The baby kept asking me over the weekend why we don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. My explanations ranged from, “It’s not really a holiday here,” to “I don’t need an excuse to drink,” which isn’t really true. I do need an excuse but I’m usually able to come up with on on my own without resorting to stories about snakes, leprechauns, or paganism.
But specifically, we didn’t go to the parade or anything. I guess that makes me a party pooper. I used to go to the parade with my family all the way up until the time that I was legally allowed to go and do what all of the other adult parade attendees do, which is stand outside in the cold, get drunk, and then screw in an alleyway downtown.
Call me crazy, but I’d rather just sit at home, drink on my warm couch, and then diddle the husband in our room. I mean, I guess we could move that party down to the basement if we wanted to celebrate.
But the last time that I was downtown on St. Patrick’s Day was in 2001. And what was notable about that particular St. Patrick’s Day was that despite my well-documented love for booze, I was in no mood to drink. I sat at a crowded bar with my mom and grandparents and assorted cousins and bemoaned the upset stomach that I had been dealing with off and on for a few days. I played some pinball before finally convincing someone to take me home since I really wasn’t having any fun.
A few weeks later, I realized I was pregnant. Dur.
Aside, I switched over to a “full feed” upon the suggestion of the MamaPop betches. So you lazy people won’t have to go through the arduous task of clicking a link to read my amazing posts. No need to thank me.