Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Maybe I'm Not Irish

I have had a tumultuous relationship with Jameson for over five years now. I still remember the night I met him. I was in Florida with two of my best friends, Gina and Armen. We were at a bar on Delray Beach. The bartender introduced us. We were discussing whiskey and he recommended Jameson. It was love at first taste. I decided right then and there I had Irish roots; my unknown great-grandpa obviously wore a kilt and looked like a leprechaun. I brought Jameson back to Utah with me and the rest is history. Sure we've had a few break ups but he'll always be my one true love. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I had never met Jameson...

(Insert movie dream sequence music here.)

Would I still have a hole burned in my stomach? What about Sharon, my drunk alter ego? Would she still have been born? Spitting on people and yelling at my friends? Would family Christmases be more clear? Which relationships would have been cut short and which may have lasted longer? How many secrets have been slurred? How many friendships strengthened by the unspoken commitment to finish a bottle? Would I understand talking shrimp? Would I have still made out with what's his name? Would I ever have had the courage to sing Backstreet Boys in a full bar? How many truths would be left unspoken?

Jameson hasn't always brought out the best in me. In fact, he may be responsible for bringing out the worst. But he is always there for me. He just understands. Lately, he's been a real jerk. Forcing me to drink too much, too fast; encouraging me to call people names; begging me to drink him on the rocks; making me miss work for him; insisting I pass out in my car or puke on the sidewalk. It's not ideal. But then there are the times when he makes everything perfect: Just a skosh to warm my belly while I listen to brooding music; a double shot to celebrate a friendship; one cocktail to share hysterical stories; one too many shots that cause rosy cheeks and anger (but not real anger).

So maybe I am not Irish after all. (As adequately displayed last night. R.I.P. corned beef and cabbage.) Maybe I am not equipped to drink 5 out of 7 days during the week. Maybe I am just a lush. The point is, I do love my Jameson whiskey. And I know I can count on him to be around for the next few years of goosebumps, first kisses, mistakes, and hangovers. And that, my friends, means a lot...


  1. My sister had an indoctrination to Jameson via Irish Car Bombs on this St. Pat's night and.......all the next day. As we drove into the Olive Garden parking lot at 3pm post Pat's day she says quietly "I think I'm gonna throw up" and I quickly pull over to the closest bush. Let it roll, let it roll... She finished her business and then we went and ate. Ahh, nothing like a good mid-afternoon heave-ho. :)

  2. ha! oh how i love this story! i, too, honored Jameson via the notorious irish car bomb and paid for it all night, all the next day, and even the next. my recovery may not have been as graceful as hers... but our lives may be running on a parallel universe. i walked into my grandma's house the next day; she was boiling corned beef and cabbage. i stopped, turned around, walked back outside, and threw up in the bushes. i blame the guinness. this was, of course, after vomiting all night on a certain lawn and in a certain toilet. yes, good times, good times. tell your sister to break up with the dirty rotten two-timing bastard! :)


chew it up or spit it out: