On Saturday, I trekked out to the valley to dance to Irish tunes in a barn. I jumped around and clapped on the off beats. I wore green pants. I sang along to The Night Pat Murphy Died at the top of my lungs, except for the third verse which I forgot the words to. There was a live band at this barn party, along with every green food you could imagine and a ball of “Irish Mistletoe” in the corner. It was a grand ol’ Irish time. Except for the part where I had a glass of red wine instead of a pint of Guinness. For shame.
Confession: I am only about 12.5% Irish. I had one great grandma from the Emerald Isle and the rest of my family descended from the English Oppressors. Except for the parts of me that are French-Canadian and German. Ok so my heritage is all over the place. Whatever, I.AM.Canadian.
In other St. Patrick’s Day news,