Feckin' Oirish

Since nobody's bitten it in the last twenty or so pages of Angela's Ashes, I am deeming this book safe reading after page 100. This Frank McCourt, now he has me in stitches. I went from tears to convulsive laughter last night, and that's what I call true writing talent.

Only thing is, (and Lede Me On might understand), I'm starting to talk like the feckin' Oirish! In my head voice and out loud.

This morning: "Ah, Jaysus, yer nappy's fulla shite!"

and:

"Take those knickers off yer head, lassie! Jaysus, Mary and Holy Saint Joseph, is it ye want to drive me to an early grave?"

Yaknowwhottameyan?

Och, och, och.

Och, Ai!

Maybe you've noticed from my fancy-schmancy sidebar lists that I'm currently reading Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt? This book has been all over the bestseller and awards lists for ages, but the title sounded so depressing that I just couldn't bring myself to read it until it was in the bargain bin at Barnes and Noble and I happened to have $5.98 burning a hole in my pocket.

It should come with a warning label: "Do not read this book if you have, know, or have ever seen a child because your heart will plummet to the depths of your gut and stay there."

This is not to say Angela's Ashes is not worth reading. It's sublime and you won't be able to put it down. But dear sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, could any more tragedy have befallen this poor Irish family? Och, Ai! ("Och, Ai!" is something the book's characters say a lot and after reading the phrase for, oh, the billionth time, it suddenly dawned on me: "Och, Ai, Och, Ai, Ok Ai, Ok-Ay, OK! OK! OK!" The Irish invented "OK"! Aren't you impressed? Am I the only person who did not know this bit of trivia? Ye crazy Oirish, with yer Guinness and yer fuzzy sweaters and yer smiling blue eyes!)

Now that I'm a parent, I'm finding there are millions of books and movies that could stand to sport warning labels. Motherhood is really kickin' my ass when it comes to things I can no longer stomach on TV or in literature. I remember watching Sophie's Choice pre-kids and though I found it extremely depressing and I cried, you didn't have to scrape my fried edges off the floor, you know what I mean? These days it's all I can do to get though an episode of Iron Chef (those poor baby eels!)

Will there ever come a time when I can watch something other than The View again?

Och, ai . . .