Going Irish

   There are two things that I am beyond a doubt. I am writer, and I'm Irish. I don't mean Irish in a "hey, my great-great-great-grandfather was from Ireland...I think the family name was Scapolini." way. I mean Irish in a "my grandparents are from Ireland and raised six VERY Irish children that attain accents when angry (or drunk)" way. I have always grown up in an Irish like environment. Family always coming and going, wakes filled with laughing, crying, and hidden alcohol (that's a whole other story), and the many evenings spent 'round a fireplace (or camp fire, or nightlight) listening to my dad tell folklore from the 'auld country'.

Looks like the story of the "Soul Cages" from the worried faces!

    And it was this very childhood and the stories in it that made me silently (or maybe not so silently) rage against the authors who defamed, twisted, and flat out misused the information and stories of the Irish pantheons and storytellers. So slowly, carefully, I crafted a story as only a child born of  a storyteller could. I decided to write a book using the true and accurate (to my knowledge and research) stories and folklore. I have always loved where my family came from, I was raised being told repeatedly by my father "Keely, your Irish".

      I didn't realize how true that statement was until I went to Ireland. In Southern California where fit bodies, sun tanned leather skin and Blond Hair in a Box rule, I am the odd duck out. I am pale with freckles (mostly gone, but I was really freckled as a child), brownish red hair, and curves that most girls pay heafty sums for here. But I am odd. So when I landed in Ireland and found that every one was as talkative as myself and could spin a story out of their life just like I always did,  it made me realize just how culturally 'Irish' my dad had raised me.

     I had come home. And if felt wonderful.

      So now I'm writing this book. I love it because I feel I can write the Good Folk of Ireland and all its glorious folktales and do it the justice and honesty it deserves. And a plot line hopefully worthy of the heroes of old. But for all of the little nuances that make me Irish, the simple fact that I wasn't raised there poses a problem when it comes to slang and dialect. My own cousins come from County Clare, and arrived in the 60's so other than gaining their accent, I don't know the slang. And I didn't know how Gaelic football (the MOST watched sport in Ireland, by the way) worked until I read the rules today for part of my story. Hell, its not even really going INTO the story, but  I need to know it for a character's sake.

      Writing is hard. Trying to find things out when you don't have a ton of friends from Ireland to help you with it is even harder. So for next two months despite my Irish heritage and upbringing, I must now GO IRISH. Its that or go home...or you know, to an Irish pub to nurse my wounds like any good Irish girl.
    

Unexpected Is Expected

That's it. I have finally snapped. Upon looking of pictures of me from two years ago and realizing that I was, you know, THINNER, I am going to keep the New Years resolution (that I had no intention of actually keeping) and exercise. That's right, I, lazy maybe-i'll-do-it-later-just-kidding keely will actually get up from the computer that consumes my soul (and several thousand braincells per second) and go walking--because running is LAME--and do those exercises that make you look really really psychotic as you do them but completely tone you. I've even heard fresh air is good for you. Who knew!?

I'm not fat (well....by normal standards. If your anything more than a size 3 in Southern California, you are TOO FAT), but I need to lose weight. I suppose I have no excuse but laziness, because I actually lose weight much faster/easier than most people. I was lucky enough to be born with a fairly fast metabolism which enables me to do this easily--which often brings about dark mutterings from my friends.

I suppose I'm feeling this way in part because I'm just tired of feeling ugly. And I'm tired of calling and thinking of myself as ugly. I'm just....done. Its bad for me, and I don't really know where it comes from completely, because no one has ever called me ugly or even 'average' looking (even strangers say I'm cute, or have striking features; meaning my eyes). But somehow, for as long as I can remember, I just assumed I was regardless of what people said. And I'm tired of thinking of myself that way. So I'm determined to wake up every morning (around an early 9:30) and drag my miserable body out the door to walk (quickly of course). And I will eat better. I did it last year and lost substantial weight in two weeks. I will do so again. If all goes well, I will reach my goal weight of 110 by the end of March or early April.

I like to think of this as something that I'm using to promote change in my life and in my need to accept changing myself...you know, the whole 'move forward' idea. I know changing is going to take time, but there's nothing wrong with helping it get a jump start right!? I also bought three different kinds of pills. Each one promises a more healthier, glowing, heart attack free, peppy me! And really, who could beat that!? It DOES make me feel like an addict though, staring at those bottles. Is this how those health freaks get roped in? With the promise of being prettier, healthier, and thinner with these magic little pills?

Normally I'm a funny blogger. Normally I would charm you all with my wit and intelligence, but since very little has happened in my life to be comment worthy, I cannot in all good conscious be funny about nothing. Making up a story however, is a completely different story. I could make up ANYTHING and it would probably sound much more exciting than MY life. For instance:

'On Monday Petunia woke up with scaly hands. confused she went down stairs and asked her mother if anything seemed odd about her. Her mother, drinking her standard 7:30 a.m. burbon--no ice--squinted at the half empty glass and said,

'I love your hair.'

By Thursday Petunia was drinking water the way her mother drank her alcohol. By Friday Petunia feared the worst. She went to confront her mother, who was drinking her 8:00 a.m. taquila.

'Mother, I have bad news.'

'There's ice in this."

'I think I'm turning into a fish.'

'That reminds me, we're having salmon for dinner.'


Now doesn't that sound like just a fascinating girl!? Wouldn't you want to read a blog about a girl who has realized she's turning into a fish? I know I wait with 'baited' breath.




Coffee Please!