Friday, March 4, 2011

Kiss Me, I'm IRISH!


As an Irish woman, I am looking forward to celebrating St. Patty's Day this month.  Okay, okay!  I'm not really Irish.  I am married to an Irishman, which makes me Irish by marriage.  Come to think of it...that's just a snappy way of saying I'm not Irish at all!  But my man is.  Our clan is.  I think that calls for some "top o' the mornin' to ya" celebration!  Right?  Right?

I approached McHubby a couple of days ago about this very thing:

"I think I've had a stroke of sheer creative brilliance," I said.  (A little something I like to call "mommy genius.")

James glanced my way with wary eyes.  "Oh really?", he said.

"Yes, indeedy," I said, because "indeedy" seems to be my new favorite word lately. 

He sighed (probably because deep down he knows he's in for something that will prove to be either really crazy or really expensive or really embarrassing) and said, "Let's hear it."

"I think we need to celebrate St. Patrick's Day this year.  Go all out.  Make it fun for our kids!"

"Why would we do that?", he asked.

BOLLOCKS!

"Because we're Irish," came my retort.  He raised his eyebrows at me.  "Alright!", I exclaimed, "YOU are Irish!  OUR CHILDREN are Irish!  It could be a party."

"I don't know," McHubby said, slowly, hesitatingly.  You'd think I had asked him for a piece of the Blarney Stone!  (Some would argue I already own a piece.  My dad would argue I ate it.) 

He explained, "We've never really celebrated it before.  And we never celebrated it in my family, when I was a kid."

What a boyo!  At this point in the conversation, I started to think my McHubby is really a McDowner who is trying to snuff out my candle, rain on my parade.  (My St. Patrick's Day parade.  In Chicago.  With a green river.)

"Are we talking about going to the pub?", he asked.

"NO Jamesy, I'm talking about decorating the house with shamrocks and checking out St. Patty's Day books from the library.  I could do some research on the internet, find a couple of cute games and activities for the kids.  We could teach them the history behind the holiday.  We could hide chocolate gold coins around the house and 'hunt for the pot of gold' at the end of the rainbow.  Stuff like that."

No immediate reply.  No excited response.  There was a pause.  I waited.

"You're not going to make corned beef and cabbage, are you?"

I sighed (probably because deep down I know McHubby exhausts me for one simple reason--he can't seem to keep up with my eccentricities).  "No," I said, "we'll order pizza and try to figure out how to make that Irish...while apologizing to the Italians, of course."

With an "alright" from my McMan, I knew I had received the "all clear" to start plotting.  Grand!  I couldn't wait!  Like a leprechaun, I kicked up my heels.  (They do kick up their heels, don't they?)  I'd get in touch with my inner "Galway girl," and the results of tapping in to her (and not any Guinness) would be spectacular!

To be continued...

And in the meantime, I think we'll have Lucky Charms for dinner.

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