Greetings my friend,
I see you survived and digested Valentine’s Day. It appears as though you emerged out the ass end and are now happily bathing in the sun of the other side. Well done, comrade. I hope you brought your sunglasses with you because it certainly seems like this side of Valentine’s Day is going to be sunny and I’m hoping things start to heat up. Furthermore, St. Patrick’s Day is coming so (naturally) you’ll need those sunglasses to cover your drunk, bouncing eyes. Cover up those bad boys, they go bloodshot when you repeatedly retch into the flower planters that line the sidewalks of St. Paul Street. Oh wait, that doesn’t sound like you, maybe I’m thinking of someone else .
St. Paddy’s, as some lovingly refer to it, gets a little crazy. HA! I couldn’t even type that with a straight face. In all honesty, St. Paddy’s is the most depraved and disgusting shitshow day of the year and I can’t help myself from absolutely loving it. What’s not to love? The people-watching is incredible, almost every restaurant in town has corned beef on special, and every single person you meet is just a little bit Irish on their mother’s side. However, from what I remember, St. Paddy’s can also be disastrous, out of control and more than slightly embarrassing for those who don’t know how to handle it. If St. Paddy’s Day was suddenly personified and magically transformed into a middle aged man, he would be that dude that everyone inevitably avoids when he’s had one (or five) too many. You know the guy I’m talking about. Hey, maybe you are the guy I’m talking about. He’s handsy, arrogant, possibly destructive. When he arrives at your favourite bar you casually nudge your buddy and talk sideways out of your mouth, “Oh man, Paddy’s here, don’t look. At no point do you dare leave me alone with him. Last time I partied with Paddy, I blacked out and woke up in an ice fishing hut with three empty slurpee cups and a bag of avocados.”
If I’m to survive St. Paddy’s this year and attempt to do it single then I’m going to need an expert and lucky for me, I know just the chap. Let’s call him: Jimmy. Jimmy is actually Irish so I figure he might have some solid gold advice for all of us on how to survive St. Paddy’s Day without completely destroying our relationships, behaving like the village idiot, or accidentally chipping our front teeth on the rim of a Guinness glass. Also, Jimmy has a swoon-worthy accent and I don’t mind listening to him ramble on. I meet Jimmy at Mahtay for a coffee on a random weekday afternoon and we make small talk before we get down to business. I ask him how things are going with the girl he’s been seeing lately and he smiles at me awkwardly and shrugs. “I don’t know,” he starts as he flicks his coffee mug in time with the music, “it’s like having a warm beer, ya know? It’s not your favourite but you’ll drink it ‘cause it does the job. You don’t necessarily enjoy it, but at least it’s there.” At first I laugh at his bold analogy and then I immediately cringe. I understand how he feels about his girlfriend because I’ve been that girlfriend. We’ve all been the warm beer at one time or another and, let’s be honest, we’ve all had a warm beer or two in our day. So I ask Jimmy, “What if there’s a frosty mug waiting right around the corner and you miss it because you’re nursing that warm beer?” He just sort of looks at me awkwardly and laughs, “Don’t worry about that doll, I’m not opposed to drinking them all at once.” I kind of hate Jimmy in that moment. Then I think to myself how perfect it is that this douchebag is giving me advice about surviving the ultimate day of douchebaggery. Jimmy is a seasoned vet of debauchery, he’s the king of slime, and I often wonder why we’re friends. This makes him an expert on all things cringeworthy.
So, without further fuss, here are Jimmy’s five steps to surviving St. Paddy’s Day:
Leave your phone at home, it will only cause you trouble in the long run. Once you send that drunk text, you can’t ever take it back. And I promise you, you will send that drunk text.
Don’t get emotionally or sexually involved with people who have really overdone it on the costumes and greenery. If you discover fake shamrock tattoos anywhere on their person, kindly excuse yourself to use the loo and then go to a different bar.
When sober, agree on a meeting spot for when you inevitably lose all your friends and partner and have no way to call them because you were smart and left your phone at home. (refer to above)
You can’t Irish dance, you’ve never been properly trained and no matter what you think, you shouldn’t attempt it. Leave it to the pros or the children’s dance class that the bar hired to entertain your drunk ass.
An irish car bomb is a famous cocktail that is essentially the devil in liquid form. Don’t drink things that are meant to curdle, I feel like I shouldn’t have to say this.
Well, there you have it. Maybe I’ll stay home and avoid all the chaos, but I seriously doubt it.
I’ll see you out there, Niagara. I’ll be the girl with the fake shamrock tattoos on her face, can I buy you an irish car bomb?
Whether you’re single, taken or it’s complicated: I’m rooting for you.
Until Next Time,
STC is a monthly dating column that centers around the fictional character, Lily Hush. STC is based on real-life accounts from those of us living and loving in the Niagara Region.