy to report that my little cousin is recovering well, given the horrific nature of the attacks against her.

To many more happy and sober St. Paddy's Days. Slainte.