Mr. Jameson, you treated me oh so wrong

Oh Dear.

It is such a good thing I put up a pre-emptive St. Patrick's Day post before I began my celebration. Because yesterday - The Actual Day of Saint Patrick - I spent my time drinking, getting belligerent on Facebook, making soda bread without baking soda (a double batch, no less) and dealing with an army of ants that swarmed a tiny crumb of goldfish near my kitchen door. Seriously, the entire corner was basically a writhing sea of tiny black ants, and I was so totally freaked out that I just stood over them with the spray for about 5 minutes, just spraying and spraying and spraying. It was horrible, like some terrible horror movie.

I hate bugs.

It was a long and glorious day, and when I finally managed to make a loaf if soda bread with SODA, Sami and I headed off to the Ryan's for brisket and col canon. And Jameson. Oh yes, I brought my very own bottle. I only had a little bit, but the effects were a wonder to behold.

I did some step dancing
I fell over
I swore loudly
I ate with my mouth open
I sang obscene Dropkick Murphy songs in a lusty manner
I enjoyed a Guinness cupcake
And apparently, when discussing my Irish heritage, I phrased my comments in such a way that a few people thought I was actually BORN in Ireland, and wondered about my missing accent. I realized I was in over my head, and changed the subject, because to be honest, I couldn't remember what I had said, or how they had drawn that conclusion, and I didn't want to make things any worse.

I know I was awful, because the lady of the house did not take my very-hung-over 7:10am apology phone call. But don't worry, I left a long message explaining myself.