It was Saint Patty’s weekend. R invited me for a night of live music at City Grille in Manassas, and once again, I was to chauffeur her around. Oh well, I thought. I liked speeding, so I planned on scaring R a bit by driving like a mad woman. Verily I speak the truth, beware of new widows who are behind the wheel; they will speed like car racers. I think I may have killed a couple of squirrels with my car (just kidding).

Surprisingly, there was a bit of a line at the door. Once inside the City Grille, I discovered why there was a line: the place was jam-packed with people hoping to glimpse the leprechaun? The bar played country music and I was disconcerted—don’t care so much for country music. I thought perhaps R made a mistake and brought us to a dimension where we should not be present. We were literally the only Asian women in the place. I thought of strangling R but controlled myself and asked, “Um—you like country music?”

Shockingly R replied with a sweet smile, “Yes … I guess you can say that I am versatile. Promise me that you will have a good time.”

Oh boy, she was versatile all right, but seeing her sweet, honest face, I softened. “All right R. I will have a good time.” Thankfully, the people at the bar were friendly and didn’t try to oust us out of the bar for not resembling the leprechaun. One sweet green-lady (for she was covered in green ornaments) draped my neck with a green, bead necklace, which touched me deeply. In truth, my deceased husband’s stepfather was an Irishman, and I also celebrated Saint Patrick’s Day. I turned to the green-lady and thanked her. She was a lovely soul.

I will admit that not only were the people friendly but the band was actually quite good. Once seated, R just had to have the green beer. I thought that they would taste exotic, but it just tasted like beer. R said to me, “Did you notice that we are the only Asians in this place?” She giggled.

Hm, was she kidding? “I know,” I told her. I have eyes or did she forget that?

To my delight, the band played a lot of the eighties music, and soon, both R and I were grooving on the barstools. We were shaking it up when I heard the ululating cheer. Suddenly I thought that I was in a hookah bar instead of a bar celebrating the Saint Patrick’s Day. The place was positively berserk. Obviously, I came to the right place after all. I had to turn and see who ululated and saw the woman, marked with intricate painting on her face, ululating still. I smiled at her audacity and gave her a thumbs up sign. Smiling in return, she returned the greeting. We were kindred spirits.

I realized that I was having a wonderful time. I totally forgot about how I was going to strangle R when we had entered the bar. We gobbled chicken wings like troopers with our fingers and smeared our faces with grease. Forget dieting we said. Ululate and get fat today and diet later was what we told ourselves. Cheers and may the luck of the Irish be with you all, and instead of the jig dancing, try ululating.