Happy St. Patrick's Day!

After the fact, but who has time to blog on the official day of Irish inebriation... it's just mad drinking as far as I'm concerned, and last time I checked, drinking and computers do not go together. I have only one bonafide Irish friend, and he has some good irish jokes for you, in case you need a short dose of Cork humour.

But, that's all the Irish I can summon up for my day... sad, but St. Paddy's Day ain't a big thing here in frogland.

What did I do? Well, I woke up a little less chipper than usual, and had a rather nasty email from the mother, which stung and bit like a forty foot millipede. After brief weeps, made like the hills for the last of my easter chocolate. After chocolate came to good realisation that maybe internet umbilical cord needs to be sliced and diced, into fishhead scramble.

So went to the other end of the apartment, to talk to myself, and the bright blue sky. Then people phoned, translation job, had to go back and check email for work, and so looked at other emails, all of which were much more encouraging and productive. Email, what a terrible and horrifying thing it can be. I think I'm turning into a type of vegetable, grey and silvery, with eight fingers and one hump for the spacebar. Somebody suggested "how often it seems we fall in love with a picture of someone we have in our heads and not with the actual person... so nardac thinks: we may as well just dispense with the person." At which I went swishing out of the apartment, with a sexy german shepherd t-shirt, white pants, audrey heels and preppy greenish blue sweater draped over the shoulders. Enough is enough. Time to feel my flesh and blood.

So there we were, at the Russian Waterlogged Palace, with darling Voin. Running mad in what can only be described as a thirty-something's idea of artistic paradise. But, in between the shenanigans, met the Russian Overlord, who was actually very sexy and scruffy, not Mafioso. Small chat. Tomorrow, will know for sure if I can have the space. Then met another guy, who was making a darkroom, sawing wood, dust flying all over in the afternoon sun... gorgeous and wide eyed. We spoke for seconds, after which he invited me to his living space on the fourth floor. Delicious... but that's dessert.

Voin was desperately trying to find a door for his space. We sawed at wood, drilled holes, chipped fingers, twisted two screwdrivers out of shape, and hammered the hell out of hinge, all for nothing. There still isn't a door and there's nothing to be done. I had to laugh though, for more than the half of this whole episode, we ressembled none other than Paris Hilton and that whole Simple Life nonsense. Two stupid fashion victims (I was in heels and white pants) trying to do the afternoon Home Hardware Special.

Then went to art opening at the gallery of BLES. Don't ask. I didn't want to go. But, hell, Voin thought it was a good idea because then we could steal as many bottles of free Ricard as we wanted. Which was what transpassed, except I had to stomach several grotesque moments watching monsters smile falsely and stiffly in my direction. I don't know who these people actually like because it seems there is no reality in their connections. Art openings. What a racket.

I asked this guy why the drinks weren't green. He said St. Patrick's Day was like Halloween, a commercial holiday. Then I laughed prettily into his open face and said, no silly, you just squirt green food colouring into whatever drink you happen to be quaffing and then drink more than expected. I can't see that as commercial so much as purely moronic and drunk. He raised an eyebrow. Then I laughed prettily at him again and said, well, where I come from Halloween is really fun because we saw rabbit's heads off and burn the pants of hairy nuns. Devil worship day!

No, but seriously, this whole anti-Halloween nonsense, so holier-than-thou, comes from some massive misconception of what Halloween really is. Where I come from we make our own costumes. Then, after dressing up like a doorknob, triangle or whatever household device you chose, you leave the house. If you're 14 and under, it's candy on the menu. If you're over, it's booze. Either way, only the candy or beer companies are making money. But in France, they buy all those plastic doodads, and costumes of witches, ghouls or aliens, and then make fun of North Americans for their dumb holidays. Go figure.

After which, headed to Leo's place for the party. The Lacombite, her BF, was there, along with my husband. There was a new girl, Maggie, a Ukrainian San Franciscan who rules my books as sexy mamma of the month. Even the Lacombite attempted some lame shark bite about his Ukrainian ex-girlfriend. Good boy. It's always useful to try.

Finally, instead of breaking loose to the disco for some hype minimal electronica, took the train home with my husband, and we frenched on the number 2 line.

The End.