Tag Archives: Vomit

Today is A Saturday

17 Mar

Saturdays are good days for most people: the first day off from the work week, but not the last. A day to sleep in. A day to spend doing whatever it is you (not your boss) want you to do.

But if you live in America, this Saturday is not a good day. This Saturday is a very bad day.

Why? Because today is St. Patrick’s Day. Now if you’re Irish, St. Patrick’s Day will probably mean something to you—after all, St. Patrick is your patron saint and God knows patron saints are important on this side of the Atlantic (one of the prep questions for the British citizenship test requires would-be citizens to name the four saints and put their holidays in calendar order, though this hardly seems indicative of being ready to be British). So Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you lot. I’ve got nothing against the Irish (except Bono): you gave us Graham Linehan and Dara O Briain, so no doubt you’ll be relieved to know you’re all right by me.

But I do have something against the American celebration of St. Patrick’s Day. First off, for almost every other day of the year, Americans are all about America. If you say you’re African-American, that’s political correctness gone mad and you’re asked to show papers indicating that you or one of your parents actually came from Africa (and it’d better be from one of the countries in Africa that Americans actually know). You might hear the term “Arab-American” bandied about; this is just fancy talk for terrorist. And if someone calls themselves Mexican-American, this is likely to mean: drug smuggler, job stealer, and/or lazy bones. Americans like Americans (Native ones the exceptions, of course). The USA is all about only full-blooded Americans.

Except on St. Patrick’s Day.

Then all of a sudden, everyone is Irish-American. Proving you’re Irish-American is relatively easy, no papers need to be produced. Here is the test:

1. Are you from Boston? If so, you pass.

2. Have you heard of u2, the potato famine or Riverdance? Please go to the head of the class.

3. Do you like drinking and do you own anything green? That’s good enough.

From TheOnion.Com. Read it, then read this: LiterallyUnbelievable.Org

St. Patrick’s Day in America is not about celebrating Irish heritage or any of St. Patrick’s super great deeds (apparently we’re talking a thousand miracles here, people). St. Patrick’s Day in America is about getting drunk. Then getting drunk again. And if you’ve got the time, you can sneak in one more getting drunk. This means it is also about vomiting, and since many drink green beer (because they’re hardcore Irish, you see), this means green vomit. And the fact that this year, St. Patrick’s Day falls on a Saturday when most (save vicars) don’t need to get up to work the next morning, well, it’s going to get ugly.

In case you think I’m hating on Americans, I’m not. As you know there is plenty to love about my little old United States of America. I don’t hate Americans. I don’t hate anyone. Except Bono.

I hate Bono.

Note: Yes, I do also hate Jeremy Irons. But I’m saving that wrath for 23 April.

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A Christmas Surprise

25 Dec

Well, times sure have changed. When I was younger, a gentleman’s suggestion of a game of Truth or Dare usually ended up with a memorable five minutes of fumbling in a darkened cupboard. Not anymore, I’m afraid.

When Christopher arrived at mine, let’s just say it was obvious he had already been drinking in the beauty of the season. After pouring me my evening tipple, he asked if he could join me. I, of course, said of course. Once a few bottles were emptied, Christopher suggested a round of the Truth or Dare.

Now when I was a child, our Christmas Eve rituals often involved game-playing so I thought it a rather charming suggestion. Although my plan was to subtly increase the “danger” of the dares (a strategy successfully used against myself on many an occasion), I was a bit disappointed that Christopher continually opted for truth and extremely disappointed when he told me his first kiss was nothing like I had imagined (in minute detail, at least once a day) it to have been. Soon the mood turned:  the game itself was abandoned entirely and I ended up spending my Christmas Eve—a time when other women were being cherished and showered with gifts—listening to a long list of rather vicious admissions, sprayed across my person like graffiti on a bridge. These included the indictment of  my hats as “less than flattering,” the confession that not a single one of my books has been read cover to cover by Christopher or any member of his immediate family and perhaps most hurtful, despite every indication to the contrary, Christopher does not in fact enjoy brushing my hair before bed each night.

This holiday assault ended with a quick rush out of the room followed by a disturbing eruption (Malibu is just as unpleasant coming out as it is going in). Vomit is well known for snapping people out of their stupors; it worked its acidic charm on Christopher, and the apologies began to be begged. I laid him down on the sofa and placed a damp washrag on his brow. He was weeping and asking my forgiveness (in between dry heaves). He has only just now fallen to sleep. It’s no wonder old St Nick chose to bypass our address this Noel.

If there is one thing my family has taught me, it is that Christmas is not Christmas unless someone’s feelings are hurt (or someone blows chunks): the fact that both happened here tonight can only mean Christopher and I are indeed a real family. Tomorrow I shall give him his gifts and, once he’s cleaned up the messes, our December 25 will carry on as usual. This hasn’t really been my favourite Christmas Eve, but it certainly hasn’t been my most dramatic. A silly drunken boy hardly holds a candle to the night I became radioactive.

Many of you will be waking soon and I hope Santa Claus has left you everything on your lists. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

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