I haven't spent St. Paddy's day in New York in two years. The last time I did I was proposed to by a drunken fireman. ( I so should have taken him up on that offer. I could be married in Westchester right now writing my novel in some nice house.) I spent the last two years in Florida where the day isn't even aknowledged. I needed my drunken fireman fix.


I woke up around nine, instead of seven as planned, thanks to the whole "I am feet away from a sexy Academy Award winner" shenanigans of the evening before.


The plan was to wake up early, take a bath, grab my make up bag and head down to meet Mu and Film Freak for make up application, morning tea, and bagels. The local would be opening at ten, and we agreed to meet at 11 as Film Freak wanted to be drunk before she went to her bartending job at 3:30.


Of course, I slept late and decided that a long bath before being shoulder to shoulder with a whole bunch of firemen and other assorted Jameson's swilling fresh from the parade flushed with liquor and pride bar patrons was unnecessary.


I got to the bar a half hour late, about the same as Film Freak, and set up my make up kit. I painted shamrocks in green body paint on our cheeks and decorated them with green glitter, while we had our tea. At about one, Film Freak decided that it was time to start drinking. The bar was still empty by then, still gawking at the parade, so we were able to commence our Guinness and Jameson's drinking in peace.


Soon as the parade was over, families started to come into the bar.


I should explain that at this particular bar, there is no food, just liquor. On St Patrick's day the bar had corned beef and the fixings for sandwiches, but it certainly wouldn't be the kind of place I would bring a four year old. Yet in they came, families with three or four kids, some in strollers, mothers and fathers passing kids back in forth between them while they sneaked sips of Guinness or Jameson's.


The kids spotting the shamrocks quickly began coming up and asking me if I would paint his/her face. Now heartless and pessimistic as I am, I am not quite vicious enough to say no to a child for such a simple request. Thus I began painting shamrocks on the faces of four and five year olds. The word circulating quickly, I found myself surrounded even by boys who wanted the decoration. The parents, grateful for the time off from parental duties, asked me what they owed me. Of course, it's St Patrick's day I'm not going to charge and thus the parents started paying me in Jameson's shots.


Paying a person for a task involving manual dexterity in shots of liquor, well, not the best apporach. But there I was with my "payment" all lined up. And I was happy sitting there, painting faces and sipping my shots. I thought about my Bunni bags from my reading and my make up skills and thought, "This is what I should be doing with my life. I know a bakerina, I know a professional caterer. I could put together a party business. For the love of G-d people, I could own NYC and all just by putting together themed goodie bags and painting faces."


Of course, such dreams are lost in the flush of Jameson's and Guiness. The Amazon arrived to save me with slices of pizza and her man, the Big Bad, walked me home early and made sure I got inside. I fell asleep with my shamrock still painted on my cheek.