Today is St. Patrick’s Day, and to celebrate I will do what I usually do on this holiday.
I will spend the entire day sitting in a bar and drink beer until I can no longer pronounce “shillelagh.”
Wait, that’s what I used to do on St. Patrick’s Day when I was young and single. But I’m no longer young and single, so I don’t do that anymore. Instead, I sit around my house drinking beer until I can no longer spell “shillelagh.”
In the interest of fair disclosure, I should point out that I couldn’t spell “shillelagh” sober so I don’t know why I would think I could spell it after drinking a few beers.
Raise your hand, out there, if you can spell “shillelagh.” Go ahead. I won’t judge.
Wow, that many huh? Looks like a few people spent a little too much time paying attention in school.
When I tried to spell “shillelagh” I wound up with too many A’s and not enough L’s.
But that’s not my point. My point is that, for me, the celebration of St. Patrick’s Day has sort of evolved. And by “evolved” I mean “gotten incredibly boring.”
That’s what happens you get old and get married. You become boring. I suppose that’s a good thing. Let’s say instead of getting old and married, I just got old. Then I would become that irritating old guy hanging out at a bar on St. Patrick’s Day muttering what sounds like “shillelagh” to himself.
Nobody wants to be that guy.
Traditionally what I’ve done on St. Patrick’s Day since I got married is sip an Irish beer (usually Guinness or Harps), fix some sort of Irish-like meal and watch “The Quiet Man.”
What? I told you it was boring.
But there is something to be said for boring. For example, when I stay home sipping Irish beer, eating Irish-like food and watching “The Quiet Man,” I don’t have to worry about wearing green.
I don’t know who decided everyone had to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day, but I bet whoever did wasn’t Irish. I’m thinking your typical Irish person would probably say, “Wear whatever you want. I don’t give a shillelagh.”
My wife and I talked about driving to Kansas City to spend St. Patrick’s Day at Kelly’s Westport Inn (the greatest bar in the world), but like a lot of things we talk about doing, we got lazy and wound up staying home.
While I’ll be spending St. Patrick’s Day at home, our 21-year-old daughter, Emma, will be spending the day in Dublin. You know, the one in Ireland.
That’s right. While I’m sitting at home with my boring St. Patrick’s Day celebration, Emma will be in Dublin, Ireland.
Is it wrong to be jealous of your daughter? It’s not? OK then, is it wrong to be (long string of bad words) jealous of your daughter?
I thought so.
Emma, who is a junior at the University of Kansas, is studying in Florence, Italy, this semester, and when a couple of months ago she told me that she was going to meet a group of friends in Dublin on St. Patrick’s Day, I said, “That’s great. I’m very happy for you. I’m sure you will have fun.”
On the outside.
On the inside I said “WHAT? YOU GET TO GO TO DUBLIN, IRELAND, BEFORE I DO? AND ON ST. PATRICK’S DAY NO LESS? THE ONLY THING THAT COULD BE WORSE WOULD BE IF I WAS PAYING FOR YOU TO GO TO DUBLIN, IRELAND. WHAT? I AM PAYING FOR IT. WELL (LONG STRING OF BAD WORDS IN ALL CAPS).”
Not that I’m bitter or anything.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy Emma is spending St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland. It’s just that I would happier if I were also spending St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland.
Trying to pronounce “shillelagh.”