St. Patrick's Day is for assholes, at least here in the city. I have no problem with people gathering at homes or even at bars, hopefully in managable numbers, to have a drink or two with friends, celebrating whatever it is you are suposed to celebrate on St. Patrick's day. But what I really don't like is when people use the night as an excuse to drive in from the suburbs wearing some awful green sweater that does no justice to her complexion just to stand outside a bar in my neighborhood and throw her lit cigarette at my husband and child. Yes, the sling did burn a bit but thank Ireland that nobody got hurt because I would have strangled her with my bare hands. No, it wasn't like she intentionally threw the cigarette at my family. What she did was this weird sort of over the head wind up that she finished off by throwing the cigarette over her head backwards. It was like she was doing a cricket pitch from behind, never looking over her shoulder to see if she was going to hit anybody with her toxic, burning, lipstick-stained, retard stick. This holiday is such an embarassment to my people.

I took this picture on Wednesday, although at the time it still felt like Tuesday. Austin woke up at 3:30 in the morning and instead of slowly torturing each other with passive agressive barbs about who should be taking care of Austin and who should be asleep, David suggested we take a walk down to Fisherman's Wharf to look at the Sea Lions. I think we got there just after the sun came up behind the clouds. We of course went to Cafe Trieste on the way home and held the now sleeping Austin in our laps as we sat there, watching all the people coming in for their morning coffee, most of them not wearing a jacket over whatever it was that passed for pajamas the night before.