St. Patty's Day in the Corn

If you follow the Drunken Bugle Corp, he will come.

You just won't be able to tell who he is because after three pints in an hour and a trip out into the bright Dyersville sunshine you won't be able to see straight.

I now know why I don't go to the bar in the middle of the day. That transition from dark to light is brutal.

After three days and two nights in Dyersville, Iowa, I can tell you that if my soulmate is there, he must be hiding in the corn. Because I could not find him. As was the case in many cities across the country this past weekend, I just found a lot of drunk guys. Not exactly of the "take home to mom" caliber either.

Thank goodness for naps with puppy dogs-- particularly multiple naps with multiple puppy dogs. Otherwise the weekend might've been a total bust.

Online dating lesson learned for the weekend: surefire way to make any online man friend jealous is to send him a text message informing him you opened your bed to the general public over the weekend. Wait five minutes. And THEN inform him the general public should be interpreted as a Yorkie named BJ and a Bichon Frise named Cessna. Not amused? He probably wasn't alone. For some reason I think Jesus would be less than amused to hear me joking about commandment #6. I better mark that one down on the confession to do list.

Whenever I told people last week that I was going to Iowa for the weekend I kept getting the same response over and over and over.

"Iowa?! What the heck is in Iowa?!"

One of the best small town St. Patrick's Day celebrations in the country, that's what. Start the day off with mass (nothing beats hearing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" coming over the pipe organ in a basilica), watch 50 tractors go by on parade, follow a drunken bugle corp up and down Main Street to see which pub's Miller Lite tastes better, then finish it up with a Shamrock Shake at McDonald's, all the while asking every man in green if he is in fact, the man destined put the Too Ra Loo Ra Li in your Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra.

Okay. So maybe you could find similar celebrations in just about any town in America last weekend. But you've gotta give me credit. If the ghost of Shoeless Joe Jackson chose some cornfield in Dyersville, Iowa as his preferred hangout, who says my husband to be isn't thinking the same exact thing?