The Irish Post, Pt III

irish girlI love St. Patrick’s Day for the simple fact there is no pretense.

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.

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27 thoughts on “The Irish Post, Pt III

  1. Your St. Patty’s post is how I found your blog in the first place. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day even if it is a bit on the calm side and not as wild! At least you have stories to tell…

  2. Dude I loved this post. Very truly awesome and the fact that you’ve had massive celebrations every year … I love it. I look forward to reading it next year. My favorite would probably be the 2007 post … totally sounds like an 80s flick that I would watch over and over and over again.

    • Guat- You gave me an idea for my Sunday Morning Coffee Love post. It’s about that very same gal pal. I warn you, it’s melancholic. Yeah…I do melancholy thanks to all that time I spent listening to Smashing Pumpkins while doing my kid’s homework.

  3. What a great post. I wish I could go with you on the 17th, but my sweet colleen would kill me. The stories of our lives make it all worth while. You have lived and it sure shows. Nice post and Erin Go Brach. Go Irish. Oops that slipped out.

    • jbw . . .
      I have an Irish post coming up. Late dinner tonight, we’re gonna be celebrating the Holy Day. I’ll check in with an update on the proceedings tomorrow night. And yes, the lass took the shamrock alright, and how.
      PS- I have achieved an honorary doctorate in all things Irish by this point, seeing as how I have dated an Irish chica for the last five years, and before that I was dating a different Irish chica. I learned my lessons well.

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