Happy Saint Patrick's Day, when everyone is Irish.

Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day. But how do you know who is Irish the rest of the year?

If you have 54 first cousins like I do, someone is bound to share a list of what it means to be raised Irish.

I saved the list my sister-in-law shared called "What It Means to Be in an Irish Family." It listed 26 items. She flagged one and called out my brother:

Number 25, honey.

Number 25? There's no leaving a family party without saying goodbye for at least 45 minutes. And that's just to the folks in the kitchen. Other families do the TRUE Irish goodbye where you sneak out without saying goodbye to anyone.

You can't help but laugh reading the list. What does it mean to be raised Irish?

You have no idea how to make a long story short. You may not know the words, but that doesn't stop you from singing. You can't wait for the other guy to stop talking before you start talking. You are genetically incapable of keeping a secret.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilt - another Irish quality. We were born feeling guilty. And don’t ask an Irish person for directions, unless you want to hear all the places you ought not go.

Many of your sisters and/or cousins are named Mary, Catherine or Eileen, and there is at least one member of your family with the full name Mary Catherine Eileen.

Let's see, I have a sister Mary, a cousin Mary, a mother Mary, a grandma Mary and a whole set of cousins who were given Mary as a middle name - even for the boys. If you yell for Maureen at our family reunion, at least three people answer. Call out Maureen, Kathleen, Pat, Maggie, and a mob forms.

You have at least one aunt who is a nun, or an uncle who is a priest. Yep, my dad's sister and his aunt were nuns. The guys were slackers. Not a priest in the mix, just a slew of altar boys forced to learn Latin to serve 6:30 a.m. Mass.

There isn't a big difference between you losing your temper and killing someone. The Irish tend to have two settings: Silence and Rage.

At this very moment, you have at least two relatives who are not speaking to each other (not fighting, mind you, just not speaking to each other). I'd name names, but then at least 10 people would stop speaking to me.

An ancient stone circle I visited in Ireland.

What does it means to have an Irish family? I'd add these to the list:

You aren't allowed to swear, but your dad is. And for the Irish, swearing usually includes three names: “Jesus, Mary & Joseph!”

You don't tan, you freckle. The official sunblock of Ireland? Pubs. How do you know when it’s summer? The rain is warm.

Your parents call you everyone else's name before they get to yours, and still don't get it right. I had 10 siblings; Mary was right above me, so I was called Mari-gina for 18 years.

Every Irish child is named after a saint. When your parents meet someone who isn't named for a saint, they gasp, "What kind of name is that?" The kind that sends you straight to the burning fires of hell.

There's a saint for every problem: Snake in the garden? Pray to Saint Patrick. Lose something? Pray to Saint Anthony:  "Something's lost and must be found, please take a look around." In our house, St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes, worked overtime.

You grew up with a photo of JFK, the Pope and the Last Supper in the dining room where you ate potatoes every night.

You changed the clothes on the Infant of Prague Statue in the living room.

Missing Sunday Mass was not an option, unless you planned to move out on Monday.

Your dad called misbehaving "shenanigans" and barked, "Don't use the good scissors for that...Were you born in a barn?...If everyone jumped off a cliff would you?...A blind person would be happy to see that."

No one ate until you said "grace." Ever.

Holy water healed every injury. Except for the time my sister fractured her skull in a bicycle accident, for which I still feel guilty because I'm Irish. After showering her with holy water, Dad finally took her drenched body to the hospital where she spent a week.

Whatever holy water couldn't fix, whiskey did. It's no wonder the Irish have a fondness for whiskey, since it was used to soothe the gums of teething babies.

On Saint Patrick's Day, you know when to clap during "The Wild Rover," and you know to stand when the band finishes with, "A Nation Once Again."

Instead of giving a eulogy, your cousin sings "Danny Boy" to his mother at her funeral.

You cry every time you hear that great Irish blessing, "May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back" because your sister recited it at your dad's funeral.

You know when Irish eyes are smiling. It's every time you look in the mirror and see all your ancestors smiling back.