March is the queen of the two-faced mean girls. “In like a lion, out like a lamb” is just an obtuse way of saying March will toy with you for thirty-one days.
Erin: Every day in March can feel like an episode of Punk’d. But this year, I heaped an extra helping of hot mess onto the already stinking pile March has been handing us.
Ellen: I just want to point out that we had a snow day St. Patrick’s Day combo. The snow must end. I cry uncle, March.
Erin: Well, I’m crying in my green beer too after my tale of March madness.
Every year Steve’s family has a St. Patrick’s Day party in Baltimore. Traditionally, the party was at Steve’s grandmom’s house in Canton, a stone’s throw from The Inner Harbor. However, for the past few years, it moved about a half hour north to the ‘burbs to accommodate the ever-expanding family.
When it came time to load up the crew and our loaves of Irish soda bread, I kept replaying a conversation with Steve’s mom in my head in which she said that Steve’s grandmom was ready to host again. To me, this meant one thing: we were heading to Canton.
Grandmom’s house is smack dab in the middle of a robust bar scene so we had to circle the block a gazillion or two times to find a parking space. It was St. Patrick’s Day weekend after all. We did text the family to let them know we were going to be a few minutes late so they would have no worries as they partied it up. We may be chronically tardy, but we’re considerate. Finally, we found one honey of a spot . . . only three blocks from her house.
To pass the time dodging revelers, Steve narrated a brief family history on our walk over. Upon arrival, our 15-year-old daughter ran up the front stoop and turned to Steve, “Do I ring the bell or knock?”
Steve said, “Just walk in. It’s a party.”
After a rattle of the knob, she turned back and said, “It’s locked.”
Ellen: Waa, waaaaa.
Erin: At this point, I wished I had actually read the party email in full.
Ellen: I wish I could act surprised that some details slipped past you.
Erin: Well things got ever more slapstick when Steve’s family decided to embrace their inner evil Leprachauns. When we sent them that text, nobody sent up a flare to indicate we were hell and gone from Party Central. In fact, it wasn’t until Steve called from the front stoop that anybody clued us in, but they did revel in our stupidity.
Erin: The immediate aftermath with my crew went something like this:
16yo son: “At least you still have your looks.”
15yo daughter: Epic eye roll they might have been able to feel from the ACTUAL party location.
13yo son: “When we FINALLY get to the party, will there be any food food left?”
11yo son: <nervous laughter>
6yo son: I’m HUNGRY!
My husband was gratefully good-natured about the mix-up.
Ellen: I love Steve. That man deserves all of the gold in Ireland.
Erin: I know. We loaded up the crew again with minimal family drama, but with a thick overlay of mom-mocking. What’s an hour detour amongst family? In moments, we hightailed it on the highway to the ACTUAL party in the suburbs where everyone was getting their green on and making general merriment of the raucous family holiday type. And making fun of us.
Ellen: Ah, they loved you even more for providing such great entertainment. As an aside and to make this more about me, it feels kind of good that an Erin punking took place where I wasn’t the recipient. But it seems kind of wrong you’re blaming this on March.
Erin: Well, March isn’t blameless. Maybe if it wasn’t tripping me up at every turn, I could have focused on the invitation. Perhaps it was my fault my family played a rousing game of “Find the Party,” but March is still totally to blame for these shenanigans.
1) Chores Multiply Exponentially
March piles on the work. Now in addition to the massive amount of spring cleaning inside, it’s time to cut back the bushes and clear the detritus from the flowerbeds outside too. We could probably hear March maniacally laughing, but in this thirty degree weather we’re wearing earmuffs to pull weeds. Probably best to just leave it for the kids to do during summer break anyway.
2) Schizoid Wardrobe
Oh March, you are one wild and crazy girl! One day we have to pile on the sweaters and the next we’re looking for a tank top. And footwear? Fuggedaboutit! Can you please just let us pack away the snow pants and mittens? We call mercy!
3) Hokey Holidays
St. Paddy’s Day? Who is this holiday really for? Preschoolers and college kids, that’s who. If you’re not making glittered shamrocks or toasting with whiskey and green beer, what’s really the point? Pinterest has shizzed all over this holiday too. Rainbow waffles, anyone? Back away from the computer. Besides, true Irish girls drink whiskey every day of the year. Or so we’ve heard.
4) Calendar Clustermuck
Winter sports are not over and spring sports have already begun. Have you seen our complicated calendars?? You’re hitting us where it hurts, March. We are not happy and we’re taking names.
5) Daylight Savings Time Blues
Our more seasoned internal clocks don’t spring forward like they used to. We can’t fall asleep an hour early that first night, and it’s all downhill from there. By the end of the week, we’re the crazy ladies in the supermarket talking to our tomatoes. And our kids? Shudder.
6) Confused Cart
When you have de-icer and grass seed snuggled together in your cart, even the clerk at Home Depot knows you’ve got problems.
7) The Dreadmill
Running on a treadmill in a gym is about as fun as . . . well, as fun as being jerked around by March and her fickle, fickle ways.
Did we also mention we’re cold? Summer is our time to shine. Bring on the flip-flops, please. Or, at the very least, lose the freezing temps.
But it’s not all moaning and groaning, there is one thing we both LOVE about March:
The real March Madness
The drama, the brackets, the Cinderella stories, we love it all!
Spring has to be just around the corner, right?
Please don’t fool us, April.
-Erin and Ellen
Check out our books, “I Just Want to Be Alone” and “You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth.”