How to be Irish

On Saint Patrick’s Day, everyone likes to be a little Irish. If you would like to pass as genuinely Irish, follow these tips:

1. We like to talk about the weather. A lot. If you utter any of the following phrases, you will pass as Irish every time:

Grand day, isn’t it?

Grand soft day out now.

Jaysus, it’s roasting (anytime the temperature rises above 15 degrees Celsius).


2. We can’t take compliments

“Oh this? €5 in Penneys, girl. Makes me look like a heifer.”

3. We can’t give compliments

“Happy birthday, ya dope!”

4. We can make fun of ourselves…


5. …but if someone else does:


6. We blame everything on the English

“It’s raining out. The English probably sent it.”

7. We can’t be affectionate

We leave that to our cheek-kissing, randy neighbours on the continent. As my Grandfather would have said: “hugging every time they say hello, pah! Cop on to yerselves!”


7. We are unimpressed with anything fancy


8. If you’re not drinking, there has to be a valid excuse

“Oh, you’re not drinking? Are you on antibiotics?”

9. We are superstitious

“I’ve a job interview tomorrow, so I’m going to go wave at some magpies for luck.”

10. Every illness can be fixed with flat 7up

“Oh, your appendix is about to burst. Flat 7up. Be grand.”

“Oh, you’re bleeding internally? Flat 7up. Be grand.”


11. We really do love potatoes, but we call them “spuds”

“A dinner without spuds? I mean, I just never thought about it before…I suppose I could try it but I’m skeptical.”

12. Our mothers are brilliant…but terrifying

“You failed your test?! Right, I’m getting the wooden spoon.”


13. Leaving the immersion on fills us with dread


Blog Project Idea – Who Drinks?

Hey everybody! I’m manically waving at you and smiling like a fork. That should read dork but my autocorrect decided to be all presumptuous and correct me so I’m just gonna leave it now.
Aaaanyway, my awesome friend Julie and I (see below, she’s so much fun) had a genius idea. It’s so genius that I’m pretty sure there will be bronze statues of Julie and I adorning many cities in years to come. Yeah.
We decided that it would be lots of fun for us all (our lovely WordPress family) to regale each other with tales of our drunken debauchery. Now before you get all sanctimonious, I’ll keep you dangling with this tidbit of information: I once met Coolio while drunk…see? This will be AMAZING!
So on March 16, the day before St. Patrick’s Day, we want to invite you to share your adventures in drinking…there should be some pretty great tales. Let us know if you will take part, be it posts, comments, etc. Hopefully we can all laugh, or judge each other… whatever.

Hey, I’m Irish, I can never judge ANYONE when it comes to booze 🙂

Happy blogging and drinking!

P.S. I feel it would prudent of me to say please be responsible and blah blah and all that mature stuff. We’re not encouraging you to get wasted and board a plane to Timbuktu or marry your hamster in Vegas just so you’ll have a story to share…be cool! 🙂

Random Musings From a Type-A Workaholic

Name your poison... Name your poison…

I love blogging. It started out as simply a way to vent and get random crap out of my head. Somewhere along the line, I picked up some readers, then some followers, and interviewed some of my favorite indie writers. Most recently I have met some seriously neat people, who are also bloggers. I have learned about patio gardening, teaching school, weight loss, fitness, hobbies, and how to be entertained. Bloggers come from all walks of life, and I think I have spent more time perusing my friends’ blogs over here at Word Press than I have on Facebook lately!

So I was bantering back and forth with Janey, my blogging partner in crime, over at Cupid or Cats a couple of weeks back, and in typical creative-minds fashion, we ended up talking about drinking posts. You know how conversations tend to evolve, right? Of course you…

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Poem: A Christmas Childhood

This is a beautiful poem that I learned when I was in school that will punch you square in the feelings. It’s by poet Patrick Kavanagh and it’s called ‘A Christmas Childhood’.

My father played the melodion

Outside at our gate;

There were stars in the morning east;

And they danced to his music.

Across the wild bogs his melodion called

To Lennons and Callans.

As I pulled on my trousers in a hurry

I knew some strange thing had happened.

Outside in the cow-house my mother

Made the music of milking;

The light of her stable-lamp was a star

And the frost of Bethlehem made it twinkle.

A water-hen screeched in the bog,

Mass-going feet

Crunched the wafer-ice on the pot-holes,

Somebody wistfully twisted the bellows wheel.

My child poet picked out the letters

On the grey stone,

In silver the wonder of a Christmas townland,

The winking glitter of a frosty dawn.

Cassiopeia was over

Cassidy’s hanging hill,

I looked and three whin bushes rode across

The horizon – the Three Wise Kings.

An old man passing said:

“Can’t he make it talk” –

The melodion, I hid in the doorway

And tightened the belt of my box-pleated coat.

I nicked six nicks on the door-post

With my penknife’s big blade –

There was a little one for cutting tobacco.

And I was six Christmases of age.

My father played the melodion,

My mother milked the cows,

And I had a prayer like a white rose pinned

On the Virgin Mary’s blouse.