Kiss Me. I’m Not Irish but Screw It, It’s St. Patrick’s Day.


This is the best holiday ever.

It’s also my brother-in-law’s birthday.

And although we’re not technically Irish, the fact that I thought we were until I was about 14 was enough to have ingrained an irrational obsession with the day for me.

You see, what had happened was that my mother had gone to an Irish school when she first moved the U.S. and as a result had developed a very strong and crazy connection with the culture. She would festoon our house and herself to the hilt, leaving anyone to think there was a pot of gold and some leprechauns hidden within.

So although I am now fully cognizant of the fact that I’m not Irish at all, which saddens me to no end, I still must celebrate this day in some way.

But because I have young children and I’m old and tired and because I had to cajole my sister and her hubby to come out for some Irish reverie, the six Cubans ended up celebrating early at a kid-friendly German establishment.

Because nothing says Erin go Bragh like Bratwurst, Sauerkraut and Wiener Schnitzel.

At least we wore an obnoxious amount of green and had that most traditional of Irish beverages, green beer. So I’m calling it a win.



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