Kiss me, I'm Irish!

OF COURSE I wore green today. I wore that tight little green sbux apron ... AND NOTHING ELSE!

Now, wouldn't THAT be a St. Paddy's Day to remember at my little coffee shop! (but the air would tickle between my thighs, and the apron would be abrasive on my little titties (not in a bad way, mind, but ... well, whew! is it hot in here? My cheeks are pink!)

hehehe

I feel giddy. I feel silly-funny. I feel ... well, this shows you how Irish I am: I didn't even remember today was St. Patrick's day until people started showing up wearing green, all day! And then I was like ... DOINK!

So, hm, what's in the fridge? WHO CARES? 'Cause I'm going OUT to an Irish Pub (pronounced: poob) and CELEBRATE!

Ooh! I have a joke for you! What's an Irish seven course meal? ...
... A six pack and a boiled potato!

Get it? Get it? hehehe

Yes, it's still Lent, but isn't this a solemnity in some countries? like Ireland?

And you know what? On St. Patrick's Day, EVERYBODY's Irish. It says so on a big sign at the Guinness plant in Dublin: "On St. Patrick's day, EVERYBODY's Irish." So there!

(EVEN St. Patrick ... who WASN'T! but don't tell the Irish that, unless you want to play some Irish Standdown ... and lose!)

(I don't think I'll try the Guinness tonight though. I tasted that once, and ... I mean, just a taste, and now I know what they mean by that drink being a seven course meal!)

So, boys and girls, kiss your girlfriend, 'cause today, she's Irish! YAY!

Hey, you two, back there, this isn't France, and if you're going to be doing that, get a hotel room, for goodness sake!

Okay, I'm outie! Mothers, lock up your daughters, 'cause `phfina's on the prowl, and the panther is uncaged!

ROWR!

Addenda

Addendum 1, re: 'good little wifey and mom'

... yeah, right. If it pleases the court, I submit exhibit a (above), you see how brown that carrot bread is? Do you know how the Jews built the pyramids? They took that solid as a rock, burned to a crisp carrot bread and stacked one on top of each other until, voilà (or 'Violet'): pyramids.

And all I said to myself was: 'Oh, I'll just lie down here for a minute, and just rest my eyes ...'

... four hours later ... is that something burning?

You know, in Arabic tradition, the first thing the new bride does is make bread in the tandoor for her mother-in-law. It has to be perfect: not to doughy, not burnt. I saw a picture of one young girl crying because just one minute of inattention had the bread singed. Perfect start of the marriage there, eh? with the mother always saying, 'Oh, yes, I remember that time little Fatima burnt the bread ...' with a very stern and scolding look.

Addendum 2, re: fox supple.

Okay, okay, quit twisting my fallen-off arms, okay? So, I went back and revisited the soufflé recipe — the 'real vrai egg soufflé' recipe — and how could I not, with Saga saying, scoldingly, 'oh, but I'll try the real soufflé recipe, not your fakey one' (she didn't actually say that) and the French brigade and gendarmes battering through my door ("Oh, heresy! Sacrilege! Sacre Bleu! [whatever that means ...] You must try the vrai true recipe for the fun and joy of seeing if the soufflé stands!") (I do not know what fun it is to have your arms fall off, but whatevs ...) and this time, using a wisk, and much stronger, more exercised arms, and a wee bit more experience, it came off rather quickly, and yes, it was light and airy ... effervescent, even, unlike my quick faux substitute.

Still took an hour.

But it was yummy.

Anyway. You choose.

Addendum 3, re: 'Whatever that book was'

That book was a graphic novel. This guy wrote about boring stuff like vampires and stuff, and his friend/editor said: 'Meh.' and 'Blä.' and 'Write from your heart! Write from your soul! Don't give me this garbage!'

So he wrote and drew a graphic novel, about a girl, 24 years old, with terminal breast cancer.

And it's heartbreaking, poetic, beautiful ... as she's dying in the cancer ward, no hair, wasting away, she ...

Well, research it and read it. I won't describe any more to you. But he wrote about hope, you see, even in dying, even in death, he wrote about hope.

I think I see part of what my 'writer's block' is about.

...

I have so much else to write, and to say, but I'm off to a wake. A friend of the family died.

Hm. I wonder what will be said when I will die? 'A friend of the family died.' Probably not. I need friends for that to be said.

I'm not fishing, btw, so don't bother.

You know: update soon and all that. All we have is now; that's all you're given. You can't expect anything from me, like updating soon or finishing a story or responding to a PM, and I can't either. I mean, I try and I'll try, but one day soon ... well, all you'll see is that I haven't updated in a while. That's all. I appeared for a short time, wrote some things, and, like Violet, I'll just be gone, is all.

I'm sad, for some reason.

I love you all.

I am Violet

It's incredible ... *ahem* ... what computers and surveys tell you ... me, I mean.

I watched the Incredibles while I was 'sitting my nieces one day, burning the carrot bread in the oven (oh, well), and I was like, 'Wouldn't it be neat to have a superpower! I wonder what my power would be?'

No capes.

This survey told me exactly what power I would have. It even told me my name and my ... charming personality ... 'quirks.' To the letter:

Perhaps a bit under-confident, and you just want to fit in and not be different. But you may wish to be different, and confident, and all you need is a push in the right direction

And 'Violet' is described as:

At the beginning of the movie, Violet is shy; she doesn't want to be noticed and it shows by the way her hair covers her face and she always looks down and speaks in a low, quiet voice. Violet lacks self confidence.

Joy. They pegged my superpower: I disappear. Whenever I feel cornered, I run away. I'm a very good vanisher. And they got the hair right, too.

Did I choose my name, like I think I did ... or did my name choose me?

The L-word

No, not that word. This word: Lent.

'What should I give up for Lent?' I wonder.

Went to Ash Wednesday Mass today: "Remember thou are dust and to dust thou shalt return" the priest intoned as he brushed my hair aside and smudged ashes on my forehead.

I felt them there, all day. Like they were burned into me.

So what should I give up? Liquor, Liqueur or ... lick her?

The thing is, you're supposed to give up something you desire (yes: check), but it's not supposed to be something sinful you are giving up. You see: you're just not supposed to be doing sinful things, ever.

And when I say 'you,' of course I mean 'I.'

So, giving up the booze? Well, that's fait accompli, anyway: I finished off the vodka ... after I finished off the St. Germaine, after I finished off the Scotch after I ...

Well, you get the picture.

... just before Lent.

No temptation, no sin.

You all must think I'm a lush, but really, I only drink a very little. This body of mine can only take a very little before I can't feel my cheeks and then everything goes all sepia-toned.

Um ... did that last statement convince you?

I don't get drunk-drunk (as I continue to dig my own grave here, why not go on?), I just get 'slightly'-drunk, so that's okay, right?

Anyway, I won't be getting drunk during Lent. No alcohol left, and I don't have this month's rent, due tomorrow (well, today), so no money to buy more. Nor food. Nor gas, but I can walk to work, anyway.

It's okay: Dad sent a check, and it should clear RSN.

And how many months has Dad bailed me out? And how many more will he have to?

One option to ease that burden.

So I could give up another L-word for Lent, instead of Liquor and Liqueur, and that is: Life.

But the thing here is, boy, `phfina, haven't you given up on life already. You can't give up on something you already gave up on.

The prayer goes: "God, don't let me die until I'm dead."

That prayer has 'me' written all over it. "God, ..."

I can't even finish it without crying. Trying again: "God, please, tonight."

Every night I pray that, and every morning I wake, disappointed. Once again, God said 'no.' And I can't even ask 'why?' I mean, seriously: "God, in your infinite wisdom, why me?" That's a non sequitur and a half.

Giving up on life. Ha.

You know I read the newspapers sometimes. Those book reviews. One was by a Balkans girl born in 1985 that is now an international best seller, writing about the 'Tiger's Wife' ... writing about herself, that she remembers from being 12 years old. And she put that into a book and is now the toast of the town. And there was another one, that now I can't even remember, I just know that they all, all those book reviews, point at me and say: 'Aha, aha! Look at them, doing something with their lives. Really reaching people. And look at you in your pity party.'

I don't envy them their success. No, I'm glad for them. It's just another nail in my coffin though, seeing people do things with their lives, and me ...

I look at college 'kids' (oh, `phfina, you're so old!) and feel ...

... I feel betrayed, ... by their youth. I'm young, but I'm old, old, old, because I have no future, except continuing to be a burden on society, ... and on my family. But the college kids, they are young, but when they look out of their eyes, they look forward, with hope, and optimism and determination, and ...

And life.

I'm afraid to go back to college to teach, ... not that I'm going to, but do you remember that movie with Anton Yelchin? Where he shows up, first day of public school, and one of his classmates tells him where the teacher's lounge is? I would have the opposite problem. I show up at the teacher's lounge, and they would say, 'oh, are you lost, little freshman? You'll be late for your class, where's your schedule?'

I look like a little girl, and that's what I'm taken as sometimes, so everything I say is 'aw, that's so cute, isn't she precious?'

Empty. Meaningless. Worthless, because who listens to a 12-year-old.

Not that I look 12, all that much, anymore. But my id ... it's like the look on their face is 'this is obviously a fake.'

Fuck.

Maybe you should give up the L-word 'language,' `phfina, eh?

I mean, I could blend right back into college, except for the fact that they have hope and a future, and I don't.

The other, obvious, thing I should give up is that L-word: l.e.s.b.i.a.n.

I should just give that up, you know. I mean, I was thinking of the convent, you know. Really. When I was younger.

Much younger.

And then it all went to shit.

Mary shows up. My dad leaves. I turn out to be ... same-gender directed.

And then ...

And then it gets weird, 'cause like, okay. There must be something wrong with me.

(Heh. That's a 'no dur' one)

'Cause like, okay, I mean, why is it that the wind blows and I'm like ...

I mean ...

I mean I see a girl, and all I want to do is fvck her. I mean, if she is beautiful, and what woman isn't, in her own way, as she hopes, and struggles, and preens and tries and ... hopes. And physical intimacy?

I seriously thought something was wrong with me, 'cause just a touch, just a touch of tenderness, and I'm like: ready. As in the switch is thrown and I'm going and you can come, too, and I will be more than happy to help you, for as long and as often as it takes.

'Frigid'? What's that? My whole body is an erogenous zone, and, and for the girl, ... if she thinks she was frigid, well ...

Well, I have the, erhm, patience and, um, perseverance, and the pent-up passion to ... help a girl who thought she couldn't ... well, you know.

So, me, going to a convent?

And nuns scare me. I mean, really. Look at them. I look at them a few times a week when I go to Mass. They are ...

... they are God's soldiers, and short and plump or long and lean, they have that iron-will determination to get you to Heaven, even despite yourself. If I went to a convent, they would straighten the hell out of me in two shakes.

So I could give up being 'a lesbian' I suppose, for all of, oh, two seconds, given the ... heightened, um, responsiveness and sensitivity of my body and my ever (over-)active imagination. I could give up my appointments with that 'young man' 'Master Bates.' I could.

40 days and 40 nights.

Hm.

BOOM! (sound effect of `phfina exploding)

Again, there's these codes, and my activities and preferences aren't exactly cricket ... or (hahaha) kosher.

So giving that up, not to get me to the nunnery, so married off to a strong stalwart of a man? Having babies and being a productive and contributing member of society, instead of a burden.

Could I be happy, being that? A good little wifey and mom?

I've seen that happen, and I've seen ... well, the girl very happy in her new role, her new life.

But she was already a happy person to begin with: kind, caring, loving. Just joyful.

But me ...

I suppose you have to be happy already to become happy.

Or something.

Wah-wah-wah, poor `phfina.

You know (and yes: I do know), the L-word I should really give up?

Laziness.

I should get off of my sad little wallowing ass and pick up my pen again, and write from my heart. And dare. And breathe. And live. And hope.

Brave words. Brave words, so determinedly said, brave girl. So, go ahead. The doors right there. Open it, and step through. I dare you. And so, so many are hoping and praying that you do. Stop lying. Stop lying in that bed, wallowing. Stop lying to yourself, shutting out the world, telling yourself it'll be okay if it all just goes away.

Yes, that's what I should do, huh?

Yeah.

40 days. Today was the first day.

You know, Mary dared. She did. She said 'yes,' in the face of entire loss: shame to her family and Joseph, and, if he were a righteous man by the standards of the time (that time being: today), she would be stoned to death.

I ... in Mass today I didn't see Mary, but I imagined the final battle. Do you know Michael was just a lowly archangel? And, I think, anyway, the reason God picked him to cast out Lucifer, the Light Bearer, an angel so great he was right next to God?

The reason?

Because all the other angels were like, 'I'm not worthy to the task God asks of me.' So they all stood around, looking toward God, and Michael raised his hand and said, ' ...' well, what could he say? I don't know, but maybe just stepping forward like that, a lowly archangel in the face of the Cherubim and Seraphim singled him out to do that task.

So I thought, for the final call, when Satan is finally defeated, the same quandary will arise. But this time, Mary's there, and she see this and roll her eyes and stamp her foot, and say, 'Oh, please!' and scold everybody with her thirty years of being a mother gives her and tell Satan, 'Okay, enough's enough, out you go,' and throw him out the door by his ear, and that will be that.

No huge pomp and ceremony. Just a mom, cleaning house, all of 14 years old when she held Jesus in her arms, or 44 years old when she let him go.

No big deal. But to God, nothing can be a big deal, because He's the biggest deal around.

No big deal, `phfina, just pick yourself up and go. By the ear and throw yourself and your scared little lazy ass out that door into the world. And live.

No big deal.

Well, we'll see.