Happy St. Pat’s friends! Ireland is a bucket list place for me, although I probably shouldn’t mention that because the little “me-firsters” who have resources I’m having to work to achieve will certainly take great joy in telling me of their Emerald Isle exploits or how they’ve just booked their flight. It’s so weird — I know a girl who just went, and I couldn’t be happier for her. Because she’s good people and doesn’t flaunt her good fortune like it makes her somehow a better person for having the opportunity to do something like that. Hint: you can go every great place in the world but if you suck, you suck. You just suck on several different continents. Which is why the world has trouble with us. So, ya know, thanks for that. Also, I think I need to just eliminate any contact with those kind of folks…Man have I become a snob or what?
Here’s a little nugget from one of my favorite Irishmen: “If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end; if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin, and in the end, despair.” ― C. S. Lewis
Also, this is magnificent.
I’m staying in bed till noon today and I don’t need any of your grief about it. I have spent the last 3 days exhausted from too much work, far too much alcohol — for me, but I’m kind of a light weight since turning the quality versus quantity corner somewhere around 35 — and not enough sleep. So, today, bugger off with your “It’s St. Patrick’s Day!” brouhaha. I did my Patrick’s Day-ing last night at a friend’s BDay/Going-Away party, and am currently enjoying a dash of Bailey’s in my coffee as I lay here, looking at the mound of clean laundry that will be folded and put away MUCH later today. Will I get up and go to 5:30 pm mass? Probably, because really, I like the idea of celebrating the life of St. Patrick like that. Especially since I forgot again and ate chicken on Friday. I have been so dismissive of fasting this Lent. Some work needs to be done on that…But I will be tackling the mint chocolate shamrock reveal poundcake shortly. It almost became a ninjabread man reveal cake because by God if no one in this town had a shamrock cookie cutter. Sur la Table did have a clubs cookie cutter though (as in playing cards clubs), and so I’m improvising. Anyway, I’ll update with photos as I go along with that. Poundcakes are always hard to get right as they can end up dry if you’re not careful. But this one calls for a bunch of buttermilk so it should be pretty moist in the end.
Alright, other stuff:
CPAC was interesting this year. I’ve finally come to the understanding that I may actually be an absolute independent, in thought and politics and everything else. Because some of what I heard there repels me just as much as what I hear hard-core progressives spout off. I suppose one can be fiscally conservative and pretty forgiving of some of the more socially liberal stuff without needing a party designation. For a long time I’ve identified as conservative, not necessarily Republican. But I do like some of the young turks in the party. What’s happening though — and it is directly related to my professional life — is that the party system is competing with these non-affiliated conservatives for money, and it’s largely due to super PACs, something I personally think is a good thing. Does it give the crazies a voice? Sure. But it gives everyone else a voice, too. And some of those people turn out to be Marco Rubio. And I’m fine with that. Anyway, the Big Boss and I managed 5 radio/tv spots in about 2 1/2 hours. So, it was a productive use of time. And I saw some friends I hadn’t seen in a while. Success all around. Also, I found these cookies at a little store at the National Harbor. The lemon shortbread are sublime.
In honor of the day, here are a few fun facts about the Irish language. The verb/subject/object thing fascinates me. But then I’m a bit of a nerd about that kind of thing…
I hadn’t mentioned it because I didn’t want to give my enemies a reason to feel good, but I was beginning to think Alexander had been stolen by some hippie neighbor who coveted him because he’s beautiful and looks like the Cheezburger cat. Z hadn’t been coming home at night. So I had been leaving his little window open and just closing that room off from the rest of the house, leaving enough of a crack in the door so he could come into the other rooms but not enough that the cold was unbearable. And I saw the little beast yesterday morning around 5 am. He’s been sneaking in at night, stuffing his face, and apparently prancing right back outside to go hit up the ladies. I’m pretty sure he’s got other houses he visits, where they feed him and laugh at his jokes. Such a hustler. I love him. I’d worry more but he wears a collar and I just have this thing about caged animals. I cannot stand the thought of it. I think boarding is inhumane actually. Some people think this makes me irresponsible. But Stella always had a dog door and a fenced-in yard (partly why I think moving here was so difficult for her. She was also 13 and already moving slow…I’m never going to feel right about moving her here, though. I think I may always feel like I betrayed her. Dammit.), and if I had to leave her, she had a pet sitter. And any cats I’ve had wear collars and are indoor/outdoor. My neighborhood has a similar disposition, even going so far as pitching in to get some of the strays fixed and collaring them with someone’s number. So, Z and I are in a good place. But the little jerk needs to come home more where I can see him. Because I hate worrying about him and thinking the worst of my hippie neighbors. Anyway, this made me think to tell you that.
I danced pretty hard to this song last night. But not the barbershop quartet version.
The girl you wish you hadn’t started a conversation with at a party made me pee a little. Also, Louis C.K. as Lincoln is pretty brilliant.
And some tunes for your Sunday, however you’re celebrating today: