Welcome back, folks! I know, I know — you’re infuriated because I ghosted this piece and was out living life like a real human. I’m sorry!!
This is going to be an ultra-disjointed, wild ride of a blob, since I have to cram in the past few weeks of hell-raising debauchery. IS THE WORLD READY?
Let me start with this gleaming pearl of wisdom Matt blurted out last week. We were doing our usual post-dinner-TV-extravaganza, and just as I was thinking to myself that a cuppa would be nice, Matt turned to face me.
“Want me to make you tea?” he asked knowingly.
“BUT…HOW DID YOU KNOW?!” I stammered.
With a sage smile, he dropped this truth bomb on me:
“Lilleh, being Irish means being able to anticipate every time someone wants a cup of tea.”
But moving right along, lemme tell ya’ll about last week: GENERAL ELECTION WEEK!
Since I work for MLAs, part of my duties temporarily included helping with the dissemination of flyers, pamphlets, etc. I was happy to support the party candidate, since I really wanted her to win, but I was a bit hesitant about going around to people’s houses and pushing random hoo-ha through their mailboxes. I felt…EXPOSED. This is basically my reaction to having to deal with THE PUBLIC at any time:
I was walking along a tiny avenue in the heart of working-class East Belfast. Two young boys were kicking a soccer ball against a wall, and as I passed them, one yelled out, “TAIG!”
Since I’m basically the yellowest person who ever lived, I didn’t react at all and kept walking — only to explode with anger once I was at a safe distance. I’ve come to grips with the fact that I am essentially the human version of this dog:
But wait: how did they know? This is what has bothered me the most! It’s not like I was chillin’ with this posse:
LOLOLOL Dennis Rodman tho.
Several Facebook commenters have posited that my red hair was the big tell. GING = CLOSET CATHOLIC? But there are a ton of redheads at the Presbo church! Well, at any rate, now that I know I can’t pass for shiz in East Belfast, I might as well start sporting my taig paraphernalia at all times.
Anyway, back to da stories. Election day also happened to be King Mattsy’s 30th bday, and the night before his family hosted a lovely pre-birthday pawty. There was pizza, chicken, and a little birthday cake! Which brings me to today’s second truth bomb.
American cake slices > Northern Ireland cake slices.
Now, I don’t mean they are greater in terms of taste. Cakes here are delicious. I mean greater in terms of volume. You get a piece of cake in America, chances are it is an idiotically humongous wedge that you will shovel down your gullet until you hate yourself. It’s not a piece of cake; it is a mountain of cake that covers an entire plate.
In contrast, a piece of cake in NI is a single mouthful of cake. You don’t even get a fork with it, because you can eat it in literally one bite! Piece of cake = microscopic fragment of cake. I usually have to sneak back for thirds of fourths to get my fill, like this:
However, on Matt’s actual birthday, I splurged and bought him a four layer “honeybun” cake from J Bird Bakery (RESPECT MA GANGSTA!). We plunged headfirst into hefty American-style slices as we watched all of the election results unfold.
Though the candidate I liked unfortunately didn’t win in East Belfast, I was just relieved the whole rigamarole was over. Because now I don’t have to put on this face while I listen to people talk about their political/social views:
Free and easy,