I always thought it was my paternal grandmother Lee’s phrase; her cute little softening of the word ‘idiot,’ her always freshly-lipsticked little bow-mouth puffing the word out in exasperation over some TV show foible. I didn’t realize until much later, reading a book set in Ireland, by an Irish author, that it was not exclusive to my wee red-headed granny, but belongs to all the Irish/Scot people! Then it occurred to me that Lee’s mother, of pure Irish stock (Black Irish, she always said, with thick black hair well past her waist) with a fiery temper to boot, must have said this to her when she was a child. Most likely with great frequency. (Raise eyebrows and purse lips here.) And now it’s been passed down to me, when on days when I’m not exactly filled with saint-like patience (some might say, oh, every day) I might mutter this magical Celtic curse under my breath in the general direction of a deserving party. Such as… you might ask?
Can you look at our current president without seeing the word EEJIT tattooed upon his furrowed elf-brow? Actually, he and some of his cohorts most likely have copyrights to this tattoo…
Then there was the gang of six teenage skateboarding boys spread across the entire width of my street as I turned the corner in my car, who oh-so-very-painfully, slowly parted to make just barely enough room for me to squeeze through. If I held my breath. Eejits all, because how are they to know what my mood is, and at that very moment as they glare at me for having the nerve to drive a car on the road, of all places, that maybe I’m fantasizing about just nudging one of them with my bumper to see how long that smug look stays on his face? (Yeah, that fiery temper got passed down, too…)
My boss, standing in front of the color printer, scratching his head like a silver-haired monkey, cursing because it must be broken: “Says it needs its c-y-a-n replaced…”
The woman in front of me and five other people at the checkout stand hotly asking for a price check because the computer didn’t take the discount from her coupons. Then discovering five minutes later it was because she grabbed the wrong products!
The yappy-dog-like courier whom, without fail, on the nastiest foul-weathered days asks me why I didn’t ride my “moped” heh heh, even though the last three times I’ve explained to him its a scooter, (150cc, no pedals, therefore not a frickin’ moped!). “Oh yeah, right! I’ll have to bring in my 750 Yamaha and we can race! It would eat your ‘scooter’ for lunch!” Yap! Yap! I smile patiently, saint-like, even, and in my head ask “Are ye compensatin’ fer somethin’? Eejit?”
I am not proud to say there’s a list of past eejits too long to bore you with here, but do have to tell you I place myself at the top. Sometimes I feel like I must be the star in some wacky reality TV show, and wonder what I’ll be messing up next; from simple mistakes to outright bad choices, a self-proclaimed eejit every time. But I suppose I’d rather be an eejit than an idiot, any day…