Trouble Makin' in Dingle Bay

     March is a time to spot leprechauns, four leaf clovers, and ads (subsidized by those who want our green money) urging dreamers to take a trip to Ireland where Irish eyes are smilin'.  I saw such a blurb today gloating "the newly built Dingle Bay Hotel, located in Dingle TownDingle Harbor…”   I truly would think--- by the sound of this alliteration of Dingle, Dingle, Dingle—that this ad was a joke if I hadn’t actually travelled there myself.

    But yes…(fond memories) sigh… I have been to Dingle Bay.  And yes…(regrettable) sigh… I will never live it down.

     As a military wife stationed in Germany, I flew with 13 women to Kerry, Ireland.  In a few short days we became highly intelligent there, learning about bogs, and sheep, and how a general’s wife is the only one who can afford to buy a wool sweater. 

     My most impactful lesson would come, though, on a bus tour around Dingle Bay.  You see, at some point in the swerving and bumping along the narrow dirt road, my dear friend relayed to me her concern that her daughter was being called a dingleberry by an acquaintance.  She wasn't sure, but she didn't think that was a good thing.

     “What’s a dingleberry?”  I had innocently asked.  A shrug of the shoulders was her answer.

     Fast forward about 20 minutes and a good upchuck from a classy wife in the back of the bus…  

     Our group piled out into a teeny pit stop trying to regain our sense of balance, and we were given a tour of a local candy shop.  In her best leprechaun accent (though I think it wasn’t an act) the lass introduced us to her wasabi chocolates, chili chocolates, and one of her best-selling mystery chocolates.

     “Can any of ye’ tell me what me secret ingredient is?” she asked the group as we snarfed down samples.  

     Chewy.  Raisiny.  But that would be too obvious. Berries.  That’s it, I thought.  Dingle Bay.  Berries.  I learned a new word today.  Quick!  Answer first!    Maybe she’ll give me a free box of her best-selling confection if I do.

     “DINGLEBERRIES!”  I declared with a cheek pouched with heaven.  At that point about half of the chocoholics backed up, holding their hands to their mouths like my kids would when they were forced to eat a charcoaled grilled cheese sandwich. The rest of us (not wanting to hurt the candy maker’s feelings, of course) chomped , and munched, and plowed our way through the remaining platter.

     It was upon returning to the bus that I would become highly, highly intelligent. 

      “How could you say that?” some chided.  

     “Why did you say dingleberries?!” chortled others, as the friend who didn’t know its meaning earlier  (yeah, right) was smirking next to me.

     Dismay.  No wonder I didn’t win a free box of chocolates.

     “A dingleberry is the dried poop on the back of a cat’s butt,” one of my favorite travel mates answered.  “Don’t you ever watch South Park?” 

      No, I hadn’t.  And I also hadn’t realized that South Park rivaled NPR in its educational value.

     “Men can have them, too,” another answered matter-of-factly.  Despite my embarrassment, I had a rush of fleeting gratitude.  I may be a dimwit, but –thank you, Lord—that I do not have her job as a Madame Salon Waxer.  (I’m sure she has a more respectable job description, but in my moment of despair and a bad visual in my head, that was her title.)

     I was later informed that long-haired cats are more prone to get dingleberries.  How exactly do I interpret that in regards to the male human species?

     I know it’s hard to believe, but I never fully regained my reputation.  Somewhere in my sugar-high mind I knew then and there that I could not be general’s wife material, and I would never be able to buy one of those darn cable knit sweaters. 

     If I do revisit Ireland, I’ll steer clear of Kerry and the Dingle Bay.  Perhaps I’ll visit Dublin and kiss the Blarney Stone.  And if there’s a slang word for Blarney, I don’t want to know.