I’ve always thought of St. Patrick’s Day as a holiday that warranted little celebration on my part; besides, of course, enjoying the sheen of green paper shamrocks plastered all over Target, Big Lots, and my kids’ schools (listed in order of importance, btw.)  This year, however, St. Patty’s fell on a Sunday, and I decided to both honor the Sabbath and commend this Important(?) National(?) Holiday(?) by doing a good deed and spreading the Luck ‘o the Irish around a little.  What can I say?  I’m the type of gal who likes to Pay It Forward. *

So, while sitting in church yesterday, pondering over what service I could render that would be meaningful on this most meaningful(?) of holidays(?), my eye was drawn to a small shiny object sitting on the floor beneath my chair.  Upon closer inspection I saw that it was a crumpled up gum wrapper, presumably castoff by some careless churchgoer whose worship was obviously not as pious as my own.  Blimey, I thought, who would litter at church–especially on a Saints’ Day?  I did not know who would litter, but I did know who would pick it up:  humble, reverent, ever serving-my-fellow-man me.  I sighed and as I bent down and reached for the wrapper, once again feeling the burden of my keen spirituality.  Such a responsibility.

But as I stretched my arm and tried to close my fingers around the object of refuse, I found there was no wrapper to grip.  Instead, my fingers curled through what seemed like nothing–just cooler air–and closed, empty, into a fist.  So I tried again, and again–nothing.  Only that strange cooling sensation where my fingers were grasping.  As it was St. Patrick’s Day and a day to trust in all things lucky(?), I decided that the third time would, indeed, be the charm, so I widened my grip and scooped over the gray-carpeted area one last time, making sure to drag my entire hand slowly and thoroughly over the area of interest.  Finally, I could feel that my fingers were curling around a mass of something (why was it so cold?), so I sat back up in my chair and looked around for a trash can, ready to hop up and triumphantly toss the wicked wrapper into oblivion.  However, when I opened my fist, it was not a gum wrapper that resided on my ignorant appendage, but rather a grotesquely palm-sized blob of thick, white baby puke.  Or what I hoped-against-all-hope was, in fact, merely baby puke.

So much for my big-hearted act of St. Patrick’s Day Service.  So much for my proverbial pot of gold at the end of the proverbial rainbow.  If this is all that this revered(?), inspirational(?) holiday can offer, I’m sending St. Patrick back to the pubs.  Where he can do some real good.

*Did you ever see that movie?  Owie.  I think that was the beginning of the end for Helen Hunt.