There's Whisky In The Jar

Happy St. Patrick's Day. Shamrocks, potatoes, and pots of gold to all. I was going to play "Oy Rumania" in honor of the day, but audioblogger doesn't seem to be working for me. If someone would be so kind as to tell me what in hell I might be doing wrong, I'd be much obliged.

St. Paddy's Day is the only day of the year when I wish I wasn't a parent. That sounds horrible so I'll repeat it. I wish I was still wild and single and could go out and get totally drunk on whisky and green beer and be Erin-go-braghless and wear something green and low-cut and make a complete non-Irish ass out of myself.

Actually, there is tons of Irish blood in my family, but I choose to deny it. How fucked up would that make my kids if they found out the had to add Irish to their already overflowing ethnic plate. There's too much Irish pride as it is. They need to be taken down a peg with their leprechauns and O'Conners and strange sexual hang-ups. Just kidding. I LOVE the Irish when they're from Ireland or if they're named Aingealag or Bearach. I like them almost as much as the Vietnamese. *Kiss* Jethro (with a little tongue).

So I will be going to the super-suburb-family-friendly-don't-drink-because-the-kids-might-see-and-tell-the-Baptists event with Jen of Therapy Eggs and maybe another gal and their kids. Superfly.