This is about as wild as I'm going to get today.Usually I'm all about the momentum, but right about now I'm ready to put my head down on my desk and go to sleep. And it's not even 9:00 am yet. Maybe it's because this is Spring Break, and nobody's here, and it's too quiet (except for all the thesis mss clustering behind me, ready to attack at any moment). I've already had two cups of coffee, so that isn't it. Hmm.
I am wearing a green sweater today. Yay. I guess I'm not really into St. Patrick's Day. I don't think I've gone out to celebrate it since the late 90's. I get to be Irish every day, so what's the big deal? My peeps are from here.
My only real memory of St. Patrick's Day growing up is that we were allowed to wear holiday pins on our uniforms. I was the kind of kid who threw up a lot at school, between nerves and my mom not believing I was sick and sending me anyway. On that particular day she said it was "Just Spring Fever." I sure showed her! That poor shamrock pin. I wish Gabi could wear one on her uniform, but even so, I don't know if I'd want to tempt fate.
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I don't have any particular memories revolving around St. Patrick's Day. In fact, I've never gone out and celebrated it in any official way, even though I'm something like 1/3 Irish. But that's probably because my birthday falls on the day before, and I most likely did my celebrating then.
Hey Mary, can you backchannel me?
I have memories from 1978 of third graders coming up to me trying to be clever: "Happy YOU day!" they'd say, and I'd throw up a little in my mouth. By 1984 my classmates were patting me on the back (no pun intended, honest) as though the Mayor would arrive shortly with the Key to the City, a five-man brass marching band and the Leprechaun Local 515, all forming a parade followed by a little person making $3.35 an hour to dress up in green greasepaint to rail at passersby about the history of the almighty potato. My nemesis, Jon Kalafice, would get jealous of course, and pick a fight at recess just to pound it into me that my name didn't make me any more special than him; "I'm on YOUR side!" I'd shout amidst the pummeling whirl of fists and boots. The only consolation was I'd always return home to a greeting card from my grandma with $5 in it and the same note every year: "Happy name day Grandma" (Grandma didn't punctuate). It was still a little embarrassing, because I hated the attention that comes with having a coincidental holiday with your name in it, which is why in 1991 I legally changed my name to Halloween E. Christmas. And no, the E. does not stand for Easter—everyone makes that mistake.
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