Happy Birthday Yoga! From Mairemor!

A/N: Sláinte! Happy birthday darlin’! Here’s a little Irish tale in your honor—LOL I’ve spent a LOT of time in pubs this week. *hugs * Maire

----------------

Shamrock Shakes and Irish Cream

“Dance with us!”

Two drunken female leprechauns with green wigs and flashing, seizure inducing shamrock earrings linked arms with me and tugged. I scanned the jostling sea of green shirts, green bowlers, antennae sprouting shamrocks and green feathers . Feeling like The Fly as the spiders advanced, I locked eyes with my girlfriend, Sookie, and mouthed, “Help me…please help me!” Sookie grinned wryly and rolled her eyes. She was waiting tables, and delivering green beers while dodging a sea of Kelly green drunks. She cast her eyes toward Clancy who toasted me with a Smithwicks—the Irish red ale that regulars drank—as he sent a waitress off with a pitcher of green Budweiser.

I glared at him as he took a quick sip before pulling another pint of green Bud.

I was jostled forward into the Mosh Pit of Shame right in front of Bill Compton and Barry Barber who proceeded to give me no end of shit, including but not ending with:

“Jaysus Eric… Is that your shillelagh, or are you just happy to see me?"

I was actually relieved when they shut up and started belting out “The Rocky Road to Dublin.” Other drunks joined us. We began to hop and kick arhythmically like a Riverdance chorus line on hallucinogens. If Michael Flatly had walked in, he would have killed us on the spot. Sookie was laughing so hard tears were coming from her eyes as she served and cleared. Finally, blessedly, the song ended. The winded chorus line wandered off to puke, pee, pet, and pass out. Two vertically challenged guys sporting shirts with cannabis leaves that read “Where’s Me Pot of Gold,” claimed my dance partners. Clancy announced last call and started calling taxis for the happy folks who couldn’t produce a designated driver. Sookie cleared her last table, pocketed her tips, and grabbed her purse.

I wrapped my arms around her as she sagged against me and fumbled for her keys.

“You OK to drive Sook?”

She snorted. “Are you kidding? I’ve been too busy taking care of the drunks to drink!”

She patted her purse and gave me a sly smile. “St Paddy’s just wipes me out, but don’t worry… You know what I need to revive…”

***********

Americans are crazy. Even when they’re partying they can’t slow down. Sook needed some quite time. I would have liked to have made this evening better—maybe an upscale meal and a room in a fancy hotel. But when you’re a part-time waitress with a BA in English dating a resident alien with a master’s degree in Philosophy, the monumentally successful, high class food restaurant, McDonalds will have to do. We avoided Officer O’Grimacey’s road block and headed to the Golden Arches across the street from our apartment where we both ordered minty, green Shamrock Shakes mixed strongly, and promptly, with the Bailey’s Irish Cream Sookie had in her purse and my own stash of Jameson whiskey.

It didn’t take us log to get naked, snuggle on our bed, and sip our spiked Shamrock Shakes in peace. The Bailey’s-Jameson milkshake did wonders for Sookie. She slid down the bed with a devilish glint in her eyes, whispered “Sláinte, Viking,” and took me into her sweet, cool mouth.

...