I am sitting here thinking about what it would be like to be Irish around March.
Man, it just isn't fair that even though my parents grew up in the Irish Channel of New Orleans I am half Cajun French, a quarter Sicilian and a quarter Italian (scary combo, I know).
I mean, why don't I get to have a million beautiful women kiss me in March, just because I am not, say Irish?
Do you have any answers for this?
I am thinking of contacting the ACLU for discrimination against Cajun French, Sicilian/Italian people not getting to make out on the streets during a parade.
I mean, I could start a movement called, "Cuddle me, I'm Cajun, " or one called "Sit down and pay attention to me today, I'm Sicilian," which, while it might be a way to turn lemons into lemonade, would still just be the equivalent of "life on the D list" or dating the man you are in love with's fourth and partly mentally ill cousin.
It just doesn't work.
Come to think of it, it really isn't fair that I am not Irish all year round. For instance, I am an alcoholic, right? (true story). And even though I no longer drink, it would really be nice (and more fair) to be able to explain my drinking away with my Irish genes, or, say, my Uncle Bud bringing it into the family gene pool. But, noooo. Rather, I am forced to take full responsibility for my past drunken streaking episodes and for waking up in bed with a sorority pledge of whom I didn't know the name. Ireland's fault? No Way. Just plain mine.
Well, I guess the upside of all this is I get to take responsibility for myself and I get to keep my girlfriend because I am not making out with women on the streets come March.
Bah Humbug.
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4 comments:
First of all, it's still funny to me that Sicilians separate themselves from Italians. It reminds me of my family. The Italians on my material Grandmother's side are from Naples. The (eye-talians) on my paternal side are from Calabria. They would get together for our birthday parties and talk smack on one another because one side was Calabrese and the other "Nab-lee-don". And it's not fun getting treated like a nazi spy because your maternal Grandfather is Russian. Speaking of alcohol, my Russian ancestors would be rolling in their orthodox graves if they saw how well I did not handle my vodka...and how it makes me act a fool. and i do have Irish in me too, but i'm not supposed to tell anyone. that being said, St. Patrick's day parades are scary. there's a whole bunch of crazy drunk white people who are "Irish" for a day and can't wait to tell you about it while peeing on a bench. you're not missing much. i once had a big, scary Irish woman tell me, "Don't F with me, I'm Irish". I still don't know what that means. we weren't at a parade. we were at a graduation party. very true story. anyway, technically, St Patrick, born of two Roman parents, grew up in Scotland, but is very much Italian. so there's that. and if you want i'll make you a t-shirt that reads "Kiss Me, I'm Italian,& Sicilian, & so was St. Patrick, b*tches". we'll sip on club soda and revel at the fact that we'll still have gf's when the day is over...
btw...i meant maternal grandmother. not material. i did mean eye-talian though...
funny funny costa..great..where is my t-shirt? ha.. we are writing to ourselves...ha
we're totally writing to ourselves. i'll have your shirt come march...
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