i'm scottish

My mother used to pack me an entirely green lunch on St. Patrick's Day.  I loved this. Even as a senior in high school.  I was never too cool for my mom's lunches. For me, comfort always trumps cool.  That's why you may see me running errands in yoga pants and purple Crocs.  So uncool, I know. But, meh, whatever.  I blend. I live in a surf town. I once saw swimsuits under Easter dresses at church. True story. 

My mom also cooked corned beef and cabbage on St. Patty's.  This I didn't love so much.  Who was the Irish bloke that decided that turning a roast into a salt lick was a good idea? Riddle me that.

And now it seems the Sugar Daddy is leaving me for a few days. And on St. Patty's! Not that it matters all that much. St. Patty's I mean.  Alas, I am Scottish. I don't make green lunches or corned beef.  I don't drink beer or go around kissing any greasy old stone.

 I do pinch bums though.

My mother is French Canadian but she fully embraces the Irish and anyone else who wants to start a holiday.  If you are wondering, I could also claim to be half French Canadian, but I've always associated more with my Scottish roots.  I feel like a Scott.  Which is my dad's first name for the record.

Not that I spend that much time thinking about all this anyway.  I mean really. This is America. We are pretty much all mutts, except Andre the Greek. He's purebred. Not to be confused with noble.

So I'm on my own with this pack of heathen children.  Don't expect me to get out of my yoga pants all weekend. Or brush my hair.

We aren't sure about Frankie's ancestral heritage but he does believe in kissing stones. I'm supportive of this decision as long as there isn't bird poop on the rock.