“When all of a sudden, people say, ‘Wow, you look nice,’ and carry on, it’s shocking. Really awkward.”
– Nikki Cox
Hey kids! Let's learn about history from your bizarre Aunt C.!
If ever you are participating in a group game night with a bunch of people you have only met once before and with whom you share absolutely no history, conversation, or shared interest (because they are part of your brother-in-law’s set and that one time you met them before was over a year ago), and you a playing a game in which you have to describe a person from history…who might not have been a palatable choice for a conservative crowd…
…do not, under any circumstances, try to get your teammates to guess the name on the card you chose. Skip it and go to the next card. Trust me on this.
Dear, dear. Now we're all uncomfortable, aren't we?
Example: “Ok! He’s an 18th century French writer who was extremely controversial. Got locked up for years because of what he wrote, both in the Bastille and an insane asylum. To be fair he was basically a filthy, vile pornographer who wrote about horrible things. Word “sadism” comes from his name.”
Example Response: “Um, wow, C., you know a lot about this weirdo…”
“The list of Irish saints is past counting; but in it all no other figure is so human, friendly, and loveable than St. Patrick – who was an Irishman only by adoption.”
– Stephen Gwynn
This might be the only holiday where people have to actually genetically alter themselves to feel like they qualify for the desired binge.
For some reason, come St. Patrick’s Day every single person in the US seems to acquire Irish geneology, even where previously there was none before. And everyone gets wildly protective of their geneology and suspicious of others. I overheard a loud girl on her cell phone while walking from car to office today, “Yeah, I don’t know where she gets off saying she’s Irish! She just dyes her hair red. I mean, my family, we’re Irish…”
This is particularly funny to me these days because the state I live in is notoriously English and Scandinavian in terms of population. Blonde hair and blues eyes abound and names ending -son/sen are very much the majority. (Note: mobile phone girl was a Viking’s daughter if ever I saw one!)
Now, we do know we have some Irish ancestry because we have family records detailing which of them got gruesomely killed in the battle of Boyne, but I digress. The point is that my father is…wait for it…half Slovak. So my Dad has darker skin and tans wonderfully, as do all my siblings, and don’t get me started on my fantastically beautiful black-haired, blue-eyed, dark-skinned cousins!
And me? I’m short, brunette, green-eyed, incredibly pale (un-tan-able) and bad-tempered. That’s right: a leprechaun.
“At least she’s eating better things than macaroni and cheese.”
– Heidi Klum
Translation of fragment: "Mac and Cheese is food fit for dogs. And Gauls. Go Rome!"
Throughout my life my mother has been in school, in some capacity or another. When I was about three or four, she had to leave Dad and I for a few weeks to finish up something or other with one of her degrees (I misremember which. Which isn’t me being a bad daughter, it’s her having one in Asian Studies, one in American History, and now another in Classical Studies from Cambridge because she decided to learn Greek and Latin. In other words, my mother is exceptionally awesome). Time has blurred the details a bit but as I recall, this was an absolute highlight of my short life because Dad and I subsisted on mainly pizza.
I didn’t realize this during the Great Pizza Blitz, but it turned out that my Dad hated cooking. Really hated it. He encouraged my Mum to go to school, continue her education throughout her life, and work if she wanted, but by golly the one thing he wanted was dinner to be on the table, because left up to him, dinner would come grudgingly from a frozen package.
So, a few years down the road when she decided to teach for a semester or two at a local university, I thought the Pizza Affair would be reborn. I was sadly, terrifyingly mistaken.
This is NOT food.
Mac and Cheese. From a box. Every night. Some days even for lunch. Sometimes we varied it up with chunks of hotdog, but mostly not. Again, I’m sure both time and horror have worked their magic on me and the vile orange sludge was not as prolific as I remember, but it sure seemed like it at the time. When my mother’s teaching finished, I refused to eat another disgusting, processed bite, and I’ve never touched it since. Once when shopping J. picked up a box for himself on days when I’d be at school late or he needed a lunch, I had to swallow escaping bile.
However, watching Food Network the other day, I saw a recipe for ‘Grown Up Mac And Cheese’ and thought suddenly to myself, “That doesn’t look so bad.” It sounded pretentious enough that I could assure myself that it would be as un-Kraft-like as possible, but looked really easy to make. So, on Sunday I girded my loins and made Mac and Cheese for the first time in years.
And you know what? It was pretty darned tasty!
**I’ll still never make the packaged stuff again. My children will not be subjected to this powdered cheese monstrosity, except to survive the Zombie Apocalypse. And even then, I might choose death.
“I came up with direct marketing. Well, someone else already had, but I came up with it independently.”
– Mad Men (Pete Campbell)
“I love your necklace!” said a patron to me today. “Did you get the idea from Ugly Betty?”
“Er, no,” I answered, having never watched the show. “Anne Boleyn.”
“Oh. Who’s that?”
Sigh. Stupid history degree. Nobody has a clue what I’m talking about half the time.
Small Dog Syndrome 