Oops. I haven't been posting and people are yelling at me for not posting and so here I am, posting. Whew.

Saturday was Saint Patrick's Day, in case any of you didn't notice. If you didn't notice, then you should be ashamed. YES, ashamed! I noticed, and therefore I dyed my hair a lovely shade of purple. Uhm, okay -- so there's not a lot of Irish themed purple things, but it's the thought that counts. Actually, it's a reddish purple color. It's quite interesting, I think. Other-mother described it as "doll hair". I for one haven't seen a lot of dolls with purple hair, but whatever.

Saturday, I also cooked a large dinner for my family and they actually enjoyed it and no one got sick. So that made me happy.

And then -- off to the lovely block party at J. Gilligan's. I wore my nifty bright neon green crushed velvet jacket, and my amazon sister wore NOTHING GREEN, but she did color green streaks in her hair with marker, so that was fun and exciting. She and her boyfriend had his camera with them, so we took many pictures, ranging from pre-drunken excitedness to sloppy drunk elation. Once I have my scanner running, YOU, yes YOU, shall see them here.

Shannon (amazon sister) bought a pair of sparkly green shamrocks not clovers, that are worn as a headband and stick up on springs and bob and weave as you walk (or sway in a drunken stupor). She was nice enough to let me try them on. Upon doing this, a lovely young gentleman came over and began to bob and weave in sync to the motion of the shamrocks. He was very odd. His name was Robbie. Upon asking him what was wrong with him, he replied: "I work at a bank. In computers."


Robbie swore he was only drinking Crown, but we know differently, don't we, Shannon?

We met him after Randy and Bill walked off without us into the sea of people. But we amused ourselves by polling random guys as to whether it was more acceptable to say "titties" or "tits", as Shan's boyfriend Bill swears that "titties" is a redneck saying. I wish I could report our findings back to you, but I don't recall much after that.

Except dancing, lots of dancing, and having to use a port-a-potty and waiting in an incredibly TOO long line and talking to everyone in the line like we were all old friends.

Apparently, the need to use the bathroom brings people closer.

Or something.

Anyway. That was my weekend, or some of it. And now I have posted, and my conscience is clear.

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