Wearing O'The Green

St. Patrick’s Day means something different to me than it does to you. At least, it used to.

Once upon a time, there was a person who taught me how to be formidable. (Any lapse or failure is totally mine, not his.) You would have liked him, everybody did. Past tense.

He’s dead now, been dead for ages. But trust me, he’s still Irish.

We had a joke between us. Because my birthday is in early March, every year he’d bestow upon me the gift of being honorary Irish for St. Patrick’s Day. He always said it was the best thing he could do for a city girl from Hollywood.

You’d think I’d put on glittery shamrock antennae like the cashier at Von’s was wearing this morning. Or, at the very least, have Lucky Charms for breakfast.

Not even.

Driving home from the store, I saw a young couple in matching neon green T-shirts walking their wiener dog. The dog was wearing a tiny bright green shirt. Wanna bet it said “Kiss me, I’m Irish”?

Even though my eyes are green, it’s not my color. None of my clothes are green. I have green socks, but that begs the question.

You know what question.

It’s amazingly annoying when people ask to see your green, and it happens surprisingly often.

So when I borrowed a green shirt from Robert this morning, I did it to forestall human interaction, not out of solidarity with the holiday.

But now I feel solidarity with that hapless little wiener dog.