Friday, March 18, 2011

~St. Patrick's: As It Was

St. Patrick's Day, per usual, brought crackedout'd-ness.   Even in my emotional misery wacky shit doesn't rest.

I'd been extraordinarily wishy-washy about doing anything at all.  Until the very moment the phone rang.  On one hand I just fuckin' didn't want to.  On the other hand, I knew if I didn't go St. Patricking I would likely never enjoy it again.  And with St. Pat's being my favorite of all of the days on the calendar, and the fact that I'd already missed the past two St. Pat's I felt like I had to at least try to do it.   Until this week I'd whole hardily been on the, "I'm reclaiming my St. Patrick's Day" kick.   

This time last year Papa started to take his final turn.  The year before that I had attended LB2'd's bacholorette party on the 17th.   Held at a mexican restaurant.  What's my problem with mexicans, their food or their delightfully boozy drinks?  Answer:  Nuthin'.  Except for the fact that sitting at El Guadalajara Mexicali Agua Uno Pistola Grill (and the totality of the spanish words I know) isn't exactly the proper surroundings for St. Pat's, now is it?

My friend Beannie and I had made a plan to St. Patrick's last week, before all of the ta-doin's.  And I felt like I simply could not let him take this St. Pat's from me.   So out we ventured into the world of St. Patricking.  

Spurred on by our first round of a shot of Jameson's and a beer, don't worry, of the non-green variety.  (I don't know why I don't like the idea of green beer.  I just flat out think it's wrong.  And I'm the girl who's been known to use food coloring just for shits and giggles.  I've given my Godkids blue mashed potatoes before.  ...If it got 'em to eat, what the hell, right?  Why wouldn't purple butter be fun for a day?  I donno.  I just feel like green beer is sad and tragic in some way.  But I'm a freak, so...)   Shortly after communing with Jameson's, Beannie's hubby (and my last name buddy), E had the good sense to distance himself before sumthin' weird went down, as is wont to happen when the two of us hang.   Left to our own devices, Beannie and I quickly, and I would imagine, quite awkwardly, and poorly started a singing conversation with some deaf, redheaded, goatee'd cat who will now been known as "Ginger Deaf Man" across the crowded bar.  

And now you can see why Beannie and I are friends.  Why wouldn't I have a friend who also, with noooooo reason to know how to sign (neither of us know any deaf peeps) is up for badly signing to some stranger because it seems like an adventure?!? 

(FYI:  You can't hold a beer and sign.  Or hold a camera and sign.)

The three of us stumbled, (Fine.  Ginger Deaf Man seemed pretty proficient in his signing skillz.)...The two of us, Beannie and I stumbled through our finger conversation with Ginger Deaf Man.  He seemed nice enough.  He ensured that we were not beaned in the skull by the tipsy foursome engaged in a game of cornhole behind us.  (Is this wrong?  I caught myself watching to ensure that he didn't actually react to the banging of the beanbags behind us.  I'm not entirely sure why I felt the need to verify his deafness?  People of the world:  If I've told you once, then now I'm tellin' you twice;  Ima noticer.)  However, I became less of a fan of Ginger Deaf Man as the evening wore on and his chompers continued to greenen up (yes.  I made up a fuckin' word.  If Sarah Palin can, I can too.  Suck it.)  and as he kept popping into every picture snapped. 

Um.  Every fucking one.

(Beannie & E.  And, yep, you guessed it Ginger Deaf Man.)

I talked to many strangers/new people.  Some entertained me.  Some did not.  But at least none of 'em told me they loved me, started building a life with me and then dropped on me they were moving out of state in 7 days.  (Bitter much?  Oh, SUCK IT.  ...Don't I have reason to be bitter?!?!) 

I pulled a ponytail.  (Thank you world for continuing to bring guys with ridiculously amazing long ass locks into my world, er reach.)

I stickered people.  For those of the uninitiated, when I'm in a large crowd for fun occasions (tailgating, St. Pat's, etc.) I often like to put stickers on people.  A) I think it's fun.  2)  I'm wearin' one.  If'n I'm gonna look like a freak, guess what, you are too.  III) It's a great way to keep track of who I've visited with, and allows strangers to feel like they're good to talk randomly to other strangers who are wearin' the same symbol.  Win/win/win, right?

At some point I looked down to find that right where I felt like my pinkie toe, (yeah, the 'weeeeeee weeee weeeee' one, on the you guessed it, same foot as my earlier drama trauma) kinda hurt, was crusted in dried blood.  What happened?  I. Do.  Not.  Know.  Just a new fanstatical piece of this week that is trying to kill me... 

We checked out one more place as we made our way home(s).  For some reason, er no reason, really, it's a place very close to my pad that I'd never stepped foot in. 

But that didn't keep weirdness from blooming once I did step foot over the threshold.  

It was a pretty sparse crowd and we had plenty of hanging and congregating options.  From the group of people surrounding a table close to the door came a voice that hollered, "I know you!!  You two worked at xplace."  Beannie and I, who had indeed worked together at xplace, like, a decade ago, stopped.  Looked at each other.  Then to E, as if he'd somehow know anything about the weird-o-rama unfolding and looked back to the table emitting these words.  And then they said were our old boss' sons.  Once we looked at them and put them in context we were absofuckinlootly delighted.  The boys and their friend had worked in our office a few summers when they were in high school.  I couldn't believe we were seeing these kids, or that one of 'em was 27.  It was a mind blower for realsies.  They seemingly remembered everything, asking about all kindz a stuff and people, some that neither Beannie nor myself had thought about in yeeeears. 

(Former 16 year olds, Beannie et moi)

We noshed on some pizza.  I gotta tell you that piece of ewwy gooey, cheesy, doughy goodness may have saved my life.  Given my booze consumption ratio, by all rights I should have felt craptastic on Friday, but I didn't.  I woke up at 5am feelin' fine baby. 

So the 2011 St. Patrick's Day lessons learned?

  • Pizza can save your life.  Or at least you from a hangover.
  • Booze apparently is the answer.
  • Weirdness will happen.  Always.
  • That I should really explore using this magic box to look up one of those interweb-y 'how to' videos to see if that might make me a better signer.  I learned signing from a book. 
  • Clearly, I can not resist a long ass ponytail on a dude.  I just think it's a hoot.  And I feel compelled to yank it.
  • Seeing people who you once knew as a 16 year old, now as grown ass adults, makes ya feel old. 
  • Even St. Patrick's Day can be kinda sad.  Even when it's being kinda fun.



Terri said...

So glad you did go out. You are right- BOOZE IS the answer :)

Hope your toe is ok now. I hope you are getting better as each day ticks by- cus really, it WILL get better.

And the Mexican restaurant on LB2d's bacholorette party was nuttin compared to the tranny we saw in the strip club after- as I do recall you stickered "her" with a shamrock :)

BigBrownGirl said...

Even shim's need a shamrock, Mrs. Mackey. I'm glad you remember that. SEE! This is exactly why I'm keepin' this blog (= cyber memory)

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