Dear Tina,
There are a few things to go over here. All related to St. Patrick’s Day. An expired topic, really, considering today is March 20. But now that I have had time to reflect on these epic series of events, I thought I might share.
Like many Irish American citizens and citizens with an appreciation for socially condoned drinking before noon, I celebrated the great Saint Patrick the Saturday before the actual holiday. My knowledge of the origin of St. Patrick’s Day grew exponentially when about a year and a half ago I decided to ask my dad “What is the origin of St. Patrick’s Day?” Not unlike the time I asked my dad why we celebrate Easter. I was a sophomore in high school at the time and I had gleefully been hunting for plastic eggs around the house my whole life. Little did I know there was something even more miraculous than finding an egg in the bathroom potpourri that happened that day.
Since that conversation, I have learned that what we Irish have to thank Saint Patrick for is bringing Christianity to Ireland. In fact, it was the shamrock that Patrick used to illustrate the Holy Trinity to the people of Ireland. So as I traveled to a meeting at 9:30 in the morning the Saturday before the blessed day, I was tempted to ask one of the many girls representing Ireland by adorning her face with shamrock stickers, if she knew the significance of her decor. I didn’t because most of these girls were either clapping loudly or focusing a great deal on making sure their eyes weren’t already crossing at this early hour. I am not so far past my college days that I don’t understand the desire to be highly intoxicated at an hour that will inevitably lead to a nap by 1:30 PM, but what I don’t understand, and never really have, is the need to wear this while doing so:
Come on people. No one, I mean no one, looks good with this thing on. Not even the seven year olds at 4th of July celebrations for who they are intended. And while on this particular day, they are usually worn by men or women who want to leave the impression that they are so drunk they accidentally left the house wearing something SILLY!….I tend to believe that it was carefully laid out the night before alongside their shamrock pajama pants, in the case of men, and for the women, next to their cut-off denim shorts paired with kelly green tights. This isn’t about making smart fashion choices, it’s about not being a moron. Why don’t you just wear hat that says “If I’m not acting disorderly now, follow me around for 5 minutes with your plastic handcuffs at the ready.”
On a similar note, women, as eager as we all are to wear green, this does not necessarily need to include your eye shadow. We get it. You’re not necessarily Irish, but you are definitely drunk. Even if you were to just wear a small green pin, we would get it. Boarding the train screaming to the rest of your posse (is that what the kids are calling it these days?) in a manner that would leave us with the impression you have just come out of a surgery that unhinged your jaw, is clue enough as to your intentions for the day.
What did I do on St. Patrick’s Day Saturday Edition you ask? I puked in the newly dyed green Chicago River by 9 AM and then went to Walgreens to purchase new stickers to replace the ones that had fallen off during the upheaval. No, I jest. (But I bet if all of Chicago read this blog, at least one young lady would have responded “Ohmygodmetoo!”) Like I said earlier, I had a meeting that kept me out of the bars until about 12:45. Eventually I arrived at the location where my friends had been holding down a table for over 3 hours. My friend Lara assured me she had only had a few beers so I would have no trouble catching up. I found this hard to believe considering all the extra vowels she used in a text coaxing me to where she was (ie Caaaaaaaaathyyyyyyyyyyy). I joined them as soon as I got off the train as I’ve never really minded being the soberest in a bar. It makes up for the times I’ve fallen asleep in a booth. As soon as I got there, they informed me there was a woman walking around the bar without a bra on. Not really a selling point for me, but not necessarily a deal breaker. I learned shortly after that, that the woman’s bra had broken while she was there and much to my chagrin, but not her husband’s, it was unfixable. My friend had tried to assist in the fixing of the bra so the woman was eternally grateful and decided to hand down some truly priceless marriage advice. I use all caps to indicate volume. “MARRIAGE IS FUCKING HARD AND ANYONE TELLING YOU DIFFERENT IS LYING. THEY’RE FUCKING LYING. EVERY NIGHT I’M LIKE ‘I WANT A DIVORCE’ AND THEN I WAKE UP AND I’M LIKE, NEVERMIND. WHEN HE PISSES ME OFF I JUST PUNCH HIM! I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. IT’S SO FUCKING HARD.” Ahh, the dream.
Later in the afternoon, an Irish gentleman (I love this holiday the most because the men with accents just come out of the woodwork) told my friends and I we needed to stand up on the benches lining the walls, rather than sit on them, in order to have enough room for a makeshift stage. As it turns out, this man was an Irish dancer pimp of sorts, as he paraded out a whole gaggle of dancers for the bar to be entertained by. The age range of this group maxed out at maybe 17 or 18, but started at about 6, which made me extremely uncomfortable. They did, however, dance to The Departed soundtrack, so I took that as a sign I should call my boyfriend (it’s one of his favorite movies) and hold my phone a mere three inches from the speaker. Clear as a bell, I’m sure. Never been so happy to hear from me.
Shortly after, we left and began to wander. My friend ran into a kilted man on the street and lifted his skirt to reveal his underwear-less lower half. The fact that women are allowed to do this without being thrown through a window, as a man might be were the situation reversed, I think evens the score for women who like to complain that when men sleep around they’re players and when women do it they’re whores. I say it’s worth it.
We met up with other friends who had spent the morning in a different neighborhood. After I showed my ID to the bouncer at the bar they were at, I was led into an average size event tent. As I continued to walk, I found myself in another tent. And then another. Three tents. No bartenders. Here’s the thing. While bars may be inclined to maximize their capacity on a day like this, it doesn’t count when you place us all in a similar setup to the livestock auction I attended, literally, in Ireland. When we finally found our friends they were waiting in line to enter the actual bar to get a drink/sandwich. The line was moving fairly aggressively and as I turned around Lara’s impatience and hunger had grown, and she said she needed to leave to get food. It all happened so fast. I was being pushed further and further along into the bar and farther away from her. I too was hungry, but I couldn’t figure out where she said she was going fast enough. The pressure was mounting. It was like Sophie’s Choice, but instead of choosing between my two children, I was choosing between Lara and a beer.
Shortly after that, I was standing inside with an ice cold beer in hand, chatting away.
When my friend’s sister has mustard spilled on her pants (the worst) we all knew it was time to go and half of us re-met up with Lara, who was thankfully still alive. At this point I was too aware of the fact that all I had eaten that day was a granola bar and was on a mission to get some sustenance inside me. Earlier Lara had been squawking via text message (it’s a skill no one else I know has) about how she was eating at “Tina Fey’s restaurant.” To my sister, she squawked she was at “Tina Gey’s restaurant” in a way that was not passively aggressively insulting, but more a reflection on how blurred her Blackberry keyboard had become. What she was trying to say was that the bar they were at, Glascott’s, was attached to the Athenian Room, a restaurant you, Tina, have apparently noted as your favorite in Chicago. Thrilled, I crossed the bar and into the restaurant. I wasn’t feeling the lamb kabobs so I went with the cheeseburger. Never has anything tasted so I good. Good recommendation Tina.
The night ended at a bar back in our neighborhood and the atmosphere was kind of like if you threw a party in a dumpster in your alley. When we made the educated decision to leave, we dropped by the local McDonalds. So the girl who had only had a granola bar in over nine hours, suddenly had a cheeseburger and fries and chick nuggs and fries resting not so calmly in her stomach. A horse could have confused my internal organs with a salt lick. As a citizen of Ireland (a fact I’ll trot out on any day of the year), I feel proud to have honored by heritage on March 12 with green Budweiser and McNuggets.
When March 17 rolled around, the actual St. Patrick’s Day, I had kind of lost my fervor for all things green. I had co-hosted a ladies night on Tuesday that involved five regular bottles of wine and 2 1.5’s for six people, so I certainly wasn’t itching to have any more celebrations sponsored by booze that week. I spent St. Patrick’s day with my main squeeze, celebrating what some might consider a trite anniversary of six months together. But I found it delightful. Plus we had Italian, which blows corned beef out of the water.
Part of me looks forward to the day when I, like my mom, say to those much younger than me “What day is it? Saturday? Oh that’s that day you kids drink all day long isn’t it? Oh I can’t imagine.” Contrary to the way I have formatted this quote, my mother is not 86. But I can sense myself maturing out of the loud mouth-ery that accompanies this celebration, which is a good thing, especially for my fellow bitter CTA riders. It also prevents me from being one of the four girls my sister’s friend saw on a street corner at 8:30 in the morning Saturday, wasted, wearing green Snuggies. Ahh, youth.
30 Rock Quote of the Day:
Jack: Every organization needs new blood once in a while. Like Hank Hooper says in his new book (“In the Hoop”) “New blood is the life blood of every company’s blood.” He’s not a strong writer.
Dear Tina 