Besides, it saves me the time and energy of replying to the retarded question "So, are you Irish?" Um, the entire Chicagoland population is Irish today, regardless of technical heritage. Just because I'm a fair-skinned redhead doesn't mean I'm Irish. While I pretend for the month (hey, free drinks. what do you do for free drinks?), I am, in fact, pretty much everything but Irish. Hell, my last name is Cromwell, which strongly speaks to my British roots. So in honor of the day, let me explain to you why a good Irish would *not* buy me that drink.

Oliver Cromwell is not just the subject of a Monty Python song, even if it *is* a good history lesson. I spent most of college hearing parts of the song sung to me, so while I don't know the all words I know that the next person to sing it to me will have the same fate as both King Charles *and* Ollie. On the other hand, it is my favorite polonaise, so it's pleasant to listen to in its original form.

So, old Croms was a converted Puritan during King Charles' reign in 1600s England. He ended up getting rid of his monarch, creating himself Lord Protector, thrashing Irish uprisings/rebellions, and being hung and beheaded posthumously just because the English hated him that much.

Needless to say, I don't go into much detail when nobody can hear anything anyway at the bar. They don't care and I'm too lazy; sarcasm is always more fun than an actual history lesson. Well, mostly always. Sometimes it's the same thing.

~~~~~

I was thinking back on my SP experiences over the years. My early favorites were mostly in grade school, where we'd paint green marker freckles all over to win at being the most Irish. High school and college were uneventful, but then... There was the year in Ft Lauderdale, a huge block party in the warm humid night where all we cared about was the neverending cold cider and the hot street seeping thru our flippies and the sticky layer of sweat that covered everything as the night marched on towards dawn. We drove to a 24 hour Krispy Kreme and bounced giggling in our seats as we waited for the fresh hot donuts to be passed around, letting them melt in our mouths with cool swallows of milk cutting the sugary bite. And how can I forget the first time with Mads where we cemented our new friendship with a long day of green beer and shamrock face paint and green gold white beads like small pebbly leis? That was when I met S--has it been that long?! Or the season of pub crawls with the Young Irish Fellowship--if you're going to do it, you should do it right, trundling between Lincoln Park bars in a swirl of dim lights and laughter and carbombs following Irish toasts.

But now everything slows down and I stop celebrating because I'm tired of the scene and the smoke and the spilled beer soaking my shoes and I think that my friend's Anti-SP Party where we'll play Trivial Pursuit and drink wine is the right way to celebrate this year. If I play my cards right, there will be no smoke in my hair when I get home.