Happy St. Patrick's Day!

A two-year-old entry from my old blog.

You're tiny when a mushroom towers over you.
You’re tiny when a mushroom towers over you.

Years after dying in a freak auto-erotic asphyxiation accident, a shrunken Mulder miraculously reappears as Scully watches in scientific disbelief. Or maybe she had a bite too many off one of those innocuous looking mushrooms. Well, I can hardly blame her. Amanita muscaria is hardly peyote. Can’t expect many pretty colors from that one, except a vivid green.

As if I know.

Today is St. Patrick’s Day. Since I have exactly zero drops of Irish blood currently running through my veins (planning to fix that this Halloween), I took the time to learn what this day means exactly once, and I’ve already forgotten what I read those many years ago. I’m not going to go and use Google now, because then I will destroy the delicate bloom of my ignorance and run the risk of sounding as though I know what I’m talking about. I’ll just share what today means to me through the eyes of a foreigner.

1. I believe the first Irish person I met was my second boyfriend. Unfortunately (not really) he was only half Irish, his other half Italian. His family was interesting to watch. His father an Irish giant that loved music, laughter, and being tall, his mother a pleasant, enormously round woman that made beautiful babies. Luciano Pavarotti was often the soundtrack to our phone conversations, so St. Patrick’s Day reminds me of Italian people that sing like angels.

2. This is not an existing celebration in South America, so when I moved to the States and started going to school, I made friends with a girl that took to constantly pinching me one day. I couldn’t understand a single word she said (except for Sandinista, the only word in Spanish she knew and repeated daily, in the hope I would understand it meant whatever context she wanted to give it, and all it ever did was make me think I had befriended a budding mercenary) to explain this horrible treatment.

It didn’t help that she laughed maniacally when she tried, and only when another girl, a Cuban one that could speak a respectable broken Spanish, explained to me that I wasn’t wearing green, and that meant my skin would be folded in various painful ways by hungry fingers until the day was over.

Luckily I only had to suffer lunch and gym with the virago. So St. Patrick’s Day also makes me think of bruised-purple arms. Mine.

3. Leprechauns. Now, if you know me at all, you are aware that I cannot possibly imagine them to be grumpy, wrinkled old men knowledgeable in the location of various pots of precious metals. Oh, no no, the leprechauns in my mind are as removed from that definition as the giantess in your mind is from looking like this.

When I think of these little men, I imagine the story of a shrunken little fellow cursed to live for all eternity as the protector of an enormous treasure, until he’s caught in the fishnet trap of an attractive and astute woman that only wants the gold until she gets a good look at him. Then she asks him where he got those cute green clothes as she removes his hat, and his little coat, and-

I have no idea why, but suddenly there’s this saxophone-laden soundtrack going off in my head.

4. But I’m dispelling it with some Altan. St. Patrick’s Day means listening to Gaelic music and lyrics that don’t seem to contain any vowels, even though they do. Fricatives and nasals… mmm. Now I’m off to bake something lovely and green, like cookies or biscuits!

Have a fun day, and don’t forget to paint your lovely lady’s toenails a rich green, and then stencil little shamrocks with gold (or a deeper green) nail polish. Finish the effect with a delicate and shiny toe ring. And you get a pedicure too. Some of us women like to look at men’s lovely feet too, ya know?

EDITED Tuesday, Jun 6, 2017 – As it turns out, I do have some Irish blood. What do you know… Screen Shot 2017-06-06 at 10.17.46 PM

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10 thoughts on “Happy St. Patrick's Day!

  1. Happy St Patricks day, Miss Squidly!

    And I hate to argue, but no one wants to look at men’s feet. That’s like a universal law.

    Like

    • Thank you kindly, Pedro! I hope yours was fun and green.

      😆 And about male feet and torpedoing that universal law… well, a long time ago I was at this gay blog where I find some of my collaging material, and saw a poll that indicated that 2% of visitors were looking for beautiful male feet. I thought that was quite a low percentage.

      I also noticed in another poll’s results that 10% of gay blog visitors are straight men (??!), and only 8% are straight women. The argument behind the former percentage is that men look for workout inspiration in images of men in good shape.

      Like

    • Thank you trinket, and the same to you.

      About being late and that “hangover,” no one is going to believe that, eh? Everyone knows you people are not allowed to drink alcohol. 😛

      I like Altan! I wanted to insert a different song here (The Lass of Glenshee), but I couldn’t find an mp3 of it online, and I’m too lazy to “pirate” one from my CD collection. I make it a point to listen to them every year on this day.

      Like

  2. I stumbled upon this fine site, doing a Google search for “mile tall woman”. So you can see that I found what I was looking for.
    As you can tell from my email, I’m a X-Files fan, so I liked your college of the lovely Ms Anderson scrutinizing a smaller Irish gent.
    I’m definitely going to Bookmark this one!
    I’ve not heard of Altan, but, I take it they are a Gaelic band/singer.
    I hope your boyfriend painted your toes a nice shade o’ green. 🙂

    Like

  3. Hi Little John, and thank you! Having given being a mile tall quite a bit of thought, I can share the following facts because… well, I can!

    1. As one mile equals 5,280 feet in height, if that were my height, I would have to dive six times that length to reach the bottom of the Marianas Trench, the deepest sea one.

    2. My longest finger would measure 280 feet in length, which makes it about as long as the tallest spire of St. John’s Cathedral in Limerick. A man standing on the tip of my finger would be flea sized. How cool is that!

    3. My footprints would be 720 feet in length, and that’s two football fields with every single step. I never crunched numbers on how deep I estimate they would sink, but whatever the answer, they would look amazing from a plane.

    4. I’d still be over a thousand feet away from low clouds so it would be difficult to play with them. Not! All I would have to do is reach over my head to rearrange and swirl about those cottony shapes.

    This should really be a blog entry, so enough outta me!

    X-Files, the first TV show I thought worth collecting in DVD form. Most episodes are entirely rewatchable.

    Like

    • She’s brilliant, I think. I can’t help but feel admiration for singers that are true artists, that play an instrument, that write music, and that when they do, something worthwhile is communicated.

      (As opposed to “performers” manufactured by a record company that only say, “My music will be played on the radio endlessly until you cave in and buy the CD”.)

      (But never mind, because I like a couple of those performers.)

      (Besides, it seems no one is buying CDs anymore. It’s the MP3 era.)

      Like

  4. St. Paddy’s Day means, to me, reminding everyone it’s spelled with two D’s and not T’s.

    It means my new tradition of a pub crawl, for which I recite one verse of “The Workman’s Friend” at five different bars. I only order Guinness, and I specifically avoid the one “Irish” bar. It’s Boston Irish, not Dublin Irish, and it’s where all the jackasses in green foam clown costumes show up, and they charge a cover.

    It means being conflicted between my love of my Irish heritage and my hatred of the hypocrisy of the Catholic church. Thinking about my grandparents, who were so jolly and loving when reliving aspects of Ireland, and so cold and stern when being religious.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Hmm, that’s cute. Two giantesses walk into a bar.

      “Happy St. Patty’s Day, everyone!”

      “Hiya ladies, what can I getcha on this fine St. Patty’s Day?”

      “It’s St. Paddy’s Day, you morons.”

      “Wha-?”

      “Paddy. P-A-D-D-Y.”

      “Who said that?”

      “Aw, don’t mind him,” says the barkeep, nodding in your direction.

      “You mean that little guy syphoning off that pint on the counter? The one dressed as a leprechaun?”

      “Yeah. Every year, it’s the same thing. He climbs up here, starts a tab, corrects everyone, then leaves, and not before emitting a considerable amount of burps.”

      Liked by 1 person

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