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Thursday, March 17, 2016

~ It's A Great Day For The Irish

I. love. St. Patrick's Day.  It hands down is the highest of BBG holy days.  But truth be told?  While I've celebrated like a mother fuckin' boss, I've always felt the pang of bein' an Irish outsider.   

This is at least six-10 of my annual tipsy St. Patrick's Day conversations:

   Drunken stranger/new best friend: Are you Irish?  (generally followed by a laugh o' mockery)

   BBG:  No.  But I'm the most Irish non-Irish girl you've ever met*

This is usually followed by my laying out supporting assertion details.  Including, but not limited to the fact that my H.S. was the home of the Fightin' Irish.  I like to weave craic into conversations.  I love a man in a kilt.  My love of bagpipes.  My propensity for using póg mo thóin.  (kiss my ass in Gaelic)  And that it really pisses me off when people use St. Patty's as opposed to St. Paddy's.  (Although in fairness it does serve as a quick tip off to who is a poser and/or straight up dumbass. [Thank you for hints, world.])


Claddagh:  The hands signify friendship, the heart love and the crown loyalty


...But I've always felt like an Irish interloper.  Like, as much as I enjoyed the day, it wasn't rightfully mine to celebrate.

That was until shortly after last years St. Patrick's Day, when my Mom received the ethnic make up portion of the DNA test she had taken over the winter.  My love of St. Patrick's Day suddenly became Waterford crystal clear (and rightfully mine, bitches.  Sorry.  O'Bitches.) when it was determined she carries a 30% Irish genetic make up, by extension making this lil' BBG at least 15% a product of the Emerald Isle. 

My surprise, and glee at the news was immeasurable.  The idea that this St. Patrick's I would be able to fully, and without feelin' like an imposter, get my shenanigans on was an actual mind blower.  For eleven months I've been looking forward to St. Patrick's '16 with the anticipation and zeal of a virgin awaiting their first penetration.  In preparation I've started referring to Éire as 'the motherland'.  Quasi obnoxious and 100% true story.

Recent health issues will preclude me from celebrating in the style I desire and am accustomed to.  Which for clarification is perhaps best summed up by a comment a former co-worker once turned whilst recounting being at the same place I was St. Patrick's-ing one year a long ass time ago;  "...aaaaaaaannnnnd that's when I thought you were getting arrested."  (BigBoy shoutout)

The Paul Harvey-y rest of the story?  Unlike 99.44% of reasonable people one of my tipsy ideas of a good time has always been gabbin' with the po-po.  On this particular St. Patrick's Day there were a couple of off duty city officers who showed up at dusk to the outdoor tent shindig.  Naturally, at some point I found myself chatting with the boys in blue.  About what?  I can't accurately say.  But we'd shared some giggles, I may have told them how to do their job when I was the one who pointed out a car driving the wrong way up a one way street next to us.  Somethin' along the lines of '...well, ok, dumbass, but between the two of us I'm the only one who's noticed a car goin' the wrong damn way up a one way street.'  #AlwaysClassy  (He laughed and super sheepishly walked over the offendin' motorist to turn him around.)  Surprisingly, "......aaaaaaannnnnnnnd that's when I thought you were getting arrested" wasn't even about that.  Nope.  I remember the other officer, who I had not tipsily called a dumbass, and I shared a laugh about something I'm sure was quite inappropriate ridiculous.  Sometimes when I'm in the cups I have tendency to get a lil' handsy.  Not grope-y, but I'm probably gonna touch ya.  Especially if you're cute.  And sportin' a Glock and badge.  The laughter caused me to poke said officer in the chesty-belly area in jest.  Which because his hands were in his coat pockets this in turned made him lose his balance and he started to tip backwards.  By instinct, and with my cat-like reflexes I reached out grabbed him by his front (coat) zipper and pulled him back to true vertical, thusly saving his life, or at least so goes my version of the tale.   

It's true I probably won't be in danger of being at a level of revelry where anyone thinks I am this close to goin' to the hooskal like a hooligan.  I will be enjoying this St. Patrick's more than I ever have before.  (Hope you do too.)  Sláinte!



* Things I never have to say again.

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