NOT the Pride of Erin

On a March 17 night two or three years ago, as my wife, the babies and I drove home from a friend's party in Lakewood, my 2-year-old suddenly got way, way too much into the spirit of things by puking in the car. A lot.

"Welcome to St. Patrick's Day," I grumbled. "There will probably be many more of these for you when you get older."

Aye. On this particular St. Patrick's Day, sickness is nigh again. I feel I'm spinning and need to just double over and purge myself of the poison that poured into my body this evening.

Don't get me wrong: I don't drink anymore.

This is worse -- worse than the nausea that rises after 11 hours of downing shots of Jameson's with pints of warm, flat (and grossly under-malted) Guinness to blunt the despair you feel when even drunken girls won't heed your "Kiss Me, I'm Irish!" button.

Hold on ...
(Raaaauuughhhh ... fluuuuussssssshhhhh. Cough cough ...)

Sorry.

Maybe if I explain, I can quell the hurl.

See, a lad named Peter Callahan, from the County Sligo town of Gurteen, came to the States in 1863 with his wife, Margaret.

Peter Callahan is my great-great grandfather. Also along with Peter on that trip 'cross the pond was his brother Cornelias.

Which leads me to what is churning my stomach like hill repeats after cabbage-and-cheese soup and a glass o' whiskey:

Great-great Uncle Cornelias, I discovered a couple hours ago, has a certain great-great-granddaughter who's not a cyclist but knows all about crank stiffness and having her hands deep in the drops. Cycling must be in her blood, because her mom is a hell of a climber.

Cornelias' spawn -- my cuzz -- is Paris Hilton.

And I shudder to admit it, but the mite who did all that barfing in my back seat bears some likeness ...

Augh. I'm going back to the drink.


- JN