A good friend of mine asked me last night over dinner what one thing someone should know about me if they’re being invited into my life.

I guess the truth is, I’m a hopeless romantic - a visionary. I give my heart freely, probably too freely; and those receiving it are rarely aware that it’s happening. I believe in the good in people. I see it when others don’t, and I celebrate it. Even where the masses might, I fail to hold grudges or anger or resentment. We all make mistakes, we all require forgiveness. I’m a tiny person, and that would be a lot of toxic baggage to lug around.

I live in fantasy land.

True enough, I’m a ruthless wiseass, have a twisted and despicable sense of humor that frequently borders on crude and I talk like a sailor. I laugh incessantly at physical humor even when it’s not supposed to be humorous i.e. others in physical pain. I’m oftentimes self-deprecating and randomly sarcastically self-avowed.

It’s all protective coating.

Over coffee on Saturday my landlord asked me where I got my sense of humor. It was a rhetorical question but it got the wheels spinning. I suppose it was The Boys – the Original Boys – my brothers. Picking, mocking, and yet somehow always defending. I developed a thick skin, an immunity to the jabs and the digs that would bring other girls to tears. Clearly I learned to enjoy it, it was our bond, and eventually I became a pro at giving it back. Then of course there was my father who told absurdly horrible jokes which we lovingly refered to as “groaners”. Three or four minutes of waiting for the punch line and all you could give him was “ohhhhh that was awful”. He would just laugh, pleased with himself and we would invariably laugh right along with him.

So the answer is this: deep down, beyond the banter and the wit, lies a little Irish girls heart. It’s well hidden, but poorly guarded.