Today is St. Patrick’s Day and I’m part-Irish. I can’t tell you which part or even how big of a fraction, but nevertheless, keep the kisses to yourself.
I don’t get too caught up in the St. Patty’s hype. I’m putting in a 10-hour day today at work just blocks from the biggest party in Portland, but the truth is, I don’t freel like I’m missing anything. I try to avoid Jameson on Wednesdays by rule and every time I have a pint of Guinness, my man boobs go up a whole cup size. Bagpipes freak me out and I can’t handle Flogging Molly.
Like I said, part-Irish.
Back when I tended bar, St. Patrick’s Day meant making Saturday night money on a weeknight. It also meant working with green food coloring which would stain my hands for weeks, leaving me looking like an undersized Hulk. Being behind the bar meant rounds of Irish car bombs, but after looping “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” by Dropkick Murphys eight times, the alcohol was barely enough.
Kiss Me, I’m Irish. What does that even mean? What’s the logic? Kiss Me, because I’m Irish. Get a restraining order against me, because I’m justifying my advances based on my heritage. Endure my harassment, because my ancestors once grew potatoes.
I don’t mean to squash the fun for everyone. March needs a holiday (Not that Lent isn’t a riot for all you green-blooded Catholics.) I care more about the Notre Dame Fighting Irish with the NCAA Tournament starting tomorrow. For me, St. Patrick’s Day falls somewhere between Arbor Day and May Day – monotnous, at best.