Unlucky Mutts

Evidently, the luck of the Irish IS a respecter of persons, exclusive to those Celtic pure-breeds whose ancestry is unpolluted by assorted Continental interlopers (read: “European Mutts”). I had been wrongly confident that my wee bit o’ the Irish heritage and spit-fire temperament qualified me to “go green” in the fashion that became popular long before Earth Day acquired fake holiday status. However, apparently, the Shamrock shortbread and green pancakes with (real) bacon were insufficient offerings to the Leprechauns of luck dispensation, who ferreted us out as wannabe Irish posers with glaringly German genes:

It began on St. Patrick’s Day Eve during an invariably dramatic Kulp family dinner, which featured Kincaid’s inaugural concussion- A feat, we were assured, will be repeated unless he demonstrates a strong affinity for dolls and art. Like stumbling upon a 3 ½ leaf clover, we should have recognized the omen. For, the following night, instead of funneling green beer down our throats with fraternity-like abandon, we were pleading with our daughter to simply urinate, since she had not done so in over twenty-four hours.

While in my estimation this qualifies her for the Road Trip Lifetime Achievement Award, it was excruciatingly painful or so her progressively louder screams and sobs of anguish informed us. After a futile visit to the pediatrician, my (superhero) mom and I ushered Eowyn into the local ER. Even in the absence of George Clooney-like physicians, there was blessed efficiency, meted compassion, aggressive treatment and –most importantly- convenient parking. After a battery of tests, a cruel catheterization, Eowyn was released on good behavior -specifically, regular bathroom behavior. And yet, as we navigated the baneful Blue Route at one in the morning, Eowyn precariously balanced a large chocolate milkshake on her lap and bellowed along with Veggie Tales to “King Jesus is All, my all in all”. Concluding her gospel performance, Eowyn cried “Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone!” And to all a good night. Only Eowyn.

In deference to her dignity I’ll suffice to say, the trauma of the evening arrested Eowyn of her ability to use the facilities for a few torturous days. Consequently, emulating the example of her brother, the bathtub became the improvised toilet. Lovely. So, to restore her spirits after the hospital horror, I plied Eowyn with Rita’s and a park play date. However, within a mere fifteen minutes amid nature, Eowyn fell and split her lip open, rendering her  inconsolable and Kincaid was assaulted by (ashamedly) a little girl with a fist full of sand directed towards his eyes and mouth, rendering me homicidal. Predictably, the ducks' palates were not partial to the Ritz crackers "Eowyn Cole Hamels” pitched to them and the wind blew Kincaid’s water ice away. . . literally- Which is why I am proposing a holiday for multicultural mutts who only get to watch from the sidelines as the luck of the Irish passes us by.

*** Disclaimer #1: My WASP upbringing prevents me from believing in “luck” as we, evangelicals know, it is from Lucifer.

***Disclaimer #2: Jason and I have never funneled anything but gas into our tank

***Disclaimer #3: We have been infinitely blessed beyond measure, but I was compelled to relay these events for posterity since otherwise such bladder endurance would be reduced to family myth.

Too Much Green (Root) Beer

The beginning of a Bacon love affair