|Let's Celebrate Fetal Alcohol Syndrome Day!|
Yes, I'm Irish. Not completely, but I'm more Irish than I am Greek. More Irish than Portuguese. Clearly more Irish than Mongolian.
How Irish am I? For the sake of accuracy, I'll refer to Irish stereotypes:
- Yes, I'm Catholic. No, not a practicing Catholic. I do however have religious art hanging in my house and I did rock some neck-weary crucifixes in the 80s.
- Yes, I love the Kennedy Family. Once upon a time, I was the proud owner of a gorgeous black dining room table that was supposedly owned by a Kennedy. Which Kennedy, you ask? Who cares. Any Kennedy.
- Yes, I love potatoes! I love them fried, mashed, baked, baked again and stuffed with wonderful things like cheese and onion and hope. God help me, I've even had them on pizza.
- Yes, I'm a brawler. No, I'm not a brawler. I refuse to give a straight answer, citing privacy issues and the possibility of outstanding warrants. Blah-blah.
- No, I'm not a redhead. But my daughter is so that counts. (Irish math)
- No, I'm not an alcoholic ... per se. Doesn't it say somewhere in the Bible that Sunday is a day of rest and wine consummation? I'm pretty sure it does. Refer to Item #1.
- No, I do not have the Luck of the Irish. Not the good kind, anyway. I do however have the Potato-Famine-Raped-By-Vikings kind of Irish luck. The kind of luck that delivers your menstrual cycle like a tsunami while you're in the middle of the woods camping, your door handles snap off of your car and your favorite restaurant gives you food poisoning so you can't eat there again. Ever.
- Yes, I have more than one word to describe being drunk. Fluthered, locked, ossified, paralytic, plastered, shattered, annihilated, full as a tick, hammered, lacquered, pissed, pickled, full of the sauce monster, shellacked, shit-canned, shit-faced, shit-holed, shittered and wastey pants.
Conclusion: I'm too Irish for my own good and should consider being more Greek. The food's better and there's less chance of coming down with a bad case of alcohol poisoning.