Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone! I hope you are all out there getting toasted on green beer (which I think is doubly disgusting since I loathe beer and things that are colored a color that is not their usual color. For example, I once made a green coffee cake because I thought it would be funny. I love coffee cake and I'm not too shabby at making them. But the fact that it was radioactive-colored made me throw pretty much the whole thing away. But I digress. ((Which is really why you love me))), and eating corned beef and cabbage (which also sounds disgusting although to be fair, I've never actually eaten it. Because it sounds disgusting.).
Blech blech blech.
Seeing as I have a wicked and persistent case of Green Fever (severe bouts of lust for any man with an Irish accent regardless of his physical form, age, or other characteristics), as well as a strange obsession with Irish pubs, you'd think that this would be my favorite holiday. And it is in theory. But I am now twenty-four years of age and have never truly celebrated this day in the manner in which it was destined. It seems that every March 17th, I end up being even lamer than usual and squandering this chance to honor all things Irish (and therefore sexy and/or awesome).
Here are some of my worst St. Patrick's Days ever:
Bordeaux, France 2008: I was a twenty-year old kid abroad in Europe for the first time and partying like a rock star. When I wasn't spending way too much time on Facebook, super homesick whilst watching bootleg episodes of Gilmore Girls. But in any case, I had fully planned on traveling to Dublin for this holiday and really doing it right. I soon found out that if you don't book your hostel and plane ticket months in advance, good luck trying to get anywhere near the Emerald Isle. Plus, it was a weeknight, so no one wanted to even just go out to our favorite pub, the Cock and Bull (which is actually British-themed, but close enough!) I ended up doing some homework, taking a shot of Bailey's, and going to bed around 9pm. I made it to Dublin eventually, and it was pretty much the greatest place on the planet. But Ireland in June just isn't the same. Sigh.
Not even a guilty pleasure. Gilmore Girls kick ass.
Irvine, California 2009: My first St. Patty's actually being legally allowed to drink alcohol. It was a Tuesday during my last Finals week ever if I remember correctly. I had to go to class all day and then partied it up at Albertson's to get some groceries. Woo wild child! I was wearing green rubber flip flops and ended up slipping and falling in the cereal aisle while mulling over the festiveness of Lucky Charms. Why on earth was there a puddle in the middle of the cereal aisle??? I could understand produce or even frozen foods if something was left out. But cereal by its very nature is dry. I don't even want to know what it was. But the point is, I fucked up my knee for months afterwards and the stain from the grimy floor never really came out of my jeans. That night, not only did I have to work, but I had to do inventory at Blockbuster. Meaning that I had to literally scan every single DVD in stock from 8pm to 5am, usurping prime partying hours and being an all-around bummer. Plus, my knee hurt so much that it made the shift even more depressing.
Isn't this flipping terrifying??? More Halloween than St. Patrick's Day.
South Central Los Angeles, California 2010: Broke. Unemployed. Bored. Without many friends in Los Angeles even though I'd lived here for 8 or 9 months at that point. This was the night that I auditioned for the Sally Tomatoes. Which ended up being one of the best decisions of the last few years. But I got horribly lost in Downtown LA and was followed to my car by a leering homeless man. And then I went to bed early again without even taking a shot. I did however, post a blog about how lame it is being of British descent, since it's nothing worth being proud of. You can totally tell how bitter and angry I was at the time.
The madness of unemployment.
North Hollywood, California 2011: Went to work. Went to Sally's practice. Came home, drank one beer and was already pretty tipsy. My friend Kelly Bean called me around 11pm and and drove my lightweight, buzzed ass to Denny's for a midnight apple pie run. That part was actually pretty awesome. Though it was kind of funny to be consuming an American icon on an Irish holiday.
North Hollywood, California 2012: Finally, the holiday falls on a Saturday! But it also happens to be a rare week when I have to work on Sunday. Blarg. After going to bed way too late last night, I was rudely awakened at 6:30am by a terribly loud, blaring smoke alarm. No particular reason. It just decided to go off. And not the innocent though obnoxious dead battery chirp. This thing could have woken the dead. But I couldn't figure out which one was going off, since I have two that are right next to each other (kind of a stupid design come to think of it). Still half-asleep, I tried to just change the battery. I discovered that it takes a 9-volt though, and who keeps 9-volts in the house? I ended up just pulling it out of the ceiling and going back to bed. It eventually was silent.
Also extremely creepy. I see this as a rare depiction of the smoke detector demon
who always sets off the alarm at odd hours and
kills the battery when he knows you don't keep replacements in the house.
Too soon after, I was awakened by my regular alarm clock. I weighed myself and discovered that I had gained weight due to the movie popcorn and red vines I was forced at gun point to consume the night before (I take no responsibility for that. But I'm still down roughly 70 lbs!). Eventually, I dragged my exhausted self to work, completely forgetting to wear any sort of green whatsoever. It was pouring rain and the roads were flooded since LA is not rain-compatible. That was exciting. Then at work, everything was broken. I was unable to log in all day, and yet was still running around like a chicken with my head cut off. A headless chicken who has to have really awkward conversations about strange toilet smells. A rainbow came out though just as I was leaving, which must have been some sort of sign. Maybe I have a guardian leprechaun. With a really sick sense of humor.
SO BADASS!!!!! "And shepherds we shall be..."
Now I'm relaxing at home, wearing green sweat pants and fuzzy socks. I plan on drinking a beer (not Guinness, but a raspberry wheat Belgian beer. It still counts), and watching Boondock Saints, which has been my tradition for the last several years. Despite all the crappy times and lack of proper partying, Boondock Saints always makes me feel better. I think it has to do with my love of cheeky Irishmen in pea coats with guns.
Love them year-round, but particularly on days like today.
Speaking of cheeky Irishmen, my dream is to one day spend March 17th in Boston at a Dropkick Murphy's concert. Kelly Bean actually accomplished this Bucket List item in 2008 while I was busy studying for finals, screwing up my knee and doing inventory in lame Orange County. Bitch. (Just kidding, lady!) If I can't do St. Patty's in Dublin, Boston would be the next best thing. Who knows, maybe I'll run into an Irish lad in a pea coat who will buy me a raspberry wheat Belgian beer (and not mock me too horribly for my taste), events will transpire and I will conquer another Bucket List entry... But I guess St. Patrick's Day is kind of like New Year's Eve. It always seems awesome, but is never as epic as you want it to be. And most of the time, you end up falling asleep before 10pm anyway. At least I do.
