i’m not irish…

“Top of the morning to ya”, my friend’s father says to me at church on St. Patrick’s day. “I’m not Irish”, I respond, “but top of the morning to you too”, unsure quite what to do with that.

The first time I went to Northern Ireland, I accidentally brought with me a bag emblazoned with a Union Jack. I really, honestly, didn’t even consider the political statement my handbag was making.

the only picture of said bag I could find…

I really like Lucky Charms, but I don’t consider them an appropriate breakfast cereal.

Is corned beef and cabbage really a traditional Irish food? Or is it traditional for Irish-Americans? There are a lot of them around here. I just found out my husband is a little bit Irish – apparently through his grandfather’s mother, which to me makes him not really Irish at all. He has been to Ireland, though.

Visiting the Republic of Ireland has never been anywhere near the top of my list. I think it’s because there’s not much there that is much different to places I’m very familiar with. Reluctance notwithstanding, we’ll be there in August for a wedding. (Not that I’m complaining, I’m actually really looking forward to it!)

It’s not as though Northern Ireland was high up my list, either, but circumstances took me there – a jazz festival once, and a good friend the second time. The Giant’s Causeway is pretty amazing; a natural wonder.

That’s me waving..or dancing…or who knows what…

Irish jokes in the UK are interchangeable with Polish jokes in the US. I’m not quite sure how that happened, but people seem to think nationality has something to do with intellectual superiority.

I think people assume I’m Irish for two reasons:
1) The abundance of Irish immigrants here in the Greater Boston area.
2) I’m ginger.

Number one makes more sense to me than number two. I think my gingerness comes from the Viking invasion. I was considered an honourary Swede for a while, so that proves it.

see…told you I was ginger.