“The list of Irish saints is past counting; but in it all no other figure is so human, friendly, and loveable than St. Patrick – who was an Irishman only by adoption.”
– Stephen Gwynn

For some reason, come St. Patrick’s Day every single person in the US seems to acquire Irish geneology, even where previously there was none before.  And everyone gets wildly protective of their geneology and suspicious of others.  I overheard a loud girl on her cell phone while walking from car to office today, “Yeah, I don’t know where she gets off saying she’s Irish!  She just dyes her hair red.  I mean, my family, we’re Irish…”  

This is particularly funny to me these days because the state I live in is notoriously English and Scandinavian in terms of population.  Blonde hair and blues eyes abound and names ending -son/sen are very much the majority.  (Note: mobile phone girl was a Viking’s daughter if ever I saw one!) 

Now, we do know we have some Irish ancestry because we have family records detailing which of them got gruesomely killed in the battle of Boyne, but I digress.  The point is that my father is…wait for it…half Slovak.  So my Dad has darker skin and tans wonderfully, as do all my siblings, and don’t get me started on my fantastically beautiful black-haired, blue-eyed, dark-skinned cousins! 

And me?  I’m short, brunette, green-eyed, incredibly pale (un-tan-able) and bad-tempered.  That’s right: a leprechaun.