So here it is, St Pat’s day and outside the office people are lurching around 5th Avenue with hideous polyester Tam-O-Shanters and bad MardiGras beads that they didn’t have to show their tits for.
This holiday always leaves me befuddled. I suppose I should be celebrating, given that I’m one quarter Irish (on Ma’s side). As opposed to so many other jerky New Yorkers I have some claim on a green waistcoat and bottle of Killian’s. But the problem is that we’re on the wrong side, by which I mean that the family is protestant.
I’m a quarter of an Orangeman.
Worse, the other maternal quarter is English, and I was raised Episcopalian (C of E, although we weren’t all that “high Church” about it). So once again I’m the product of a union of oppressed and oppressor.
Right now the only green on my body are the splotches of lentil soup that some one dropped on my shoes. I look over at my shoulder bag and it is, however safety Orange.
Purely coincidental I assure you.