Everyone Ignores the Irish

Phusband had to work today, so I got to take the kids to work with me. What is this, 1950?

OK, so he had to attend a board meeting with people who call assistants "pip" and wear smoking jackets, and I had to cover an autumn-theme town fair and a gathering of Celts, one of whom gave me a mini dissertation on the proper terminology concerning bagpipes. I kid you not.*

Still, this is the 90s, and he should take my career seriously.

This is how serious my job was today**:

1. The first photo I took was of a "trackless train."
2. I missed the pie-eating contest at the autumn festival because of obligations to the Celtic gathering. This saddened me.
3. I got into a mental fight with a woman I don't know. I'm pretty sure she won, probably on the basis that I'm apparently racist against Scottish Americans.*** This is how it went down:
   

After being awesomer than any 2-year-old should ever be expected to be, the twins got antsy toward the end of the day. It was hard enough to convince Harrison to walk up the steps onto the porch to go inside. I asked which of the two doors to use to go inside.

As she walked inside, a lady poked her head out from behind the door and said with a condescending smile, "Actually, we're asking people to use the front door" and shooed me that way. Shooed me. I haven't been shooed since I was four.

So, I said, "Listen, lady. I'm just here to give your organization some free pub, which I'm pretty sure is the only kind of publicity you get. Open the fucking door, so my kid can see a violin and I can take a picture and get out of your AA meeting."

Or, I said, "Sorry. I thought this was the door for the help. Didn't realize I'm worthy of guest door status. Now, point me in the direction of the Micks, so I can get my upskirt shots."

Or even, "Lady, I'm armed with two toddlers who, with one word from me, could turn this uppity soirée into a plaid massacre. Hold that door open and pour me a Scotch, toots."

Of course, what I really said was, "OK, thank you," and then I turned around, two toddlers and camera in hand and walked them along one of the town's busiest streets, where, faced with a piper on the front porch, Lucy and Harrison understandably tried to run away, into said street.

I try not to say unkind things about other people in front of my children.

Finally, I wrestled the wee ones in the front door, and they were thrilled to see the Celtic band perform. The men in the band were very nice, so I got my photos and left. The kids were angels, but old door witch was still eyeing them, as if they might break something hideous.

As I left, I screamed, "By the way, it's a Scottish party, not Celtic. My Irish grandmother is rolling over in her grave! Erin Go Bragh!"

Or, I mumbled something about appreciating their time and then guided my terrified children past the piper.

*It's bagpipe, not bagpipes, and the "musician" who decided to pick up the "instrument" and depress people with "music" is called a "piper," not a "bagpiper," which is disingenuous in dinner party conversation.

**My job is not always this frilly, and I was lucky my editor (don't kill me for being silly, if you read this, editor) let me bring the kids today. Otherwise, I would have paid a sophomore more than my take-home pay to make out with her boyfriend and eat my snacks while my children fed themselves candy corn and put themselves down for naps.

***I figured that out after my first read of this post.

Editing post to add: I am a Mick, which is a derogatory term used to describe a Catholic Irish-American, and I'm pretty sure I was the only Mick at the party. They were seriously selling "Got Haggis?" bumper stickers. I couldn't make it up.