Hogmanay

No – its not some itchy, tropical sexually transmitted disease.

Wikipedia defines “Hogmanay” (pronounced IPA: [?h??m??ne?] as: the Scottish word for the last day of the year and is synonymous with the celebration of the New Year in the “Scottish manner.” It is, however, normally only the start of a celebration which lasts through the night until the morning of New Year’s Day or, in some cases, 2 January.

In other words – it is the term for the longest, drunkest, craziest, most fun New Years Eve party on the planet….AND I’m GOING TO BE THERE!!!!

[Scarlett does a little dance]

Not to mention that I’ll be surrounded by cute men with accents – swoon! Could there be a better way to ring in the New Year??? I think not!

And so I have decided to drag my Celtic heritage laden ass to Scotland. The land of Braveheart, kilts, Scotch, Sean Connery, Mary Queen of Scots, Gerard Butler!

Jersey and I will be leaving DCA the afternoon of December 29, arriving in Edinburgh on December 30^th  (via Detroit, via Amsterdam, not the most direct route, I’ll grant you but…). We'll arrive just in time for the “Night Afore” festival, which is essentially a New Year’s Eve EVE celebration! 

Will, of course post more info soon – just thought I’d share! If anyone else feels like freezing their arses off on the Royal Mile the night of December 31^st, please join the fun!

Frankly, I cannot WAIT!

 

Tuesday was tres fabulous, fyi.

There’s nothing like being a redheaded irish girl on St. Patty’s Day – by the end of the day, I felt like a damn celebrity. Of course it could have been the euphoric effects of the green jell-o shooters, whiskey shots and tons of beer….but I like to think it was because I was receiving an incredible amount of male attention and beaucoup des free drinks. It was a healthy dose of some much needed ego boosting.

Crazy Bitch also got a hearty helping of adoration – go girl!

Canadian is coming to town tomorrow – did I mention that?  For a work conference. For nine days. So it looks as though my rather arid physical streak could be at an end.

In other news I exchanged drunken txt messages with Tex – which was promising. My potential FWB (aka Rugby) guy is getting dangerously close to being kicked to the curb and I have a date with a NEW GUY on Friday. Also managed to score the oh so elusive second date with the PRIEST. Ok – he’s not a priest – he’s a preacher – a cleric – a man of god (but priest sounds better).

Get this ok, we all remember Army? Yes? No? Anyways, ok so for the sake of illustration lets just say that Army’s name is “Joe”. He’s a major in the army. He’s in Afghanistan. The Priest’s name is also “Joe”. He’s a major in the army. He’s going to Afghanistan in 2 months. OY!

Well, with any luck he can bring me…closer to God before he leaves.

Hell. Straight to. In a Prada purse. Ya – that’s where I’m headed.

 

So now that the drunken marathon of days and nights of drinking in the name of St. Paddy has come to an end and even though my hangover is creeping up on me, I owe you a report.

Shamrock fest– where to begin?

Well, the indications of a promising day came not when my first Irish coffee was consumed, or upon stepping onto the blue line to see the other emerald clad celebrators. It was when I heard my name called out through the rushing crowd to disover Red and her new beau behind me! What a wonderful surprise! I hadn't seen this woman since a blogger happy hour in 2006! (You look great, btw!)

For the 1% of the DC drinking population that WERE’T at Shamrock Fest, let me sum it up for you. First of all, the weather was AMAZING! As my wifebeater tan lines can attest, my shoulders now carry newly minted freckles from being on black asphault all afternoong with the sun reflecting up and down. It was wonderful – the first real taste of spring, and I can’t think of a better way I could have spent it.

After several trips to the beer carts to refill our mugs, we ventured out into the crowd and experienced the always amazing Synthian, followed by the rousing cover songs sung by Below Sixth all dressed in matching Boston Celtics Jerseys. Soon after, Red and I had the amazing opportunity to interview the band, Carbon Leaf. (Interview to follow).

And while we were by no means the only scarlet haired gals roaming about RFK grounds on Saturday, we each received more than our fair share of redhead admiration - which ALWAYS makes for a good time. And the day went thusly, dancing, drinking, running into random friends. That is until, the sun went down.

Upon sunset, I found myself in the front of the stage of Burnt Sienna, an amazing cover band, that was inspiring some pretty ‘amazing’ behavior from the crowd. Please realize that by this time I had gained and lost my buzz several times over, eaten some alarmingly greasy food, danced in the sun stood in many many lines and lost track of Red! 

Drunken guys are pretty ridiculous in general – showing their apparent intoxication and would be virility. In college, stupid drunken frat boys would set things on fire (this incindiary adventure was usually spearheaded by the Russian). At Shamrock Fest, the boys surfed over crowds, slammed against each other mosh pit style and grabebd girls' asses as they walk by (an ill advised move when one is holding hands with a big tough army man - as the man who tried to manhandle my tusch soon discovered). I expect such angsty fraternal stupidity as I lived with a prime specimine last year. But drunken girls.

Stupid, bitchy girls – was more than I could handle after a day of beer in the sun. Not only stomping – literally stomping on my feet (which would have been bad enough in tennis shoes, but was especially unpleasant Trailer Trash Tammy chose to dress herself like the prom queen in 4 inch stillettos to come to an outdoor festival); the pushing – oh the pushing; the vommiting (not ON me but near enough to make it unpleasant); and last but not least the Drunken falling down on top of semi-sober people, pushing the crowd in all directions.

I've come to the conculusion that I am either WAY too old or was way to sober for this kind of environment.

At this point I limped over to the main stage not because I was especially jazzed about Great Big Sea (who proved to be more than amazing - truly), but because a little bird told me that Russell – be still my heart – arms the size of tree trunks – bad boy all the way – aussie accented - hourse riding- band playin'- do me up against the wall - someone hand me a fresh set of batteries – Crowe was to play with the band.

And so I waited, again, up front, in the crowd though pleasantly surprised to find that that I had left planet 'drunken bitch' and returned back to earth for this was the crowd of ‘normal’ people who weren’t proned to puke, stomp, push, or engage in other such asshole-ish behavior all over you. It was a lovely group of people.

And so even when it started raining, I stood there. My feet hurt, my sunburned shoulders hurt, my head hurt, my hair hurt, but I stood there. In the rain. With no beer. And the band played and played. And I got sober-er and sober-er. 

Finally, he came out and he played a song by Johnny Cash I could hear his voice echo accross the emptying, litterd lot as I walked towards the exit. I admit it. I had given up. Somewhere along the line, about 5 whole minutes before he came on – I couldn’t take it anymore. Because truly, if I had stayed to hear that man who defines all things sexy, the nice, sober, unasshole-ish people around me would have been picking my ass up off the soggy, dirty ground. I had just enough energy to let Army Guy guide me back to the metro and then up the stairs to my apartment, complaining all the way - because I was DONE. 

So I am only sorry Russell, you didn’t come for me when I was younger, more intoxicated, and able to withstand an entire day’s partying and dancing and drunk people. I haven’t outgrown you, my darling it just turns out that there are limits to my love.

Frankly,

 

It’s that time of year again – deep sigh. Silly Grin.

Beer, beads, green, music – arguably the most wonderful time of year – St. Patty’s Day! The day celebrated with beer…and whiskey…lots of beer (and whiskey). It’s almost more happiness than this irish redhead can bear!

I will refer you to last year’s informational post: The Non-Mick Guide to St. Patty’s Day; for ins, outs and advice. Truly, this is timeless wisdom - live it. learn it.

My SPD attire just arrived – So excited!  Whatcha think??

I hope all the DC area bloggers will be out in full force to cover ShamRock Fest 2008!

I seriously haven’t been this excited about an outdoor activity since my first night game as a varsity football cheerleader! And while, as ya’ll know this isn’t exactly a pop culture or music blog, it’s a ‘write whatever I feel like writing but mostly bitching about relationships’ blog, I have been given the opportunity to speak with some of the MANY FABULOUS bands slated to grace the stages at ShamRock Fest* this year, so that’ll be coming up! So get your tickets and don’t forget to buy the wayward redhead a beer!

Lá ’le Pádraig!

 

*Portion of all proceeds will benefit STOP CHILD ABUSE NOW - definitely a worthy cause to drink for!

It hasn’t quite hit me yet. I haven’t accepted the truth. I’m going to hide in my office and maybe it won’t find me. If I just keep drinking coffee and eat my greasy breakfast sandwich, the hangover won’t come. And the aspirin I took last night before bed, and this morning is definitely going to counteract the side effects of the combination of 4 glasses of wine, 5 glasses of champagne, and two redheaded slut shots. Ya. De-nile…not just a river in Egypt.

So now you have some vague concept of how I spent my Valentine’s Day – at least the last few hours of it. However, those hours of were necessitated by the events of the day which included a hit and run accident, a porn store outing and appearing half naked on the Channel 4 evening news – I shit you not. There was also an incident involving a gypsy, a Voo Doo Doll and a lack of needles – but that’s a story for another day.

So if you’re wondering why I missed the opportunity yesterday, to rant, rave, critique, sneer, wax philosophical and cynical about the meanings and insincerity of ‘love’, ‘relationships’ ‘dating’ verbally assult little cherubic angles and stomp little candy hearts with endearing sayings until they are nothing more than literary dust under my metaphoric Pretty Woman boots – that’s why. The subject matter is frankly, a newly reborn single girl’s wet sarcastic dream!

However, I will make the following observation (it’s profound, and shocking – so wait for it!)….MEN ARE IDIOTS. Seriously. Can I tell you how many men I talked to last night who bitched about Valentine’s Day and how ‘they don’t need some special day to show they care’, the ‘meaningless consumer driven holiday’ and the ‘evils of hallmark’? Well let me fill you in on a little secret men  - gather round. Don’t be shy. (Canadian, why don’t you come over here and sit by me, just to make sure you catch everything I’m saying, ‘wink’). You’re always whining and moaning about how to ‘make a woman happy’? Trying to figure out ‘what women want’? It’s simple  - I have even included pictures so you can understand the big words: 

 

It’s truly that simple. So instead of bitching and moaning and whining like little girls, grow a pair, man up and ultimately, get laid. No one looses in this situation! And everyone shows up for work on Friday with a smile, feeling sexually satisfied, less angsty and trying to avoid their hangovers (Well, at least the last bit applies to me!). Speaking of avoiding, I do see my headache starting to peer at me from around the corner, so I’m going to go hide in the conference room.

A very happy, if somewhat belated, Valentine’s Day to you all.

Frankly,

 

 

Since Paddy's is fast approaching boys and girls and my Favorite Irish Boy in Detroit has been gracious enough to provide this annual helpful guide for all of you non-Irish kids.

I am sure that all of my fellow Micks will confirm the usefulness of this material. However, I must warn you - the following contains language of a non-politically correct nature. Read at your own risk.

Slainte,

Dear prospective Laddies and Lassies,

It's almost here again. The happiest fuckin' day of the entire fuckin' year, St. Patrick's Day! The one day of the year when the 2% of us in the world's population that actually are Irish gets the other 98% of ya completely shit-faced.

However, while we appreciate that those of you who are not Irish wish to join us in celebrating the day St. Patrick drove the serpents out of Ireland using only the power of God, a gallon of Jameson and weapons-grade irradiated cobalt, the way most people observe St. Patrick's Day is offensive and disrespectful.

There's nothing more pathetic than some fat Polack swilling seven Buds mixed with carcinogenic green dye drunkenly arguing that INXS is authentic Irish music just before barfing into a plate of corned beef and cabbage.

Let's face it: most people are ill-equipped and in no condition to handle the "all-day drunk" that is St. Patrick's Day. However, if you follow this simple blueprint, you can enjoy St. Patrick's Day with little fear that anyone will think you're not from the 'Auld Sod', even if your name is Ahmed Al Jihad.

Leg 1: 7 A.M. to 9 A.M.

Rise and shine early. Take a long, hot shower, and liberally use aftershave, perfume, cologne, deodorant and powders afterwards, because by 3 p.m., you will be excreting raw alcohol and other noxious toxins, and without proper preparations, you will smell like a three-day dead cat wrapped in a fraternity carpet.

The bars usually open, (and you should be there), by 9 at the latest, so be diligent, and use this time to wisely in preparation for the day.

_____________________________

Side Note #1: Collect the following supplies and put them in a place where you will easily be able to find it in an impaired condition. I recommend the bathroom floor, between the toilet and the baseboard heater vent, since, let's face it, that's probably where you'll end up at the end of the night anyways.

One (1) Quart Spring Water
One (1) Large Bottle Aspirin (800 mg)
Five (5) Pairs Depends Brand Undergarments
One (1) Bottle Percocet
One (1) Gram Morphine Sulphate
One (1) oz. Human Adrenaline Extract
One (1) Pre-Charged Defibrillator
Four (4) Cardiac Needles
One (1) Trauma Surgeon

______________________________

Side Note #2: It's also very important to remember that the final impression you leave on Paddy's is the most important of the day. Visualize your desired result, and the action that must be taken in order to achieve said result. That way, as you are being dragged from the bar later, you will remember to begin screaming at the top of your lungs that you want to take your drink with you.

______________________________

Back to the schedule...

Brew one (1) strong pot of coffee--the stronger the better.

Add nine (9) fluid ounces Jameson Irish Whiskey.

Drink the whole damn thing.

It cannot be stated enough that you must continue to drink coffee liberally throughout the entire day. Us Micks are not as dumb as we look -- there is a damn good reason that we invented 'Irish Coffee'. Unless you ingest ridiculous volumes of artificial stimulants throughout the course of St. Patrick's Day, I can say without hesitation, without hyperbole, and with absolute certainty that you will die.

Arrange to be picked up to be taken to the bar no later than 8:45 A.M. I cannot stress enough that you should not drink and drive. There is no reason to chance losing your license or killing someone in a drunken state when you have plenty of idiot friends willing to take that risk on your behalf.


Leg #2: 9 A.M. to 11 A.M.

Arrive at the bar right when it opens.

Make sure this is an Irish bar if at all possible. An Irish bar in Boston is the best alternative, since 'Boston' in Gaelic means 'West Kilarney'. However, almost every city in America has bars called 'The Blarney Stone', 'McSomethings', or 'The Dirty Fucking Mick'. Just try to ignore the fact that the bar is probably owned by Koreans.

Secure a barstool and do not leave it under any circumstances. The bar is liable to be packed by noon at the latest, and real Irish people do not wait in line for drinks, no matter the consequences.

While I do recommend the use of an adult undergarment to mask unpleasant smells, it really doesn't matter. By noon, you'll be sopping wet with spilled beer anyway, and your mild urine smell will be completely overpowered by the toxic stench of vomit.

I recommend starting out with a few more Irish Coffees to spike the stimulant level, however, you should not order an 'Irish Coffee', as you will be given a fruity little glass mug topped with whipped cream and a fucking cherry -- and either me, or some guy named Seamus will call you a yuppie fucking poseur while putting a cigarette out on your neck.

Ask for coffee with Jameson or Bushmills and ask the bartender to leave the whipped cream can--and not for the coffee. Nothing will add spice to your day like the occasional whippet.


Leg #3: 11 A.M. to 2 P.M.

It's lunchtime!

You may not be hungry, but it's important to eat something, because like the man said in Blazing Saddles: "Man drink like that, without eating, he is going to die."

If you want to maintain your buzz and not get that dreaded, hideous, bloated feeling that could slow down your drinking, there are really only two options as I see it: popcorn or Pop Tarts. Both have the carbohydrates you'll need to give you energy, both will soak up excess bile in your stomach, and most importantly of all, both have names that are hard to slur.

______________________________

Side Note #3: If you start slurring your words too early, you'll hear the most frightening phrase in the English language besides "I'm pregnant", and that is: "You're cut off".

______________________________


By now, you should have already switched off of coffee drinks to beer. You have only one option here: Guinness Stout. You may be tempted to order green beer, but remember: beer doesn't always turn green just because of food coloring.

If that doesn't sway you, remember the fact that I (or Seamus, etc.) will call you a yuppie fucking poseur (again) while putting a cigarette out on your neck (again).

Leg #4: 2 P.M. to 7 P.M.

By now, the bar is definitely crowded as people take long lunches and bail out of work early to tie one on.

If you're doing your job correctly however, the bar should look two (2) or three (3-3-3) times as crowded as it really is.

By now, you may be in conversation with some real fucking Irish people. And, since the person you came with has most likely already been taken away by ambulance, some conversational points to remember when talking to the Irish are:

"Football" really means "Soccer," and you should be more passionate about it than even for your own wife or husband....and...

* The English are all piss-arsed, pig-fucking bastards who should be lined up and kicked into the liffey.

If you remember those two points, as well at least three (3) derogatory names for Tony Blair (and of course, Margaret Thatcher), you can talk to the Irish for hours.

You should continue to drink Guinness throughout this leg, although, keep in mind that if your heartbeat has become irregular, you may want to have another Irish Coffee.

The Home Stretch: 7 P.M. til 'You-Inevitably-Black-the-Fuck-Out'

Your goal, of course, is to be the last person to leave the bar at closing time.

______________________________

Side Note #4: Nowhere in the above sentence do I say anything about remembering that or anything else.

______________________________


Of course, this will be impossible, since a blood alcohol content of .50 equals death, and you should be pushing at least a .35 or .40 by now.

The only way for a true Irishman to leave a bar before closing time (with his honor still in tact) is to be hauled away by the police.

If you absolutely must leave before closing time, do the only thing that any respectable Irishmen would do in that situation: Throw a punch.

It doesn't matter who you hit, or even why; (no one's made any sense since 3 o'clock this afternoon, anyway).

Keep in mind that with this strategy, you will be beaten mercilessly, since your fine motor skills, (having been gone since late in Leg #2), are roughly the equivalent of a shoe -- but it doesn't really matter since that one minor disadvantage is definitely outweighed by the significant advantage that you can't really feel anything anyways.

Depending on your community, the police should arrive within fifteen (15) minutes to scrape you off the floor and clap you in irons.

Once again, the final impression you leave is the most important: as you are being dragged from the bar, make sure you begin screaming at the top of your lungs that you want to take your drink with you. You will be a legend, and by now the friend who took you to the bar should have had his or her stomach pumped, and will be able to bail you out.

By following these simple guidelines, your St. Patrick's Day experience will be one that you would never forget -- if it weren't for the fact that it is physically, and biologically, an impossibility for you to remember any of it.

Slainte chugat,

Scarlett's Favorite Irish Boy