No overpriced gift wrapping or newspaper circular reconnaissances or calorie laden dressings or post traumatic credit card syndromes or theme park long lines to grow old inside of or ornamental lighting that throws your electric bill into NASA debt.
St. Patrick’s Day is an island. I dig that.
It doesn’t know of Cupid’s cherubs or dead President holidays that sit in the rear view, and it bears little resemblance to the austerity of an Easter best dressed stare down. If it were a smoker, St Patrick’s Day would content itself with a healthy plug of warm weathered promises in its pipe. Borne of the mandate that good friends toast often, but best friends drive you home.
So . . . in accordance with the feast day’s magical ability to bring a temporary solution to regional conflicts born out of ancient religious scrums, I came up with an idea. I’m gonna merge my annual Irish post with my Sunday Morning Coffee Love thang and see what happens. I’m going all the way back to the time when my bachelor legs were still a bit unsteady with the proposition.
2005: On my way to divorce papers, but for that last chance saloon that most couples find themselves inside of right before official papers blank your existence into a file cabinet. We met for drinks at our old place and ended up back at the house we used to share. We played Bogey and Bacall until midnight fell and the pumpkins danced their epiphany song.
2006: She was a single mom from La Isla Bonita who wore an Irish soccer shirt as if she knew the idea. She bought me the first drink and then we volleyed. We were crazy fun together and I pondered more of the same until I woke up to find her on the phone with the father of her brood. It didn’t matter that matrimony was no longer their province. All that mattered was that he owned a firearm of a voice.
2007: Drinks with gal pal. Our platonic existence took an interesting turn when it started getting late and The Proclaimers started walking those 500 miles. And then we got to singing the words and doing the shots and then we got to kissing, and the next thing we knew, it was french toast in bed.
2008: She was from out of town, and she just so happened to be the best writer I ever knew. I fell in love with the words and the craziness of how those words were provoked, the whole damned thing.
2009: Same Irish girl. Same out of town place. Our passionate entanglement was going tired. But oh man, the Irish sexy of her painted words and our smoking jaunts and those sushi stops never did get tired.
2010: I found myself in the company of a different Irish girl. She was brilliant, possessed a lilt to her curse words and knew Bowie on a Doctorate level of being. I was sold on the idea that we could be dangerous together.
2011: We ski tripped our way out of town. Me and the Irish girl with the crazy red hair that curls into a rock song every time it comes loose. She was prodding me for an Irish post, so I came to an understanding with her laptop as she played some Morrison and cooked up her famous enchiladas. I did as she told me and it ended up being the thing. As she always seems to know.
2012: Of all the lovelies I had shared the space of time with on St. Patrick’s Day, she was the only one who got me to take her to the mall. It’s those big brown eyes she uses to felonious extremes. And it’s that laugh she was gifted from her mother. I never had a chance.
This morning brought me full circle on my St. Patrick’s Day gallivant. The ex wife called from New Mexico to discuss graduation details for the boy. After which I shot off an email to gal pal with a time and place for our annual Post-St Patties Day ritual of bending elbow- sans the french toast. Then I called ‘me Irish girl to inquire on the status of her pub crawl.
I’m gonna low key things, since I’ve come to like my St. Patrick’s Day observance that way. I’ll pick up an old friend and we’ll hit the Irish pub that stole my mother’s corned beef recipe, no hard feelings. I’ll nurse my Guinness while Big Papi puts a hurting on his liver and flirts with the girls. He’ll bother me to call Irish, to find out where she’s at and have her come over. I got a feeling the bastard wants to steal my girl. Today’s his lucky day, since I’ll buy him a drink just the same. What other day of the year would fetch such a comfortable bargain?
The sonofabitch has impeccable timing, I’ll give him that.