Going to admit to something a little naive and gullible, a litle childish and may-be a little embarrassing, but screw you. I believe in magic, in the possibility of maybe and what if and also in sort of everything. So when I met this guy and found out that he was born in Ireland and his parents still had raging irish accents, I was hooked, even as an aside to the fact that he was sort of the hottest guy around and looked like the guy I had thought for my entire previous twenty-five years I would marry, even though I had not been dreaming of getting married my whole life like that fucking stupid episode of friends and any other stupid bullshit movie about girls dreaming about a wedding their whole lives. Wait, what was the question?
Right. Husband is irish, born in Dublin, looks like a heart throb. He moved to Australia when he was 5 so he doesn’t have the accent (but I don’t buy his stories that he gets no lady attention when he’s away because the aussie accent still gets ’em everytime and yes, I’m speaking from experience) but he does a hilarious irish accent for stories and jokes, of course, and sounds like his dad when he does. But where is the magic? Where are the stories of the fae people and a bit of shamrock glamour sprinkled here, there and maybe just a little bit so I can see it with my own eyes? That’s the magic that I’m talking about. That’s the 1% of me that has been waiting for something these past ten plus years. He’s hiding it from me.

I read this the other night,  it was so good! And brings back the 1% of disappointment I’ve been harbouring because there’s not been the other kind of magic I was expecting from marrying someone born in the emerald isle.
Now, I’m not saying I want to run off through some standing stones and roger a hot guy in a kilt (and nothing else) from hundreds of years ago, because hello, that was Scotland, and when I suggested to my boys that we all try it together, I was assuming that we would all go through together and be back before Husband woke up from his nap. But, we did go looking for fairies in the forest and of course found none, so I assume that they’re all in Ireland. We did find some bones, though, so, maybe. But yes, we went looking for fairies and fairy mounds and then husband poo-pooed our efforts when he finally dragged his ass out of bed. Maybe he communes with his kith and kin in his sleep…? Again, not sharing the magic. Maybe it skips a generation and I will have to keep an eye on the boys for other types of playful bullshit that become mysterious and too coincidental to be coincidences. Not sure that we’ll be putting out thimbles of sweetened milk or anything to attract them, but we do have a fairy garden at the back door. If we try to attract the good ones, what will stop the bad ones? I don’t want to get into fairy runes or anything, that would be a step too far because what if I have the wrong one and there’s a conjunction of ley lines or something and then I have to get a permit for the portal in my backyard and our house is out of the city limits. It sounds like a bureaucratic nightmare, so no runes. You get the picture. If Husband would just make with the glamour, everything would be a whole lot easier. And I’m not saying that Husband doesn’t bring the magic, because he does, but all of those books about irish fairy princes and etc, that’s a world of hello right here, and I could get down with that. So yeah, Husband, bring it.