Ahhh, ‘tis almost St. Patty’s Day, and ‘tis almost time for us Irish to further perpetuate the Irish stereotype of drinkin’, singin’, laughin’, and then fightin’. As the ides of March come creeping closer, we Irish get all the more excited about putting our livers to the test on the 17th. 

It is indeed a great day for the Irish. Everyone wants to be Irish on St. Patty’s Day, and it is perfectly okay for those who aren’t to romanticize about being ill-tempered, cursed, Catholic guilt-ridden souls on the 17th. We certainly aren’t selfish and welcome everyone who isn’t Irish to join in on the shenanigans and be Irish for the day. But we are in fact fiercely proud of our heritage and some go as far as getting Irish themed tattoos to prove their Irish-ness. Personally, I think my red face, pinkish freckly skin, and bloodshot eyes legitimatize my heritage.   

I always know when it is getting close because of the emails, text messages, and calls I get from friends asking me what I am doing or where I am going for St. Patrick’s Day. I am not sure if it’s flattering or insulting to know who my friends think of first when they want a good Irish drunk to hang out with that night!

Am I upset about the stereotype? Heck no! In fact I think the Irish embrace it and celebrate it. We certainly aren’t doing anything to change people’s mindset! Come the 17th, every lad and lass I know will be chock full of beer, blarney, and corned beef and cabbage. And thanks to dignitaries like boozehound Ted Kennedy, late night’s Conan O’Brien, and fast food bigwig Ronald McDonald, the Irish have come a long way in America. The Irish have served America well as boxers, writers, and old timey New York City policemen. America gets all warm and fuzzy for a good Irish drunk in mid-March and there are celebrations all over the country.

For me, St. Patrick’s Day has been full of constants. We have a family dinner at O’Donnell’s, the restaurant my grandfather owned for 47 years. My grandmother paints her toenails and fingernails green, my parents wear matching Ireland sweaters, my sisters clear the shelves at local stores of all novelty Irish items, and my brother and I get very drunk and tarnish the family name. I am sure I have made my parents proud with some of my past antics which include wearing a leprechaun outfit from 2001-2005, years of slurring the words to “Harrigan” in front of a roomful of people, and my many half-assed drunken attempts at being Lord of the Dance.

Saint Patrick’s Day was always a wild, blurry, time for me. That is, until last year. My son, John Patrick O’Connor, was born on March 10, and was one week old on St. Patrick’s Day. I stayed in with Cailin and we quietly toasted our blessing of John Patrick with a few pints of Guinness — delicious, tasty, silky, creamy Guinness. My friends were deeply concerned for my whereabouts and well-being: Marty O’Connor was not out on St. Patrick’s Day. This was unheard of. They called the local morgues, hospitals, and checked a few gutters, but to their dismay, I was safe at home. To quote the Notorious B.I.G. — things done changed!

Which brings me to this year — the curious St. Patrick’s Day phone calls, texts, and emails are still coming.  And with John Patrick being a year old, we can take him to the annual family dinner. But as for the rest of the night, I am still deciding. Somehow, the allure of being packed in a cramped bar, paying four bucks for a Miller Lite tinged with green food dye, and watching young ruffians from my town punch the lights out of each other is losing its luster. In addition to that, the prospect of coming home in the wee hours all whiskeyed up is not so attractive with a baby who wakes up at 6am like clockwork — plus I have to work the next day.        

However, a wise Irishman once said, “morning is the time to pity the sober. The way they’re feeling then is the best they’re going to feel all day.” And the pipes are calling, and it is hard to resist the excitement of chanting Irish songs at the top of your lungs with a few hundred of your best friends. And you know what — I think the leprechaun costume still fits!

 

 

 

 

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