There’s something about the anticipation of an event that sends you into this other-worldly state. That’s how it was for me this year with St. Patrick’s Day. Having had several wonderful celebrations at my favorite pub, I expected no less this year.
Let’s just say there are several factors that go into creating a wonderful experience. First, the mood of the place. Second, the company you keep. Third, the company you meet. Fourth, the planning of the people running the place. If any one of those is off, there goes the experience.
Things were off from the start. We arrived at opening (9 am) and we walked into the main room to find all the chairs and most of the tables gone. Since this is a narrow room with a raised platform at the far end, that leaves little room for anyone planning to sit and eat. Not that they don’t have three floors and another separate section on the other side of the main floor for dining, but it was off-putting.
Daughter and I found a spot at the bar — one of only five barstools. Very, very odd. But we were determined to have a good time. We ordered breakfast, then somewhere around 10:30 I ordered my first drink. Must eat first lest we ruin the entire day.
It was about 30 minutes later when I realized (and yes, call me a rube for not knowing this already) that any eye contact whatsoever — even an errant glance over someone’s head to see the tv screen behind him — is considered an invitation. That’s when the person at the other end of the bar, who proclaimed he’d just started his fourth beer, decided to come say hello. That’s fine, but it’s obvious his intent. He tried making small talk, to which I replied, “Yes, my husband thinks we’re a little crazy to get up so early to be here.”
After a few awkward sentences of his trying to mask whatever drunken disappointment he may have been feeling, he excused himself and disappeared. I almost felt bad for him. Almost. Who I didn’t feel bad for was the man who, after even more beers, kept honing in on Daughter, who cried “shit!” the minute she inadvertently looked up to get the waitress’ attention and instead made eye contact. Sure enough, he started over. Luckily for her, her girlfriend showed up at that very second, saving her an embarrassing moment. He hovered for a minute, then left. However, he did follow her around the restaurant at one point. (I told her to just let it happen and tell him she wasn’t interested.)
When husband showed up, we retreated to the second floor for food. At this point last year, there had been four bands and several pipe bands wandering through. This year, the budget must have sucked, for we had to listen to one band (and a pretty lame one) for three hours. We were ready to go upstairs. We had a late lunch to a piper and some amazing dancers, but by then our moods were soured. Where last year we had tons of fun with lots of people willing to laugh, share tables, and dance, this year we had people on either side of us who kept to themselves despite smiles and comments on how nice their hats were. They were more interested in the hockey game on tv than the party all around them. Mind you, I like my hockey, but there are times when other things trump that. Really.
So we were home by 4 pm. Not a bad time, but not fantastic. I’ll be talking with the manager (and maybe the owner) about how uninviting the setup was and how disappointing it was to not have more entertainment. The DJ was good, but he did nothing to ramp up the crowd.
We came home. We enjoyed the gorgeous afternoon, and then I took a nap. A nice day. Not ideal, but nice. Nice enough.
How was your weekend? Did you get to celebrate at all?
Golf tourney and corned beef went off as anticipated. Then it absolutely poured rain most of the day yesterday, which kaboshed my intentions of painting the garden fence I just installed and assorted other yard clean-up.
So, we stayed inside and watched The Godfather, which the kids had never seen, and Born Free, which gets me every time!
If by "celebrate" you mean blaring old Cranberries CDs while scrubbing a winter's worth of dirt, salt and grime off the basement stair case (back door is located on a landing in the middle of the case), then I had a blast. Only really annoying part? After scrubbing the stairs (and kitchen floor) I spotted my first two ants of the season – you guessed it. One on the landing, one on the kitchen floor.
Watching the season finale of The Walking Dead inspired little pacifist me to call any more ants "walkers" and squash the scouts before they lead the "herd" in.
Next year will be better. Can't win 'em all. Let last year's average a bit. Chuck
Were you left crying in your green beer? 🙂 Oops-forgot-you don't drink the green stuff.
Isn't it funny how the slightest change can have such a huge impact?
I'm not a St. Paddy's Day celebrator. When I was growing up, it was shoved in my face (my non-Irish face) that I came to hate the day. Then I moved west where they view it as just another excuse to party. 🙂 Now, I smile at my Irish friends.
I spent the weekend working on my taxes. Now, aren't you green with envy? *Groan* See, someone could have a worse weekend. 🙂
Rain? In Phoenix? So it really does happen!
Love Born Free. Great movie!
Paula, sounds more celebratory than you think. 🙂
Chuck, ah, it's all in what you make of it, I guess. I wasn't into fighting all the outside forces, so I made for home. 🙂
Cathy, I don't blame you for hating the day. Frankly, to so many people it IS just another day to party. I take a more reverent approach (if one can be reverent from a barstool), but I do celebrate.
I should have done my taxes. LOL