In a little over 3 hours I will hopefully be in La La land, oblivious to the scalpels being sharpened and the drills being charged as these screws are finally being removed from my elbow.  More importantly, I want to be completely anesthetized so that I don’t have to suffer the embarrassment of my naked body being exposed to a room full of medical personnel who are the same age as my children.  Those poor kids are going to be scarred for life after seeing what I’ve been hiding under my Spanx.

Anyway, I won’t be celebrating my Irish ancestry.  At least, not the typical St. Patrick’s Day celebration.  Although I do plan to spend the majority of the day heavily sedated, which I guess, in a way, is a lot like being drunk.  Woohoo for me.

The funny thing is that I didn’t even know I was Irish until I fell down the stairs in 2008.  After a couple of surgeries to repair my elbow that took the brunt of my fall, I developed a condition call Dupuytren’s contracture, a condition that one can only have if one is…Irish.

Upon hearing this fascinating news, I called my dad and asked him what we were.  Who are our people?

He said, and I quote, we’re American.

That’s right, American…from the former history teacher himself, my father, my hero, my American dad…

So today, this blog is for my dad.

Kiss him, he’s Irish too.