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