what they don't tell you about st. patrick's day, incidentally, is that the really worrisome hooligan is the one in your own heart. my co-worker warned me quite seriously that i should stay off of the streets after about noon, so i expected utter mayhem at the parade on 5th avenue; no, that was a formidable stream of cops and a couple of old ladies in green foam hats. irish pubs in the evening, in turn, were either brightly lit and empty or charging $10 a head for the chance to hear "hey ya" and dance with still more cops. the missus and i ended up at a comparatively reasonable place around the corner from our apartment, a place that suddenly reared up, grew fangs and stole several hours and our abilities to walk straight, leaving us with four business cards from a department head at skidmore college. so there.
i balanced this with a womanly weekend of bread-baking and needlepoint. i thought that being domestic would make the days seem longer, but that wasn't true either.
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