Kiss My Blarney Stone: three St. Patrick's Day memories.

#1: Sophomore year, 2003.
Back when I was just twenty years old and before my multiple drunkypants experiences, St. Patrick's Day meant very little to me. I basically just wore a green shirt and that was it. Bo-ring. The only exciting thing that happened that year was watching my friend Diane yell at a crazy girl that I didn't like very much.

We were sitting on the Quad, probably dodging frisbees and dogs. (Oh, how I miss being able to sit outside on March 17th. Eff you, Chicago.) Diane was dressed in black, I believe, in protest because she's Irish and "Irish people don't give a fuck about St. Patrick's Day." While we were sitting, our friend's cah-razy roommate comes up to us. She was cah-razy in that Renaissance Fair way, so of course she was decked out in a green peasant dress and some kind of bodice contraption. I don't know; I don't know the names for Middle Ages clothes because I don't care. She sat down with us, much to our embarrassment, and started talking about fairies and dragons and the like. Okay, that was probably exaggerated, but it wouldn't have surprised me if she pulled out a twelve inch blade she bought from a dude named Perrytail at Ye Olde Shoppe of Knivs in Busch Gardens.

After blabbing along about the Loch Ness Monster or something, she turned to Diane and says, "Why aren't you wearing green?"

Diane replies, "Because it's stupid."

To which crazy acquaintance replies, "You're stupid."

And Diane yells, "No, I'm Irish. We don't wear green and we don't eat fucking corn beef and cabbage."

Maybe you had to be there, but I found it really amusing, especially since there's always a handful of anti-St. Patrick's people, but most of them don't have a specific reason other than they want to stand out for not "selling out" or something. There's really about "selling out," but those people are probably dumb enough to think that there is.


#2: Junior Year, 2004.
I was born in September, so I was still not twenty-one by the time St. Patrick's Day rolled around during my Junior year. Luckily, second semester of that year was when I started going to parties on a regular basis. During that semester I threw up from drinking for the first time as well as made Dean's List for the first and only time. Go figure.

I went to a party at my friends' house, which was called the Lifestyles House because it was sponsored (I'm not kidding here) by Lifestyles condoms. Like many of their other parties, they gave away condoms as party favors (in plastic Easter eggs). For some reason, there was some surprise when people ended up having sex in the bathroom. Now I understand why parents object to handing out condoms in school. You know how people are with condoms.

The other excitement of the night (and no, I'm not talking about when a very drunk Christina tried to incite a dance circle to the Grease Megamix) was when two frat dogs from Kappa Alpha Douche broke into a fight of sorts on the front porch. They were visiting from Radford (again, go figure), and both had their fair share of cheap beer. One had begun to pass out on the floor of the porch while the other one (who was obviously more of man because he could hold his Beast) stood above him, yelling because he wanted to go back to the Douche house and crash. After kicking the other guy a few times, he took off walking aimlessly down the street. I can only assume he thought he was still in Radford and knew his way home.

After he left, the crowd that had congregated to silently watch the ordeal began to break up, until one girl became concerned for the drunk guy who was passed out on the porch. She and a couple of other people picked him up and tried to get him conscious, which was quite an effort. I usually really hate watching drunk people make asses out of themselves, but seeing this tiny girl smack the KAD brother over and over was pretty amusing. Eventually, the other guy wandered back into the house and the girl yelled and him and he started to cry. Best play ever, man.

Also, at some point (perhaps the actual St. Patrick's Day night?) this picture was taken:

Notice how we look barely old enough to drive, let alone drink really bad beer that Kristin thought would be festive since it was called "McSorley's".


#3: Senior year, 2005.
Ah, the joys of being twenty-one! I remember when I was a freshman my friends told me, "You know, I think it's dumb that you have to wait until you're twenty-one to drink. I mean, most people over twenty-one don't even drink that much because it isn't fun anymore." Of course, this is a lie. Not only did most of my money (read: parents' money) go to two-dollar pitchers of Natty Light and countless Red Stripes, I also drank much more after I was twenty-one because apparently I thought paying for beer at bars instead of getting it for free out of a keg was much cooler and more sophisticated. I know now that drinking Natty Light is never sophisticated, even if you drink it out of a glass instead of a red plastic cup.

The night started at Dave's Taverna, our favorite Thursday night spot. Because we were cheap and low-class, we opted out of the pitchers of "Irish" beer (Heinekin comes in a green bottle!) and instead ordered many pitchers of Natty Light. Luckily, my roommate being the crafty Midwestern girl who carries food coloring in her purse, it was green and festive. Things got hazy. Things were written on my arm. We started drawing things on our tongues with food coloring. We are super-cool people.

Then I decided that it would be a great idea to go to a friend's house for a party, so I drive myself and two other people to said party. Over the summer when I would go meet friends in bars, my mother would tell me not to drink drunk, and I'd get offended. Later I would realize that I shouldn't be offended, because I am the type of reckless asshole who has driven drunk. I'm not proud, I'm just being honest.

The theme of the party was not St. Patrick's Day-related; rather, it was a "religious rites" party. As one might imagine, the host of a religious rites party on a Thursday night should not expect a fantastic turnout, even if she spends the afternoon making a huge cross out of posterboard, gold paint, and glitter. Still, I think I had fun, although my only memories of the party are these: a. being extremely inappropriate with Laurie's breasts, shouting, "This is where the milk comes for the baby!", and b. taking communion. Yeah, I took communion on my friend's living room floor because my friend Doug, who was dressed as a Mormon, was handing out wafers. Again, classy.

The next morning I woke up and had one of my top-five hangovers, which didn't begin until I made it to my Faulkner class and sat through a guest speaker's lecture on Freudian homoeroticism in Light in August. I also had two messages written on my hands: "I heart to get off cats (and people)!!" and "That's not what your great-grandma said, ho!"


Post-college, 2006:
I think I'll be taking it easy tonight. St. Patrick's Day has lost it's fun at this point; I realize it's just a dumb, drinking holiday. There's no candy involved, just Irish car bombs and green beer. And really, you can do that any old time. Plus, after witnessing last weekend's loser-fest on Southport and on Clark, I realize that I don't want to be one of those assholes anymore. I'll stick to just wearing my green Saucony sneakers and being satisfied with that.

But for all of you: Happy St. Patrick's Day.