Tag: St Patrick’s Day

BLOG: Lady, Interrupted

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Thursday.

At the coffee shop. One of my barista friends was so happy to see me when I came in. She was like, “OMG you are literally the first normal person to come in here today. All morning it’s been tourists! They just keep getting weirder and weirder. And then they treat us like we are the problem! What is that about?”

I am going to go out on a limb and guess the tourists in question are either Mainlanders or Russians. Everyone knows Mainlanders have some very specific, very strange behaviors that distinguish them from HongKongers. It’s fun to observe from afar. It’s not so fun when you’re right in the middle of a large group of them.

As for the Ruskies, well… I had my own unfortunate encounter with some tourists last night. It was… yeah.

I was not originally planning to go out last night because of my hangover. I was comfortably settled into bed watching movies when my friend messaged me out of nowhere and asked if I wanted to go out. It was about 10:30pm at this point. She is the one who I was supposed to go out with on St. Patrick’s Day, but she wasn’t feeling up to it.

We met up in Central around 11pm and walked around looking for a quiet place to chat. We found a super cute cocktail bar with an interior straight outta the palace of Versailles. Loved it! We were sitting there chatting and having a good time. That was when the Russians invaded.

A large group of them came in and flooded this tiny little place at once. All of them were wearing those stupid Leprechaun hats. They had clearly already been drinking for some time. They were loud and obnoxious and totally ruined the vibe. One of them even started doing Ye Olde Cossack Dance in the middle of the room. Don’t get me wrong; she was good as hell, but this was neither the time nor the place for such rowdiness.

We finished our drinks and relocated to a different place around the corner. It was still too loud. Neither of us were in the mood for that level of overstimulation. Either way, I was happy just to be there with her. It’s so refreshing to finally have a female friend I can just chill out and vibe with. I get so tired of being surrounded by men.

I really enjoyed hanging out with her last night. She reminds me to be grateful for this opportunity. I know I complain about my family all the time, but I do acknowledge the fact that they have helped me out financially A LOT. I just wish they wouldn’t be so fucking mean about it all the time. It’s essentially like getting paid to put up with constant verbal and emotional abuse. I just don’t want to listen to it anymore.

Literally, all I’m asking them to do is read my frickin’ blog. Read one of my stories. Just one time. Read a story! See where your money is actually going! Just one time! Bare minimum: acknowledge this website exists. Read a story. Stop saying crazy, unhinged shit like, “You’re not a REAL writer!” Yes, I am.

Do you even know how many men in Bangkok are angry with me right now because of the things I’ve written? How is that not real? And what about Bloody Mary’s? What about all the shit I stirred up when I was writing that? Furthermore, I am recognized and remembered as “Betsey Horton the Writer” everywhere I go. Everywhere. I can talk to someone for 20 minutes at a random bar in a place like Hong Kong, disappear for 3 months, come back, and be recognized STRAIGHT AWAY!

How is that not real? That is literally how celebrities are made! I didn’t choose this life. It chose me! People remember me. They remember my stories. I can’t wrap my head around their reasoning for pretending my entire body of work doesn’t exist.

Literally all my grandmother and aunt do is READ. You would think they would actually sit down and read what I have to write instead of shitting all over me and tearing me down all the time and pretending like I’m somehow different than Virginia Woolf or Jane Austen.

Virginia Woolf literally said, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” She wrote a whole book about it! You think I haven’t read that shit?! Come on! Who do you think inspired me to do this in the first place?! The worst part is… I know they’ve read Virginia Woolf too!

They literally act like I sit around doing nothing all day and that’s not true! Yes, I need an editor. Yes, I need an agent. Yes, I need connections and job opportunities and a variety of other things I don’t have. I’m not there yet.

I need better stories than whatever garbage I was writing when I lived in South Dakota. I have the stories. I am overwhelmed with stories. I need an editor who is going to sit down with me and seriously help me sort of the stories. I am trying to find this person. It hasn’t happened yet. In the meantime, just lay off of me already, would you?!

This is all coming up for me because my selections for my double feature movie night yesterday were Lady Bird (which I had never seen) and Girl, Interrupted (which I have not watched in about 20 years). Lady Bird is basically the most accurate depiction I’ve ever seen in media of my relationships with my mother, aunt, and grandmother.

Girl, Interrupted is… a little more complicated than that. When I watched the movie and read the book for the first time, I was literally in and out of a hospital like that because I was struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts. It was meaningful to see the struggles of myself and those around me glamourized onscreen by the likes of Winona Ryder, Angelina Jolie, and Brittany Murphy.

While I could relate to some of it when I was 17, I did not have the understanding of mental illness that I have now. I had not found my way “out” yet. I would argue that I did not get “out” until last year when I got the job in Hong Kong and ran for my fucking life. Sometimes I feel like I’m still “in” that place, metaphorically speaking.

That’s why they call it the Hotel California. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

Here is another reason I am upset with Hermes. I recognized him from the Hotel California the first time I met him. We all know each other here, even when we are total strangers. He kept commenting on the fact that he noticed I had what he referred to as “prison behaviors.” I always sit with my back to the wall, facing the room, watching the door, monitoring who comes in and who comes out. He does the same thing. He learned how to do it when he was in prison to stay safe. Same, same. The only difference is that I was in a hospital.

I am quite open about this particular aspect of my history because I think it’s important to erase the shame and stigma around mental illness and encourage others to get the help they need. However, I was not quite so willing to share this information with a total stranger in Bangkok who walks around telling everyone he’s with the IRA (he’s not). He basically wormed his way in and gained enough trust for me to explain this to him, and then he turned around and used it against me.

Not cool, bro! Totally not cool!

So yeah, I think it’s only fair to put that image up and make him look at his own lie directly in the face. I hope he really takes the time to sit with that and think about the consequences of his behaviors towards others. As previously stated, he is such a little shit! He needs a wake up call. That’s why I say… next time I’m coming back with the Big Spoon. I could do so much worse than this. You got off easy this time, friend. Don’t do it again.

Ultimately, I think of him as my weird Black Sheep cousin from the North who nobody wants to talk to or about. I see him in a very childlike way, in spite of the fact that he is slightly older than me. He is very, very young in my mind. Like a Peter Pan type. Just living it up in Never, Never Land, totally unwilling to ever grow up.

I could never relate to Wendy until now. I had fun on my little adventure in Thailand, but ultimately I chose to leave because I knew it was time for me to grow up. Strange metaphor to make.

In my heart, I know I will always think of the Irishmen I met in Bangkok as my spiritual family. I’ve got my crazy uncle from Dublin who drinks too much and randomly imparts wisdom and knowledge when I need it. He taught me so much about my history and culture already.

Then we have the Moose, who is my weird cousin from way out in the country. Then the Hot Beef Stew, who I was attracted to the vague familiarity of him, only to discover much, much later that he is a distant cousin. Distant enough that it’s not totally gross, but still close enough to be inappropriate. Also, he is married, so No. Definitely not, No. And then Hermes, who, as previously stated, is the Black Sheep cousin from the North.

And there you have it: my first Irish fam. They taught me so much about myself. They inspired me to learn who I am and where I came from. Forget going back to Thailand! Put me on a plane straight to Ireland! I want to learn the Irish language and dig through the archives looking for my family and learn how to drive a stick shift so I can roam around County Cavan.

Yeah, forget the stag hunting. I’m going digging for my family history. I feel very strongly that my Irish Grandmother has tasked me with this. I have been doing my Ancestry work and it’s the Irish side that is completely missing from the tree. The only way I can get the information I need is to go there and dig through the library.

I feel like Indiana Jones running all over the map of the world right now. I remember this time last year, before I was offered the job that brought me to Asia, when I was deep in meditation and asking for a sign. I saw my dad appear holding his old globe that I saved from his office. I heard the theme song playing and watched the red lines appear, tracing a trail all over the world.

My barista friend just came out for a cigarette break and a chat. She asked me if I’m going back to Thailand. I said, “No, I need a break. I need to take some space from whatever shit I stepped in over there.”

She nodded and said, “Are you sure they’re not tracking you here in Hong Kong?”

“Oh, probably.”

“Aren’t you afraid they’re going to come here and find you?”

“Not really, no.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just… not.”

I have my own reasons for this. First of all, I haven’t actually written anything that bad. These men just can’t handle being told they’re acting like misogynist jerks by an American woman. That’s why they all fled the West and came to Thailand.

Second, I don’t think Hermes can actually leave the country. Even if he could, he’s a bit tied up at the moment taking care of his sick water buffalo. He’s all about posturing anyway. There are plenty of people higher up than him on the food chain who don’t consider me to be a threat to them. I doubt that’s going to be a significant problem.

As for Uncle Jason… seriously, like, whatever, bro. I literally do not care who he is or what he does. I am not interested. Sure, I have some vague notion of what he does, but I’ve decided to conveniently look the other way. I must busy myself with more important tasks instead.

Ultimately, I just wanted to teach Hermes a lesson. Most of them will agree he needs a good whack on the arse. Next time I’m coming back with the Big Spoon! Ya heard?!

Phew! That was A LOT! Time to quit writing for the day and tend to my other tasks. You know, like checking out this total beefcake who just walked by carrying something that looks like a lacrosse stick. I think that’s one of the GAA sports, isn’t it? Don’t they have something that looks like lacrosse? Yeah, that’s why the Irish and the Native Americans get along like peanut butter and jelly. They’re playing the same game, but the sticks look a bit different. It’s a whole thing.

See, this is what I’m talking about. Nobody cares about you, Uncle Jason. I’m not interested in your English bullshit, okay? I’m tired of being English. I’ve been English my whole life. I’m over it. I want to be Irish now. So I need to go learn about the Gaelic sports and watch some hot men run around a field with large sticks. Okay? Okay.

And she lived happily ever after.

The End

BLOG: Minstrel Show, Horror Movie, or Both?

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Wednesday. Hungover AF.

If you read my post yesterday and thought to yourself, “This isn’t going to go the way she thinks it’s going to go,” Congratulations! You’re right!

I set myself up for disappointment. You would think I’d know better at age 37. Everyone knows there is a reason why those of us who have worked as bartenders call St. Patrick’s Day “Amateur Night.” This is one day a year when people feel they have an excuse to be their worst selves. They put on that stupid fucking Leprechaun hat and go buck wild. It has nothing to do with celebrating Ireland or Irish culture or history itself. Most people treat it like an excuse to get trashed.

The first thing I did was go out for a bit o’ stew at the Irish pub I visit once a week to get my fix. It is, as far as I am aware, the only traditional Irish pub left in Hong Kong. Someone who has lived here since before the pandemic explained to me that there used to be many more, but they’ve all closed up shop.

Hong Kong is currently having a huge issue with small businesses closing up because landlords are driving rent prices up. It’s a whole thing. The manager at the adorable little coffee shop I am sitting at right now was actually just complaining to me about it yesterday.

That aside, this pub is located in an area that has become VERY touristy since the pandemic. It used to be a super chill spot where locals and expats mixed more, but now it mainly caters to tourists. Needless to say, this pub quickly filled up with tourists.

I was planning to cross back to the Island side to go to a different bar to meet my friend, but she canceled last minute. I did not feel safe going to a rowdy bar full of male athletes alone, so I chose to stay where I was. This was a mistake. I should have just sucked it up and gone out stag hunting on my own, but I was too crushed by losing my wing woman to move from my seat.

Furthermore, the staff at this pub already know me. They can help me out of trouble if need be. The staff at the other place don’t know me. I would be on my own. It was a serious safety concern for me. It is what it is.

Anyway, so there I was, at the pub, eating my stew and drinking a half pint of Guinness. As previously stated, I do not usually drink the Guinness. Therefore, I was not familiar with the potential effect it could have on me. As a professional writer, I drink quite a lot. I am familiar with how various alcoholic beverages affect me. Wine drunk is different than bourbon drunk, which is different from beer drunk, and especially, Absinthe drunk.

I felt Guinness belonged in its own category, especially after I drank one whole pint of it on Saturday night and realized the character formerly known as the “Hot Beef Stew” looks uncomfortably like my cousin (who I have not seen or spoken to in many, many years). To say I was concerned about how it might affect me while surrounded by total strangers in an understatement. Ultimately, I decided to cancel the stag hunt and conduct a scientific experiment on myself instead.

The first thing I noticed was that the Guinness was not having a very strong effect on me. It probably has to do with the fact that I had just eaten a giant plate of Irish stew and mashed potatoes, which was a good choice. But then I kept drinking and nothing. Then more nothing. And then more nothing. I didn’t feel a goddamn thing!

That is, until some random American guy sat down next to me and started chatting me up. OF COURSE HE WAS MARRIED! THEY ARE ALWAYS MARRIED! WHY ARE THEY ALWAYS MARRIED?! RAWRRRR!

I clocked the ring as soon as he sat down and was like, “Lord, please, don’t waste my fucking time conversing with me.” As if hearing my thoughts, he shoved his left hand into the pocket of his hoodie, turned to me, and started chatting away, as Americans oh-so-famously are wont to do. GRAND!

He spent the first half of the conversation with his left hand in said pocket, as if he had convinced himself he could hide it from me long enough to keep me engaged. I just sat there the whole time thinking to myself, “Why me? I need to go visit one of those witches under that bridge in Causeway Bay and get whatever bizarre curse this is lifted off of me forever.”

Of course, I am 37, so realistically my best bet at this age is someone who is divorced. I definitely don’t want to be with a younger guy, as I already tried that with my Indian ex-boyfriend and felt more like a mommy/babysitter than a partner. I also don’t want a man who is over 40 and has never been married, because that means there is something wrong with him. I don’t want to have to be the one who breaks him in, as they say, because I was already broken at a very young age and fixed myself. I ain’t got time for that shit. As Ali Wong says, “I want a man who has been pre-yelled at.” It’s a real thing.

So blah blah blah, he was talking about AI or some other dumb shit I didn’t care about, and then he got an appetizer plate and offered me food straight from the fucking plate like we were on some kind of date. The AUDACITY of these married men! It’s outrageous! I was very angry to have my time wasted like that once again. I really need to learn how to tell married men to fuck all the way off and leave me alone. Boundaries, Betsey. Boundaries!

Finally, he went away, and I was left alone to continue my Guinness experiment. The tab said I only had three half pints, but I know for a fact that’s bullshit. I had at least three before this guy sat down, then maybe two or three more during that wretched conversation, and then a couple more after that. Must have been the faeries out here buying me free dranks because I deserve them, or something. The bartenders kept asking me if I wanted one of those stupid hats and I refused by saying, “No thank you. I don’t need one. I am real.”

Anyway, so I drank all that, and then got up to go to the bathroom. I felt nothing. Nothing at all! I definitely felt a little… duller… maybe, but I could still walk straight and speak well. It didn’t affect me at all. At least, I thought it didn’t, until I came out of the bathroom and looked around the room. In that moment I felt like I was watching a minstrel show. It was horrifying.

It was like the Guinness had given me some kind of clarity of vision. All I could see was the horrifying reality that my people and culture (which I have barely even scratched the surface of learning and understanding) had been reduced to nothing more than this gross stereotype of a singing, dancing, drinking leprechaun. It was horrifying. I literally felt like I had walked straight into a horror movie.

So I did what anyone in this position would do: I upgraded to the Jameson. I had two doubles to numb myself down, paid my tab, and then left. I came back over to the Island side and wandered through LKF. It was more of the same. Just some horror movie minstrel show bullshit. I literally just could not even.

I walked to the cantina to find a safe space. My friend wasn’t working, but her aunties were. They gave me the safe space I needed in that moment. They didn’t ask me any questions or talk to me at all. They just welcomed me in with a hug, gave me a free drink and let me sit at the bar alone with my face in my hands.

After they closed, I walked home alone, as I do every night. I struggled to fall asleep and stay asleep. I tossed and turned all night. When I finally woke up from whatever half-trance I was in, I felt heavier than I’ve felt in awhile. Sure, some of it is the hangover, but most of it just feels like the weight of the world resting on my shoulders.

I just thought to myself, “St. Patrick’s Day is the worst day to be Irish. Every other day of the year, it’s grand. But today? Ugh. No.” Then I realized I should just get on a plane and go straight to fucking Ireland. What am I even doing here right now?

And that’s the story of how I didn’t get what I wanted, but definitely got what I needed.

The End

BLOG: Drinking, Dancing, and Riding

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Tuesday. Happy St. Patrick’s Day to All My Relations! Got my invite to the Guinness Happy Hour and I am readyyyyy to partayyyy!!

I’ve never actually gotten “Guinness Drunk” before, let alone in a foreign country surrounded by rowdy Irish expats. God help us all. This is a brand new adventure for me. It’s My First Time! I am the virgin being sacrificed on top of this hill tonight. I am very excited right now. Drown me in a vat and cover me with eels. Or is it snakes? Wait, no, that’s actually pretty terrifying. What did I sign up for again?

Put up my little St. Paddy’s Day card on Instagram. I don’t know if anyone else here finds it funny, but just know that I have been sitting here cackling over it since I came up with the idea on Saturday night. You know I love a good paper-bagger!

And let me tell you… drawing that balaclava over Hermès’ head with the pen tool on my iPad was very cathartic for me! I actually went back and did it twice, just because I could. I haven’t laughed that hard in awhile!

I just wanted to mess with him the way he messed with me. It felt like the equivalent of breaking out the wooden spoon and giving him a good whack. Girl, he needs it! He is such a little shit! I hope he learns his lesson about messing with strange women in expat bars. You never know when they will turn out to be a bog witch in disguise!

Begone, little snake! Begone! Or next time I’m bustin’ out the Big Spoon. Ya heard?

Oh Jaysus, that reminds me. I hope that Aussie guy doesn’t come back again today. If he does, he better be wearing different clothes. If you’re going to interrupt me while I’m writing, at least try to look like you take yourself seriously.

We are not in Wan Chai, and I am not Thai. If you want to impress me, you’re going to have to trade in the floral swimming trunks for Ralph Lauren. I know for a fact there is one located right by the red light district. It’s conveniently located right on the edge so all the businessmen who get sloppy during lunch hour have a safe space where they can go to clean themselves up.

So last summer, I said I wanted to add an Aussie to my Island of Lost Guys. Then I actually started meeting Aussies. They are… really something, lol! Not sure I want one disrupting the peace of my Island after all. Then again, it could be quite useful to have someone around who can fight off a crocodile while aggressively drunk. You never know when that skill could come in handy!

I’m in such a good mood today. I can’t stop laughing at that picture. Hahahahahahahahaha! That’s the funniest fucking shit ever! Who’s a little gangster now?!

I realized later I should have put the song “Wanksta” by 50 Cent over the image. Alas! A lost opportunity for comedy, indeed. It’s okay. Somehow I feel like “Bad Girls” by Diana Ross was ultimately the right choice. He’s very in touch with his feminine side, that one.

Well, now that we’ve dropped that metaphorical bomb over Bangkok (or should I say Chiang Mai?), we can all get back to normal now. Maybe these lads will finally chill out. Or maybe not!

Either way, I’m not afraid of them. What are they gonna do? Hop on a plane to Hong Kong and come get me? Good luck with that! Have you seen flight prices lately? Yeah. We’re all pretty much stuck exactly where we are. For now.

Not much else to say today. The real story will come tomorrow. I should go get my nails done before they throw me into the fire or whatever. God, I’m so helpless. I really don’t know anything about my heritage at all. I wish I hadn’t missed that film screening last week. That actually made me really sad.

But you know what doesn’t make me sad? Hot Irish athletes, like the beefcake who just walked by wearing a jersey for the HK Irish expat football team. Oh, he got dat pornstache and everything! You better strut, King!

Hahahahahahahah!

Oh, yeah, no, they definitely ain’t ready for dis jelly! You best believe this sad little Irish bog witch is bagging herself a stag tonight! What is that quote from Derry Girls?

Clare: We had plans tonight.
Michelle: We can turn our jeans into hot pants any day of the week. We’re talking about a free house here, Clare, a free house. We’re gonna be drinking, dancing and riding!
Erin: Quick question on the old riding front there.
Michelle: Go on?
Erin: Who exactly will we be doing that with?
Michelle: Young, hot farmers. Donegal is coming down with them. Big strapping lads ripped to fuck from all the turf collecting.
Clare: Oh, don’t worry about me.
Michelle: There’s actually quite a few lesbians as well, Clare.
Clare: Lesbian farmers? Really?
Michelle: Lesbian farming is actually huge in the Republic. We’ll get you sorted, don’t worry.

Hahahaha! I love that show. Who doesn’t, really?

Anyway, I know who I’m riding tonight! Hot Irish Stags! Yaaaassssssss! Woo hoo!

I definitely have to go get my nails done now, lol.

Okay, Bye Felicia!