by Becky Tunis
Every other day of the year, my Eastern European roots don’t bother me. I revel in the antique Russian nesting dolls that adorn my shelves and find there is no better aroma than Ukrainian pierogies baking in the oven.
But on March 17, I will not answer to my last name if there isn’t an O’ or Mc attached to it. My lack of Gaelic blood will not prevent me from fully embracing St. Patrick’s Day.
Some may call me a poser for pretending to be from Ole Ireland, but who can blame me for wanting to be part of the luckiest group on the planet? In fact, I consider myself to be a vital preservationist of the St. Patty’s Day tradition. Some folks just see it as a minor holiday in the likes of Arbor Day and Guy Fawkes Day, but to me, it’s the most important holiday of the year.
I always make sure to celebrate in style, starting St. Patty’s Day off with a bowl of Lucky Charms (the breakfast of champions). I spend the remainder of the day giving unpleasant looks to the spoilsports refusing to wear green; after all, I’ve had my ensemble planned for weeks.
I then look for evidence of unexplained leprechaun activity. It’s no coincidence that there is a significant rise in merry mischief each year on St. Patty’s Day. I will be sure to set up fool-proof leprechaun traps at strategic spots around my house to protect my green decorations while I run to McDonald’s for a Shamrock Shake.
So the next time someone mocks me for my fabricated Irish nationality, I hope they consider the dedication I have for the holiday. If that won’t convince them, maybe legally changing my name to O’Tunis will.