My mother is 100% Irish and my father is 100% Italian. Same goes for Mr. Gaga.
As luck would have it, I am 100% Italian and Mr. Gaga is 100% Irish.
Being married to an Irish person can be good and bad.
Here are some indicators that your husband and children are Irish:
They can drink you under the table: – Most stereotypes don’t come out of thin air. These people can drink all day and night with little to no repercussions.
There’s no hangover…no throwing up.
The only people who suffer are the sober people who have to be in their company. In my case, I learned long ago that I will never be able to keep up with the Irish in the drinking department. While my Irish girlfriends were dancing on the bar in the Bronx, I was home vomiting.
Mr. Gaga is always the life of the party…and has yet to ever wake up one morning of his life and say “I’m never doing that again.”
Irish eyes are smiling: It’s good to be with someone who has a smiley face, like Mr. Gaga.
I definitely have something that can certainly be described as a “frowny face.”
This has proven to be off-putting. My neighbor told me that when she first moved to the neighborhood, some lady on my street (who I spoke two words to in my life) told her about the Gaga’s. She said “The husband is really nice, but stay away from the wife….she’s a total bitch.” This is a common theme.
Thankfully, sometimes it seems that the friendliness that radiates from his Irish face, kind of cancels out my bitch face…and we become a little more approachable as a couple.
They can fight: Yet another stereotype that just happens to be true. Mr. Gaga is non-confrontational to a fault, but if the shit hits the fan I know he can take everyone down. He’s very happy and nice, but if pushed too far, he can get crazy.
Don’t be fooled by his smiling eyes or his intoxication….he will fuck you up.
Their taste buds don’t work properly: I believe it is because their ancestors spent centuries gnawing on rotten potatoes in the rain or something, but both my husband and mother have taste buds that don’t function.
As a result they douse everything they eat with inappropriate seasonings and sauces.
When we all eat together my mother spends the first ten minutes of the meal “peppering her food.” While we eat, she literally sits at her seat shaking salt and pepper shakers madly.
Mr. Gaga takes it one step further and mixes every sauce he can find together and dips his meat into it.
Needless to say, my delicious Italian food does not need this kind of treatment. I beg him to eat food as it is prepared. It’s heartbreaking to see him dip my chicken cutlets into this shit.
“Why are you doing this? This chicken cutlet is delicious!”
“I like it this way,” he says as he dips it into the revolting concoction.
“It’s rude to the chicken cutlet! You can’t even taste it anymore!”
I plead…to no avail.
They have blatant disregard for food: I guess it may be due to the dysfunctional taste buds, but food is merely a means of survival for the Irish.
I could truly give my husband homemade pasta with a lobster sauce or Lucky Charms for dinner and he would be equally content either way.
It’s offensive. However, on nights when I’m working or have had a crazy day there’s some comfort in knowing that I can offer a tunafish sandwich for supper and Mr. Gaga will be thrilled.
They are witty: In college, I lived with 7 Irish girls. I never laughed so hard in my life.
Sometimes so much so that I pee my pants. Since I had kids….I am especially prone to having accidents.
Our first date after I had Sam, we got a babysitter and went to the movies. When we left the theater and we were walking to the car, Mr. Gaga said something very funny. I stopped walking, twisted my legs together to try to keep the pee in. It didn’t work.
50 gallons of pee came pouring out in the middle of the crowds of people who were coming out of the movies, which actually just made me laugh harder.
Mr. Gaga ran away and left me. He got his car and came back to pick me up where I stood in a pee puddle. He found an old garbage bag in his truck and he made me wrap up in it before I sat on the seat in his truck.
We laughed the whole way home and then I snuck upstairs with my wet pants and garbage bag while he paid the babysitter.
There’s absolutely nothing better than laughter.
Because they can make people laugh, they take it too far:
Laughter is great. The problem lies in the fact that when people think Mr. Gaga is the funniest person in the world, he starts to believe them.
When he’s out with friends or at work, he is “Mr. Personality”, shooting off one-liners and cracking jokes, and everyone thinks he’s a riot.
When he gets home, I am not always in the same jovial mood as his work people or his friends. Sometimes he tries to crack the same jokes to me that worked wonderfully at work….
They are very white: When you look like Snooki, you don’t expect to have to get involved with people who don’t like the sun. Mr. Gaga sits out for a couple of hours on the beach before he starts crying and goes back in the house, and Michael wants to stay out but ends up roasting.
Caring for pasty-white children and husbands is super-annoying. While Sam and I are tanning, the last thing we want to do is go back to the house because the other 2 annoying lobsters have sun poisoning.
Loving the Irish can be a blessing or curse – but mostly its a blessing if you can disregard the hideous sunburns ……
HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY!!!
XO, LADY GOO GOO GAGA
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