I should have known it was too easy.
St. Patrick’s Day on a Saturday is a slam dunk. The Holiest of hops and barley days inside the cushy bookend of a Friday get together with friends and a big breakfasted Sunday? Hell, the only thing more certain than the 17th was Duke breezing through the weekend unscathed.
Uh . . . yeah . . . Lehigh 75- Duke 70.
Best laid plans, yanno? Not that I had any plan at all for Saturday, cause I didn’t. My girlfriend was spending the day pub crawling with her daughter, so my Irish girl streak was ending at four.
That knowledge is what turned my Friday night into an extra inning affair. I gallivanted the roaming march of prelude into more rounds than an old school prize fight and finished it with that penultimate objective to a bar flight gone much too long: Shots.
Needless to say, Saturday morning got to stepping a tad bit earlier than I was comfortable with.
When you wake up to St. Patrick’s Day with no desire to hold it in your arms and seal it with an 80 proof kiss, not good. The reason I didn’t have a cranky souvenir come morning is simple. I stick to the clear stuff, I drink beer on the back side, I chase all of it with ice water and I take an Alka-Seltzer before bed, regardless. It’s the Mt. Vesuvius Solution, free of charge, and you’re welcome.
I took my lessons learned and started tugging keyboard at seven thirty, full of more piss than vinegar and subsisting on Cuban coffee, YouTube playlists, more ice water and pecan waffles.
Fast forward six hours (writing time moves like rain) and the purge was hammering out a disrespectful bit ‘o payoff. I was three heavily edited pages thick and munching on a PB&J sandwich, God help me. No bar hops on my radar, no plush to lush it up inside of. Nada and colada, in perfectly unconsummated dry dock.
What’s worse, I had fielded several calls in the time in between. Cutting each one short at the knees, in keeping with my tee-totaling totalitarianism. How was it possible that this boyfriend of an Irish girl many times over had abandoned all will to bend an elbow inside the liturgy of broguish commandments?
By five thirty in the afternoon, (Post Happy Hour on a day with twenty four of the sons ‘o bitches) my obscenity knew no equal. I had wasted another hour and change in re-writing a story whose main character was Protestant enough and then followed that up by watching Elizabeth with Cate Blanchett. Granted, timing has never been a strong point of mine. But really?
Who saves me but my daughter. She asks me what I’m doing and I tell her I’m writing. She asks (wisely) whether I am dressed yet and makes certain that I have tended to her cat. And then she tells me to pick her up from Grandma’s house cause she wants to go out to eat.
So an hour later I’m tossing back a Guinness toast. Salvaging what’s left of my misbegotten soul in the weeping hours of a day gone short. Spending my time with a girl who may not be Irish, but who knows plenty well how to handle a stubborn man. I’ve been in love with her from the time her little eyes opened into a Stevie Wonder blossom song.
There has to be a Saint’s blessing hanging over me when the good women keep showing up this way.