Paddy Wagon

Well, poc ma home, it’s St. Patricks Day!

For those that don’t speak Gaelic, that means ‘kiss my a**’. Or, at least that’s what my mother told me many years ago. She also maintained that my Nanny’s recipe for soda bread was ACTUALLY soda bread and of course it’s not, because our whole lives are just ongoing lies like that (no, I didn’t trip and fall because God was punishing me after saying I hated your noodle pudding. Even God thinks its gross…baked noddles with cornflakes and cheese, WHO ARE YOU?!).

Nonetheless, SPD (St. Pats Day) is a very exciting time for all those ‘this many percent’ Irish. A day full of alcohol driven revelry that typically ends in a bar fight or a broken heart, so I mean, I guess it’s as close to the Irish experience as any. However, having red hair and freckles, this day typically brought me a vast amount of unwanted attention: pinching, kissing, asking if I wanted some more ‘Irish in me’, et al. Ironically, the best we can trace back, my red hair is actually descendant from my Russian Jewish side of the family, so again, IT’S ALL JUST A LIE.

But since we’re all basically trapped within our own four walls this SPD, I figured I’d help each of you non-irish folk have the true Irish American experience.

To start, imagine your one Aunt leaning in cautiously to tell you that SHE heard that the corona virus actually started when a doctor sold all the lab animals with the virus to a market vendor. Funny, all the intelligence on the globe and SHE got the jump on the story.

Cut to everyone taking long languid gulps of coffee and agreeing whole heartedly. Then there would be a segue to something tragic that happened to a child. Irish aunts ALWAYS have the saddest stories. And there is never any warning, you could be talking about tulips in springtime, and one would be like, “Well, (pauses to wipe a tear from eye) I didn’t wanna bring this up but, tulips were a favorite of Ginny O’Irish’s daughter before she died.” And then we proceed to listen to a 45 minute story that could have been 5 minutes and now we’re all crying. But it’s as good of an excuse as any to just eat more carbs. In my experience the Irish diet consists of zero vegetables and a lot of macaroni salad.

The uncles are otherwise occupied arguing about why the Yankees are better than the Mets, why the government is horrible, and how they’re never going to retire.

It’s also important to note that the ‘Irish’ call everyone ‘Aunts and Uncles’. So when I refer to one, it’s unlikely we share the same DNA. They probably just bought a cousin a beer at the pub one time and now they show up each 4th of July at the one house that has the in-ground pool. Most also hate ‘Hamilton’. “Why is it so bad for white people to play the parts? They need jobs too! Make it an all Irish cast – our people have suffered enough too!”

We haven’t, by the way. We had some issues with potatoes, and got beat up a lot when we immigrated here, but we weren’t kidnapped and thrown on ships, so….ANYWAYS.

Here are some grossly generic characteristics of my people:

Irish Women – Gracious to a fault. Don’t wear much make-up. Won’t buy the expensive cereal, but will use the last of their life savings on a wedding gift for someone if it comes down to it. Affirms they are not a gossip, but they are totally a gossip. Like, no one has ever been more of a gossip.

Irish Men – Generous, super Catholic, and always, just…angry. Angry about their job. Angry about sports. Angry about their favorite TV show being cancelled. Criminally handsome, especially with those damn hats…they should be against the law those caps. That headwear alone gets them all pregnant #SeeWhatIDidThere

I’m honestly grateful I don’t feel the pressure this year to wear the extra medium raglan t-shirt with a frisky phrase over the chest that is also too tight around my hips. I’m thankful I won’t feel the pressure to drink the green beer (which while make you, literally, sh*t the bed later- the dye is basically milk of magnesia) and pretend to like corned beef. It gets stuck in my teeth and smells like sadness.

But, I am still half Irish, so I’ll likely cap the night off with a Jameson or some Baily’s and wait patiently for next year. But until then…Slainte!