It’s the Irish are the butt of the jokes day.
It’s the Kiss me I’m Irish day.
It’s the I’m Irish – Don’t F#%& With Me Day.
I remembered to wear green.
I remembered I’m Irish. Okay, my paternal grandfather was Irish. I’m just an Irish descendant.
I remembered it’s March 17th (doesn’t matter what year).
I remembered it’s St. Patrick’s Day (also doesn’t matter what year.)
So what do I do now?
I don’t drink beer – green or any other color.
I don’t drink Irish Whiskey, or whiskey from any nation.
I can’t tell jokes because the only part I remember is ‘two Irish men were in a pub drinking’. (Is there more to the joke, or is that the joke?)
I can’t dance a jig. Hell, I don’t even know what a jig is.
I like corned beef. I even like cabbage. But I’m not cooking them.
I like Irish potatoes. See sentence above about cooking.
I could be considered one of the wee people. I am after all, short. But I don’t live at the end of a rainbow or have pots of gold so it’s a good bet I’m not a leprechaun.
So how does one celebrate St. Patrick’s day when they don’t partake of the normal Irish celebrations?
I could paint my hair green, but most days I look sick enough. I don’t need to look any greener.
I could paint my nails green. See confession above about needing help looking sick.
I could confess all my sins, but what fun is there in that.
Personally I’m waiting to figure out if writer’s with no ideas have a patron saint.
Oh, wait. That’s St. Patrick. Most of my ideas, and my really good writing come as the result of drinking the spirits. Even if the sprits aren’t in the form of Irish whiskey.
Happy St. Paddy’s Day. (Celebrate for me and have a beer! Now you have an excuse, in case you needed one.)
From the life and mind of:
Wanda M. Argersinger
© 2011 All Rights Reserved