Cousins Go Braugh!

I was summoned to Ohio for the St. Patrick's Day celebration. I found my people bowed but not broken. There is some bankruptcy, some mental illness, paralyzing seizures, addictions and interventions; there is also Kevin's suit, Shannon's hat made by Grandma Clark, and the Buckeyes kicking some wack Cinci ass. Our mutual grandmother would not see us because of the Game. There was no Irishness when the Bucks were playing. It was all O-H and I-O.

This pretty lassy gets it. All this pain and drama means we are learning things we can't unlearn and can't forget. When I see my people in pain I think I should be there; I should go home. The truth is that I was alone when I had to learn these things. We are all alone for our most horrible times, and this is my Unicorn Epoch, and I am not going home. Shanner gets her own magic time soon. She is right up on it. Do you see how cute she is?
Do you see these boys becoming men? They were so adorable as little dudes, and now they are promising man humans. The one on the left was a scratchy voiced robot and the one on the right was fat and edibly cute. Now they are these awesome grown men and they can generate inside jokes at the rate of 4 million a day, and recite the entirity of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Plus, Sean makes sammiches for a living!

boys that smell like salami and boys that never apologize

The parade was wicked. I nearly had to cut a bitch--she wanted to know who had invited me to the party deck, her grandma's friend's sister's party deck, because they were having a problem with underage drinkers. I'm 30, Mary Kate. I can pull out my earrings and grease up my face before you can call your cousin Bridget to get me off your ass. Representing Ohirish! Anyway, I didn't fight her, because like it or not, this is not my city. I don't know these people. But I know my girl Mandy "Up For Anything" Burnham. She was taking amazing pictures left and right and up and down. I have to get my hands on them. It's me in a tiara with countless old men in green pants, carrying shillelaghs.

Up For Anything has became an photo ethnographer. We spent Friday in Englewood taking pictures of the South Side Masonic Auditorium, the graffiti, the burnt old buildings: we were trying to avoid the ghetto cliches, but that is what Englewood has to offer. Plus I'm a social worker and former seedy neighborhood dweller and general down-with-the-streets type (not deep in the streets, though, never that raw) and yet it was amazing, the sense of otherness, the catcalls, the go-back-homes. Segregation city, my friends. Welcome.

Spring sort-of arrived. It does not have the muggy sentimentality that spurs me to listen to Cap'n Jazz and go for a walk, but it did prompt Fluffy-headed Social Worker and I to take the top down on the Cabrio and drive to the Hideout for bands, bands, bands. Guess what? One of the bands is some of Cap'n Jazz! Dude was singing and lisping and everyone is married with adorable children. Aging is amazing. Listening to the CD makes me think of the boy who stole my record and threw pennies at me and dressed a vacuum as a lumberjack for my 19th birthday. Remember summer in Columbus when you were 19? If you were me then you were in love with your friends and hating yourself. We spent a lot of time on the porch roof.

"Throw us the towel!"

It's an all Irish month, y'all! It started with the Pogues on the second and continues through the Irish breakfast at my house this Sunday and then rolls on to Ohio for the big day. Everyone is invited to breakfast, everyone can come watch my cousins dance in beautiful Newark, but my mother's surprise St. Patrick's Day Intervention is invite-only. Sorry. I can only imagine how tragi-comic it will be, because my Sister did not accept the offer to be a part of the A&E show "Intervention." I would not be surprised if someone secretly tapes it; I will definitely post it on YouTube.

And speaking of drinkers: Shane MacGowan was magnificent, all you haters and nay-sayers. We sat with some Irishmen that knew every word to every song and liked to scream obscenities to the band members like they were sitting next to them at the bar. The bar cut Tommy off by 10pm and then he danced a crazy little jig before passing out on the stairs. Brian Boru offered to introduce me to some O'Gradys because I have not, as yet, 'taken a husband in Chicago.' And every song was a masterpiece, enhanced by my constant awareness that I am right now watching the Pogues perform live. Hold out, young ones, because this is proof that until a band member is declared legally dead, there may be a tour.

Everything will be fine.

I don't want the unicorn thing to get played out but my heart wants what that picture has. You see that and you think that everything will be fine, you see that and you can feel them nuzzle your neck and breathing love air into your soul. It's not just me, right? You can feel this, too, right?

I'm leaving this job and my heart is breaking. When I am feeling dramatic and sad I like to poke myself in the soul with the idea that I'm a professional heart breaker: enter the hearts of the wounded and needy, get them to love me, and then leave. I've gotten so much better at my job and that means I can navigate the broken hearts and find the key and then hurt them, hurt them, hurt them.

On the other hand, Beth Pettinelli says that a good termination can save foster care. Foster care is practically defined by bad goodbyes, searing loss, and horrible loose ends. She tells me that a loving and conscientious good-bye will mend the broken hearts and burn new paths of positive loss into their sweet baby brains. Let's go with her theory, shall we?

I'm sad for saying goodbye, but I'm happy to go. Things were getting creepy on the way out, but I put my hoof down and am leaving, free and clear. Everything will be fine.