It's Definitely Not Cancer, so I'm Sure it's Something Much Worse

The other day I was went to enter my home phone number into a form and I couldn't remember it.

The information just wasn't there.

It was so frightening. I had to ask my 7 year-old our phone number.

A couple of weeks ago, I was driving home with my whole family in the car after a night out with friends. We were talking about another neighborhood and all of the sudden I focused on the road and didn't know where I was. For a minute, I thought I was in the other neighborhood and couldn't figure out exactly where in it I was. I shook my head and knew where I was again. It all happened so fast, but it seemed to go on forever.

My heart was pounding. I tried to laugh it off.

Tonight I was talking about The Princess Bride with a friend. I was listing off all of the people in the movie: Peter Falk, Mandy Patankin, the kid from the Wonder Years and...not Robin Williams...his friend...he's a big Yankees fan...he's a comic too..."you look mah-velous!"...he's balding...damn what is his name??

Yeah. Billy Crystal. I couldn't remember Billy Crystal's name!

I'm a little freaked out. Is it normal to be forgetting information like this? It's like I go to the place where it should be in my head and it's just blank--I may even hear a swift breeze blowing through.

The hypochondriac in me is convinced it's early onset Alzheimer's or a clot or some other horrific disease that will make every one feel sorry for me yet not sorry enough that they'll come and visit me when I'm drooling on myself and muttering something about vibrators. The cynic in me says I'm just a garden-variety, batshit-crazy woman with three kids, a job, a house, a few hobbies, some volutneer commitments and low-blood sugar overreacting.

If it's Alzheimer's, remind me to be really pissed.

In a Better Mood

Leave it to PFunky to set me straight--and some uplifting words from Laurie to put me on a better track.*

I've been pissed off all day. On Twitter I was reading about all the "GREAT" and "FANTASTIC" plans people have for the new year. Everyone was so freaking chipper. Apparently I only follow the uber-achievers whose sole purpose in life is to make me feel like a big gigantic loser by comparison.

Where am I going? What am I going to do next? What have I accomplished so far? What do I have to show for my time on this planet? Why was it again I went away to college? And moved away from home? How the heck am I going to make the changes I really want to make in my life?

Oh yeah, and I'm going to be 40 in 2010.

It wasn't a pretty day.

Just moments ago, I was reminded that we are putting another decade on the books (I mean I knew this, but I didn't really THINK about it), and then I started to think about my life 10 years ago.

The roof that is over my head? Didn't belong to me yet.

The kind people I work for now? Hadn't met 'em yet.

The three crazy, rambunctious, big-hearted boys who make me want to both pull out all my hair and laugh hysterically every single day? One just went back home to live with his mom and the other two were a vague concept.



I may not be world-famous (yet). I may not be the hottest mommy in town (yet). I may even still have that nasty Diet Coke habit (let's not get too hasty with our resolutions), but I do have a life I couldn't conceive of just ten years ago.

Makes me wonder how I'll look back ten years from now.


*I hope you know how much your words meant to me today--always.

Best Blog Post Ever

I had the best idea for a blog post as I was lying (or is it laying--I don't feel like Googling it) in bed last night. It occurred to me to get up and make a note about it, but it was such a perfect idea that I was sure I would remember it.

I didn't.

I want to say it had something to do with my mom, or motherhood, or being a queen, but I could be totally off. Maybe it had to do with the importance of reading to your children or how the Yankees threw last game so they could win the Series in their new stadium. It might have been a treatise exploring the finer points of a frozen Snicker's bar or a PSA about not drinking six Diet Cokes during the day if you plan to sleep at night.

Hell if I know.

Most of my profound thoughts really can be conveyed in less than 140 characters--not that I share all of them on Twitter, but it makes me a little hesitant to throw them out there and count them as a post.

Maybe I should start carrying around another Moleskine just for my incredible thoughts and ideas and then I can serve up a bunch at a time for your viewing pleasure. What's one more Moleskine, right? I mean there's the one I have for work, the one that has my older random notes and Christmas lists, the one I'm using for current journaling and then another small one that found it's way in my bag. Shit. I have a Moleskine problem.

I guess that's better than a mole problem--or a skin problem.

Actually I have a skin problem, but you're probably not interested in my eczema or the latex gloves I wore at work the other day so I could apply the prescription ointment I have for said eczema so I wouldn't rip all of the skin off my hands nor get the ointment on my keyboard. No one seemed to notice them until I began to use hand gestures during an emotional conversation with my boss at which point she stopped in her tracks which was actually a good thing because the conversation was getting way too heavy for the both of us and we needed that moment of comic relief--you know like when Olympia Dukakis offers up Shirley McLaine for Sally Fields to hit during the funeral scene in Steel Magnolias. I mean every damn time I watch that movie I'm a sloppy, snotty mess as Sally screams that it was supposed to be her in the casket and then here comes Olympia. Thank goodness straight guys had the innate sense never to watch that movie with me, because the boogers... Though that did seem to work for Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally--well at least until the uncomfortable silence when it was all over.

Hmph. Nope. That wasn't the idea for my post either.

So Many Interests, So Little Time

My desire to learn about so many things and to master (okay become proficient) a number of skills has reached epic level.

And this whole oh yeah I'm a political consultant thing can get in the way some days.

Plus? Sleeping?

How am I going to become a world famous photographer/knitter/gardener/well-read/self-actualized/uber-Mom/social media maven/baseball parent with all this work and sleep taking up my time?!

I've already given up the laundry, cooking and most of the cleaning (until my parents come in town or I'm hosting a real party), and still there is never enough time. This doesn't even take into account the roots and eyebrows that constantly require maintenance.

Oh and also I should have added "organized, beautiful home-owning and fabulously fashionable" to my list above.

Shit.

Guess we're all going to have to settle for friendly chick.

Eco Wo-Man! Eco Wo-Man!

I'm hoping you sang the title of this post to the Wonder Woman theme song. Go ahead. Go back and do it. I'll wait.

There's a lot of introspection going down for me these days.

In addition to attending this amazing workshop, I enrolled myself in Mondo Beyondo for this month's session.

I've cracked open The Artist's Way and while I haven't started on the morning pages yet, I'm seriously considering them. (If I tell you that the book has been sitting on my shelf for the last 15 years, the fact that I'm considering doing them will all of the sudden seem like a giant leap forward.)

Last weekend I spent time in the desert with these incredible women participating in the Brand About Town Advisory Board retreat.

The scenery brought me to tears.



We hiked.




We talked.


We laughed.


And despite this photo, we quite noticeably ignored technology without any prior agreement.


The desert is quiet to a girl like me who lives so close to the city. I returned a bit tired, but emotionally renewed. (Christine does a very good job of explaining much of it, but I'm pretty sure I've also discovered some primordial Jim Morrison need for a regular peyote-induced dance in the desert.*)

This is all a long-winded way of getting around to the point that now that I'm looking all inward and thinking about doing morning pages and stuff, I'm clearly becoming more green.

Case in point. I haven't quite reached the Diva Cup stage, but this morning I remembered to recycle an empty tampon box.


Mamma Loves the earth and the earth loves me.


*Mamma Loves, nor Brand About Town, endorse the use of peyote. Reference to peyote above does not represent actual usage of peyote, but is used solely for comic effect--unless of course you have some peyote and want to go to the desert with me to dance. Be prepared however to listen to a LOT of 70's disco because...well...it's just about the best music for dancing when you're high on peyote. Not that I've ever done that. As far as you know.

Did I Mention I Knit?

Yeah. Not really. But I'm trying to learn.

I picked up this incredible self-striping yarn in April.


And in less than a week I had this (My model complained that it's too hot. Perfect for cold days I say.). Nobody told me how addictive this knitting is.


For my next trick, I went online and ordered scads of bright colored cotton yarn to attempt a log cabin blanket.


I chose my youngest to be the recipient of my first blanket thinking he'd be less likely to notice any flaws. Little did I know I'd create a task master. G*d forbid I sit down and do nothing. All I hear is "Mom why aren't you knitting? You need to be knitting my blanket." I apologize now to his future spouse.

The end of the blanket is near and the fantastic folks over at Try Handmade hipped me to a newish fiber store not far from my office/house (remind me to call Erika when I need to be bailed out of debtors prison).

Well at Fibre Space I found this beautiful wool. I have deluded challenged myself to knit a sweater out of it.


Stop laughing. At least my goodies all came in this adorable reusable bag.

Clearly She's Been Working Out (or in?)

Mamma here ever prepared to keep you up to date on breaking news.

This morning we learned that a new Guinness world record has been set!

While I'm inspired by the fact that there is still time for me to challenge this record, my desire to dig deeper into the story for you, my readers, was not satisfied.

My first question, of course, was "well who holds the record for the world's strongest pen*s?"

Before I could find that answer though, I came upon this headline.

Typical. It wasn't the woman's accomplishment.

Wanting to get the rest of the story, I didn't allow myself to become distracted and went right to Google followed more leads in search of the record holder.

It seems the folks at Guinness aren't as concerned with finding the world's strongest pen*s (male judges can't handle the competition, hmmm?).

The best information I could find was at least a year old and comes to us from the far East. (do not click w/small children on lap; however, if you have teen-aged boys call them over immediately and tell them this is what you'll do to them if they have sex before they are 35.)

My journalistic blogging instincts told me not to trust that source. I was suspicious of the fact that the gentleman's back is turned to us and that he is naked except for a strap around his waist.

I continued my search for two more minutes and found that World's Strongest Pen*s remains a record yet to be set. A certain company claims to have "the world's strongest pen*s enlargement formula", but I'm fairly certain drug use would disqualify you from the the title.

So readers, what did we learn today?

You're never too old to set a Guiness world record (Get Kegeling* girls. We can't let the Russians beat us!). AND, guys start "lifting." You still have a chance to be the first!


*Am I the only one who finds the irony in the name and product line of this company?

Very Superstitious

I want to write about what is taking up all of my time right now, but I can't.

Let's just say that one of my three sons is on a certain baseball team.

My husband hasn't shaved in three weeks. I've been driving a pick-up truck instead of my normal car for three weeks. This year no CDs were created to get the team pumped up before games (they were NOT good luck). I bring the same cooler to every game. I even have a friend who texts me before every game and once during the game to get and update because he's been doing so for each game.

There are plans to go to the beach in two weeks. There are plans for me to go to BlogHer in three. I went ahead and bought a plane ticket to Chicago because not doing so would be a slap in the face to the "gods of the diamond."

You just can't mess with things.

I can reveal that I have developed zits on my cheeks for the first time in 25 years. There are approximately 17 lbs of infield dirt in my car. And yes...

I am a baseball mom.

Now keep your fingers crossed or do whatever lucky things you need to do.

I'm not joking. Get to it!

BREAKING NEWS: Facebook Sprinkles Site with Crack

Facebook has tried to keep the fact under wraps since early 2008, but today fabulously famous blogger MammaLoves (aka Amie Adams) revealed the truth.

"I was ignoring my family. I was wearing dirty clothes. I couldn't get enough. My life was falling apart! It wasn't until my dog licked the computer screen showing Facebook and I noticed her madly dash in circles chasing her tail did I realize drugs were involved."

Ms. Adams accuses Facebook of including games like Bejeweled Blitz and Pathwords on its site as a cover to emit crack fumes therefore rendering users unable to click off of the site.

Facebook sources refuse to comment on Ms. Adams' accusations, but say Facebook works hard to promote a clean and healthy environment for its users as evidenced by their diligent effort to prevent photos of mothers nursing babies from soiling their pages.

The dog was quoted as saying, "dude."

Potato Chip Pundit

You, mere mortals, may look at my kitchen table and see only a mess.


It's okay. Not everyone has "the gift."

Because the message I read in the chips; however, is so important I'm going to share it with you today.



You don't wanna mess with the force of the chip.

The Mamma Loves Halloween Tradition

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

And no, that's not me. I still can't get all of the paint off from the balloons I had done for the hub's birthday.

Busy contemplating the critical issues facing humanity--or the sore joint on my left pinky--I looked up into my rear-view mirror on my drive home from work and noticed a red car behind me.

Then I looked in my side mirror, as is my habit to check all mirrors while I'm driving (I'm so safe) and there was another red car on my left.

Then I looked to my right...another red car. And in front of me? Another red car.

I was surrounded by red cars!

Okay so government agents and crime syndicates probably don't use red cars when going after a mark, but it was a little weird.

And then I looked up.

Yep. A black helicopter was flying overhead.

I'm not kidding.

Now I may not blog under my full name, but I don't wear tinfoil inside my hats. Shoot, I throw away magazines and catalogs with my name and address on them. In the trash. Without shredding the information!

You didn't know I was an international spy did you? Oh sure. I'm constantly evading convoys of red cars and black helicopters. It gets quite boring actually.

The whole suburban, working mommy blogger thing had you fooled didn't it?

Oh Robert, I Loved You

Did you know how much I adored you?

Did you know that all these years later I can remember specific moments we spent together as clearly as the crisp days they occurred.

Maybe the memories seem clearer than they are because I have photos tucked away in an album. There I am looking at you with a big smile. Or there's the one where we're playing not realizing we're being photographed.

*sigh*

I had such a thing for older men then.

Or was it your twin brother Richard. It was always hard to tell you apart. Who knows. I was only five.

This memory is brought to you thanks to my friend Jennifer who was remember her own Robert today.

I'm Breaking Up With My Orthopedist

Way back in February I broke my ankle. You may remember the photo of the cast that attracted many an eastern European cast/braces fetishist to my site (thanks for the extra bucks my friends).

A physical therapist friend of mine recommended a terrific orthopedist to treat me. I loved him immediately. As the kid of a doc, I'm often hard to please when it comes to medical care, but he was personable and thorough and even cleaned my foot himself after it had stewed in a cast for six weeks.

Granted he missed a second break and a bunch of other soft tissue damage, but none of that was apparent on the x-ray. I still loved him.

His office staff is friendly. It's easy to get in to see him and you don't have to wait long in the waiting or exam room.

A virtual medical miracle.

But yesterday the love affair died.

Yesterday, at my three month check-up, we discussed some of my lingering pain and my continued inability to wear heels.

His answer?

You probably won't ever be able to wear heels again. The area of your injury is affected every time you put your foot at that angle.

*blink* *blink*

Clearly, he doesn't know that I consider Nordstrom's Shoe Department the mothership. Clearly, he hasn't seen my closet. Clearly, he doesn't understand how wearing a great pair of shoes can make you invincible.

Clearly he's not the doctor I thought he was.

Thoughts While Stapling Eleventy Bajillion Pieces of Paper for the PTA

Wonder how long this is going to take me.

Is this the most efficient way to assemble these?

This stapler sucks.

Dog chewing edge of box--well at least she's not teething on my toes. Could be worse.

That box is a virtual cornucopia of fundraising flyers.

This stapler sucks.

Screw it. They're stapled.

Shit, some Kindergartener is going to cut their hand on that staple. Do over.

Freaking husband. Convenient phone call while I'm sitting here with all this to do.

This stapler sucks.

Wonder if I should take that blogging gig. Interesting topic. Do I have time? Will I have anything to say? Will I need to research? Think I'll take it. I'm not sure.

Wonder if the motion I'm using to lean over and sit back up counts as core exercise? It should. I can feel it. My posture sucks. If I sat up better, I bet it would count.

How sad is it that I'm considering stapling as exercise??

But I'm sweating. Okay--that's cause I turned off the air.

This stapler sucks.

Still on the phone my mate? I swear it's because you can still hear my stapler.

What?? You're offering to help? Sure count and label these.

Bonus points to hubs for helping out.

Well it's his kids' school too. Damn right he should.

I'm a bitch.

Kinda fun hanging out doing this together.

Shit I'm not stapling fast enough.

Oh look and help from a four year-old!

I'm going to be here all night.

Thank god for the short attention span in four year old.

I must be close to done.

Hmmm. I could write a blog post about this.

This stapler still sucks.

What? We're only through the 1st grade classes?!

And there goes the hubs.

I'm going to be here all night.

What shows do I have to set up on TiVo this season? I liked that Criminal Minds.

I watch too many cop shows.

Didn't get many emails today.

I'm going to die alone.

This stapler sucks.

Though It's Easy To Pretend

I'm officially old.

No, I haven't turned 40--yet, but it's probably fair to say we're bumping hips.

No, it's not that I found my first gray hair. L'Oreal already sends me an annual thank you card.

And no, it's not because I can no longer tell you who half the people are in my high school yearbook who promised they LYLAS and wanted to KIT.

Nope.

The reason I'm officially old is that I rode the elevator today, and during my ride down 15 floors, wafting through the mysterious speakers that fill the space with ambient noise (where are those speakers anyway? and is do they play that music so I won't feel so alone while I'm in there?) were the soothing sounds of George Michael--set to MUZAK!

At first I didn't recognize the ditty, but something felt familiar. My mind kept wanting to make sense of the hypnotizing tones that seeped into my ears like alien life forms in their liquid state.

Then all of the sudden it hit me.

"Do do do da da da dada...Somebody tell me (won't you tell me) why I work so hard for you."

NOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Images of crooning along with the pre-bathroom-hole-poking-George as I rode down 4th St. with my BFFs are crystal clear in my head.

But I have to face it. It's time to grow up. When the music from your youth is set to a Casio keyboard, some strings and a bass guitar it's time to admit it.

I'm old.

"My God. I don't even think that I love you!"

Another Port-o-Potty Post

Baseball season is upon us once again (does it really ever end?) and as you know there aren't many options for a girl when nature calls at the field.

I avoid the dreaded Port-o-Potties as much as possible, especially after the incident last year, but sometimes there's just no choice.

We were down at the fields for a marathon afternoon and all of the sudden my breakfast came back to haunt me.

There wasn't any time to make it home.

I found a relatively clean cabinet o' ca-ca and went about my business. So many thoughts ran through my head as I was finding my way to sweet relief.

What if some kid forces the door open and everyone sees me with my pants down?

What if a long line has developed since I stepped in here?

Is the tank full enough that the next person will know I had the sour-apple-quick-steps?

As these totally rational and sane thoughts caused me to sweat a little, my eyes landed on this:


I HAD to know whose job it was to figure THAT out.

As part of my research (see what I do for you??), I made the most fascinating discovery--the PSAI--and boy is their website full of interesting information!

For instance, did you know that there are 1,400,000 portable toilets in use worldwide? That they call waste "effluent" (I'm kinda liking that word)? And that they have developed a Special Events Usage Guide?

I know, me neither.

Those portable sanitation people are some helpful folk.

To top it all off, the nice folks at the PSAI hand out the M.Z. "Andy" Dump--I mean--Gump Award which is a "lifetime achievement award honoring those that have improved the image of the industry and have created innovative approaches for sanitation needs through new and improved products and services."

I want to party with these guys.

The Trip from Febreeze to Self-Pleasure Is Quicker Than You Think

It started out as the most innocent conversation, but I was left with many questions.

A wad of rain-soaked clothes were left in my co-worker's car resulting in a musty smell. He was telling me about the vast amounts of Febreeze he had sprayed in his car and was complaining that he could still smell the odor.

When I was younger we had dogs. We always used Lysol to clean up after the puppies while they were being housebroken. The puppies in my life pre-dated my children, and therefore my tolerance of poop, so I would often gag when I was forced to pick up the poop. The smell, the consistency, the little remnants left on the floor; I still associate the smell of Lysol with it all.

It was this I was telling my co-worker--that if I smell Lysol now I would swear to you that it smells like puppy poop--when he made an unexpected connection to my story.

Him: "Oh yeah. That's just like when I smell someone who has on my jerk-off lotion."

Me: *blink. blink*

It takes a lot to leave me speechless, but I definitely didn't see that coming.*

*Heh, I said "coming".*

So I let this information sink in--about five seconds goes by--and then it begins to happen.

I have questions!

Me: "You have jerk-off lotion? Is this special lotion? Do you only use it for that purpose or do you just use whatever you happen to have around? Can't you just do it with a dry hand?"

And he actually began to answer them.

We work in a very small consulting firm, so this conversation is not as inappropriate or uncomfortable as it sounds. He's in his late-twenties. It's the 20-something boys I know who keep me hip to the whole single scene. Not that I don't respect them, but I do sort of look at them like animals in the zoo--observing their behavior and being grateful that I live on the other side of the bars.

It was a bunch of young, male, former co-workers who taught me years ago about the prevalence of manscaping and the expectation of Brazillians for the women they dated when I still thought all that grooming was reserved for the porn set. Seriously, you ever think you want to be single again? Just talk to a bunch of late-twenties males. You'll run home to your spouse at lightening speed.

Anyway, so he starts answering me.

Him: "Yeah. I haven't gone without it for like 10 years. It's nothing special, but I usually have two bottles, one in the bathroom for regular use and one in the bedroom."

Me: "What if your girlfriend develops a sudden case of dry skin and sees the bottle of lotion by the bed and just starts slathering it on? Do you run to stop her?"

Can you just see that all in slow motion? "Nooooo. Not THAT lotion."

Him: "Not at all."

Me: "But then she'll remind you of...um...jerking off?"

Him.: "Yeah! I know. That'd be awesome."

Um. I don't think she'd think so.

So now I have a challenge.

I have between now and our next holiday party in December to figure out a way to delicately suggest that she might want to bring her own lotion with her to her boyfriend's house.

And I swear the next poor guy I see in the lotion aisle at CVS is going to be so sad he met me.

"So how do you decide which brand?"

"Are you brand loyal?"

"What if there's something different on sale?"

"What features are you looking for?"

"Wouldn't lube work better?"

"Do you prefer scented or unscented?"

I just have so many questions...

*For the record, I'm not a prude. It wasn't that I was unfamilar with the concept, I just never thought that's where the conversation was going to take us.

I'd Blame it on the Illness or the Weather...

...but I came up with this on Friday when it was beautiful and sunny and 80 degrees and I still just thought the tickle in my sinuses was allergies.

I was enjoying a little sunshine during the workday on Friday when a woman passed me on the sidewalk with a fairly low-cut shirt. It was impossible not to notice the tremendous stretch marks on her chest obviously caused by the ginormous boobs she was lugging around.

I looked down at my own girls and silently thanked the goddess of discount designer shoes that I had never been that well-endowed. Gravity and two nursing babies have taken their toll and the girls just ain't what they used to be, but by no means will they ever rest on my hips.

And that's when I had a thought:

There should be a boob bank.

The gals with a little too much can make a deposit--in exchange for maybe an iTunes card or something--and the ladies who need a little lift or filling could make a withdrawl.

The world would be a happy place and we'd all be perfect C's.

And the fact that this science doesn't exist is just further proof that G*d is NOT a woman.

Why I Love St. Patrick's Day--It's Not What You Think

I have a fondness for this day we celebrate our collective Irish heritage--both real and imagined.

I don't necessarily imbibe in green beer, though I have, and I did enjoy corned beef and cabbage today (a first). I don't love St. Patrick's Day because I'm particularly fond of bagpipes or long lines at Irish Pubs.

I love St. Patrick's Day because I'm adopted.

I've always known I was adopted. I went straight from the hospital to my parents. I'm taller than both my parents, but I am a brunette like my mom. Like many modern families, my parents divorced and my mom remarried when I was 10, so I mainly grew up without anyone questioning if I was adopted because they knew the guy I called my dad was actually my step-father.

In my sister's case, the fact of her adoption was a little more obvious. My first real memories are of the events surrounding her adoption when I was 3 1/2. She actually went home with her biological family for a few months before coming to us and we know that she is of Puerto Rican descent.

My sister and I look nothing alike--but I tend to forget. As a matter of fact, when my nephew (now my eldest son--different story for a different day) was born he looked so much like my sister that I cried when I met him because I finally felt like I looked like someone I knew.

So what does this all have to do with St. Patrick's Day? I'm getting there.

In my twenties, I requested the non-identifying information about my adoption from the agency that handled it. Honestly, I wasn't looking for much information, though I did discover I had been given another first name at birth (my mom swears she told me this--I contend that's not something I would have forgotten) and that my birth parents weren't related by blood (Phew! Dodged that bullet! Shit I hadn't even contemplated the possibility.) I was interested in a totally different piece of information. There was only one thing I wanted to know--one little thing that has always bugged me.

I want to know my ethnic background.

As an adoptee, I've never been too interested in finding my biological parents, but I have wanted to feel some connection to those who have come before me. To be able to stake a claim to an ethnic "home country" feels like it would give me a sense of my place in the chain of human events.

So there I was, scanning through the documents I received from the agency, finding out that my name had been Emily for a few days and my birth parents were young and probably "made" me in the back of a Trans-Am with Led Zepplin blaring on the AM radio, when my eyes found the box containing the information I had been searching for.

Ethnic heritage: American

AMERICAN??!!

My blue eyes, dark hair and plethora of freckles suggest that this didn't mean Native American.

My physical characteristics suggest I'm Irish. I once dated a self-proclaimed "black Irish" guy and it was somewhat awkward to kiss in public, because people often thought we were siblings.

Does it make sense now why I love St. Patrick's Day?

It's the one day a year I get to have a nationality--even if I don't have proof.