So, a day late and a pot o’ gold short, here’s part of the post I meant to post yesterday; alternately titled, “Things about Janie Jones you never knew and probably never needed to know” or “Did political correctness go out of style? No? Well then some of you may well feel violated.”
As you may be aware, Janie Jones is not my real name.
My real name is actually very Irish. This suits because Janie as her real self is actually Irish.
No, I can’t tell you my real name because then what would be the point of having a pseudonym. Geesh. Give ‘em a few random facts and they want them all… You’ll just have to trust me. The name on my birth certificate is very Irish.
I used to work for someone who claimed to be Michael Flatley’s sister. No seriously. One of the other coworkers had a major wide on for him and apparently well, never mind. Back to me.
My father’s family is actually Irish Catholic.
My father actually went on a “geneology” kick few years back and then pilgrimaged to the family burial ground up some goat path lined with rock walled fences at the top of a hill somewhere in Ireland and tested the limits of the rent-a-car damage insurance. Now, I know, ‘somewhere in Ireland’ is pretty vague, but after they gave me my Bunratty Castle souvenir scarf I kinda tuned out the rest.
Apparently both sides of my father’s family came from somewhere abouts in Ireland circa 1830.
I like me a dirty limerick.
I used to have a button that said “Kiss me, I’m Irish.” Yeah, me and all my teeny-bopper friends. But mine meant something because I am. If albeit in a rather tenuous way. As Tilly Bud so succinctly put, everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day (by the way, I feel honored to be quoted on a blog post by one of the Big Dogs of the Blogosphere. Maybe not THE big dog, but a much bigger dog than I’ll ever be. Thanks!) and undoubtedly this is true. While I do have some platform to stand on while making this announcement of my claim to Irish heritage (isn’t working for Michael Flatley’s sister more than adequate support?!?), I generally don’t identify with my Irish roots because I mean I’m sure I’d be a national disgrace.
Why? You may ask.
*Sigh* Well, if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all, and that’s no blarney. Besides can you still really be “from” a country if your ancestors have been American citizens for over 180 years? And then, I can’t stand Bushmills. Leif bought a bottle especially to do shots on St. Patrick’s Day, but did I say I can’t stand Bushmills? I should have said I found it loathesome. Furthermore, I sound ridiculous when I try to affect an Irish brogue, and I can’t even begin to make heads or tails of Gaelic. I don’t like claddaghs be they rings, brooches or otherwise, and though I may enjoy some nice tender cabbage I really don’t like corned beef (which Leif suggested to be the meal preceding said Bushmills). I think my Lithuanian Viking is more Irish than me.
Still, the following made me more than a little miffed:
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
I’m probably breaking all kinds of SOPA copyright laws here, but I couldn’t refrain from sharing. Who approves this stuff? I’d like to specifically draw your attention to page three, wherein Scholastic News very astutely acknowledges that “Today, most Irish people live in houses.” Really? You don’t say?
Seriously, I know this is meant for first graders, and that they can’t really include the kind of limericks most of us are familiar with which feature chin licking men from Nantucket, but come on. Let’s not be absurd here. Of course Irish people live in houses, and apartments, or flats or brownstones or something like. Egads. They have for centuries. Only a rare handful of people anywhere ever actually lived in castles. What a bunch of blarney.
Unfortunately, this is the best public school education the Great White North can provide. Because of this exact kind of drivel I had a conversation something to this effect with the spud last week:
Spud: Momma you know what the little Irish people wear?
Me: Um, clothes?
Spud: Little green suits.
Me: Um, I’m pretty sure people from Ireland wear clothes just like you and me.
Spud: Uh-uh.
Me: Honey. I’m very sure my Irish friends do not run about in little green suits.
Spud: Yes! They do! They wear little green suits and top hats and live under rainbows.
Me: I think you mean leprechauns. They aren’t real.
Spud: *Sighs dramatically* That’s what I said. Irish people!
So, dear Tinman and Speccy, you can rest assured that we know you live in houses (with green patio furniture) and I’m doing my best to persuade the wee one that you aren’t merely 2 feet tall, slipping down rainbows and wearing jolly green suit coats and breeches.
I’d best keep to claiming to be just your average dull American. Still, as even hacks like me can be Irish on St. Patrick’s Day, we not only had our green shamrock pancakes, I also made shamrock shaped chocolate chip cookies.
Comments from the peanut gallery: