God, we're lame.
I think our celebration of St. Patrick's Day will begin and end with a couple of Shamrock Shakes. Maybe a couple of Harp Lagers, if there are any in the icebox.
Other than that, you can't tell it's St. Patrick's Day around here. Not only am I dressed entirely in black, I sent my children to school wearing no green at all. I don't think my husband is wearing anything green, either.
I could cite as an excuse the fact that the Pope told everyone to celebrate St. Patrick's Day on Saturday. Which people did, at least in Chicago, as proven by one random cell phone picture taken by me two days ago.
But first of all, Chicagoans ALWAYS celebrate St. Patrick's Day on Saturday. The city authorities know better than to run a bunch of parades attended by noisy drunks on a day when people are actually trying to get work done.
Also, I'm not Catholic, so I really don't care what the Pope says. Unless he agrees with me, in which case I'm all "Yo! You go, Pope!"
At the same time, I'm not Protestant enough to be a bad-ass Wearer of the Orange. Which, where I grew up, just outside of Boston, MA, otherwise known as "Little Dublin," could get a person beaten up.
No, I'm just wearing black.
Because apparently, forgetfulness is the new black.