magically delicious
When I was a child my mom dressed me in orange for St. Patrick’s Day. This had something to do with the fact we were not Irish and she was an immigrant from England and basically thought everyone in Ireland was somehow affiliated with car bombs. Orange was the color of England or something. Maybe the protestant color which we weren’t. There was no color for atheists, though if there were it would probably be beige, so orange it had to be. Green was for Ireland and Catholics, and as she told me firmly, that’s not what we were. None of this mattered to me when I was getting pinched three thousand times on St. Patrick’s Day. And so I vowed I would always dress my kids in green for St. Patrick’s Day. I fully understand that this day is mostly about vomiting, which Clyde seems to know instinctively because he’s home today on account of a vomiting incident last night. But still.
So last night I went out to Target to make sure everyone would be in green. This after helping Hazel build a ladder out of tooth pics so a leprechaun could climb up a shoe box and fall inside the carefully placed trap door. We didn’t catch one. Again. Last year we didn’t either. Next year I’m waiting up with a stun gun, because I’m sick of that little fucker.
This morning, Ivy hid in the bathroom and sobbed I don’t want to go to school, which is how we’ve been starting out mornings lately. Hazel shouted at me for checking her leprechaun trap before she could. And so I lied and said, no, I meant I checked my leprechaun trap and I didn’t catch one. I haven’t checked yours yet. So of course she wanted to see mine, which would have been fine except I hadn’t made one, so I made up some excuse about how I threw it out already and the reason it wasn’t still in the trash is because maybe there HAD been a leprechaun in there hiding and when I threw the trap away, the leprechaun took the trap with him to use as his new home, because he’s an alcoholic and his house got foreclosed on.
Then as we’re getting in the car Hazel tells me her toast fell on the floor and could she have some more. Fine, but no time to toast it I said. So I ran inside slapped some butter on bread, brought it to her and she threw it down on the floor of the car. “What the hell?!” I said. And then she didn’t talk to me the whole way to school in the car. In the drop-off line at school, I turned to her and smiled. “I love you,” I said as cheerfully as I could manage. Silence. “I love you,” I said again. Silence. She slammed the door. Jerk, I muttered. Oh and I forgot to tell you that the WHOLE WAY (a twenty minute drive) to Hazel’s school, Ivy sobbed – drooling and snotting as she is prone to do – I don’t want to go to school. This is why the leather on the steering wheel of my car is starting to shred, because I’m always gripping it to keep from screaming. You know how I know this? Because when I texted the best zombie ever to express my frustration, I started to type “AAA” and my iPhone who knows me well, autofilled it to AAAahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! So you know I’ve typed that more than once.
Just now my friend who just moved to New Jersey texted me that she was on the train with a bunch of people who looked like Jersey Shore cast members and they were all in green and drinking Nyquil. And at first I was like oh my god, that sounds hideous. And then I realized that drinking Nyquil on a train sounds like a decent morning.
Listen up kids, you’re all wearing orange next year.
{ 6 comments }
1. My exhusbands’ family wore orange on St. Patrick’s. They are Irish Protestants.
2. I have almost the exact same morning every morning.
My grandmother was really pissed the year I forgot it was St. Patrick’s Day and wore an orange shirt. The Irish, they can be angry.
I say keep the green.
(And maybe use some of that Nyquil after the morning commute.)
What a morning you’ve had. Who knew St. Patrick’s Day could be so stressful?
I love you picture of Nyquil. That’s cleverer than my green writing and picture of Ireland on my post.
I may have to stop following your blog because it’s too freaky. My mother would tell me to wear orange also (which is a terrible color on my skin, by the way) because she’s Italian, but my dad is Irish. I think she was kidding, since I never saw her wear orange. I’ve never heard of anyone else saying to wear green until reading this post.
Worst mothers, carob, orange. What’s next?
Funny! That was some pretty smooth talking you did about the leprechaun trap.
My friend’s Swedish mother went to college in the US and wasn’t aware of the green St Paddy’s Day thing so wore – by mistake mind you – an orange dress on the fateful day. She was harassed by campus merrymakers and, not getting the joke, was quite genuinely terrified.
And I grew up in NJ. What your friend said? That all sounds about right. Wait until the train ride home. I predict it will be considerably more unpleasant.
The morning freezeout is the absolute worst.
My work uniform is green. And ugly as hell. Imagine how old it DIDN’T get when every customer was like “Oh, you wore green for St. Patrick’s Day” and I had to fake laugh about it.
Life needs more Nyquil.
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