WOW.

What a crazy weekend.

It begins 9 a.m. Saturday when I scratch The Boy’s new car – backing up a ramp in a parking garage. May awful, awful karma descend upon the head of the nasty man at the little parking garage on 89th Street near Madison Avenue who made me back up a 45 degree ramp with six inches clearance on either side.

Then, in art class, I completely wreck my painting. I was painting sitting down. The pose had foreshortening. The background was complicated. Just one of those is enough to throw me off, but all three of them, plus the ocean of auto destruction guilt I was drowning in? I threw in the metaphoric towel/paintbrush and left early.

The Boy is upset about the car and stressed out about the DJ job that night. We spend the afternoon rushing, doing errand-y type things until…

The one good part of the weekend. We see DJ Jester, Kid Koala and DJ P-Love at Joe’s Pub for a book tour/slide show/DJ set that was funny and funky and altogether good. (Everything there is.) We wander around (what’s that area of the Village? Cooper Union? I never know.) and I discover spring has come back to Manhattan! God has thawed out the street vendors, and my accessory wardrobe is duly grateful.

But the rest of the night. Oh, the rest of the night. At Centro-Fly, the DJs were double-booked. (I sleep from 11-11:30.) But getting paid out took The Boy nearly seven hours. (I sleep from 3:30-4.) Brother of Boy manages, while getting into the backseat like an otherwise normal person, to rip a foot-long hole in the crotch of his pants. And when you’re that tired, that is SO much funnier than it already is. Girlfriend of BoB gets sick on the West Side Highway, due to a nightlong graze of limes, olives, cherries (they were sitting by the bartender’s stuff) and apple martinis. That’s not so funny: vomit is gross no matter what.

But when we finally get back and everyone else falls asleep instantly, I still have so much adrenaline in me from being stressed out for the last 22 hours straight that….

I’m up.

I’m up, and I can’t do a thing about it. And God help insomniacs, cause that is some AWFUL time. 8:30 a.m. Sunday morning I’m flipping between “19 Degrees of Real World/Road Rules Hookups” and “Dragon Tales”, begging my burning eyes to shut.

Sunday night with the St. Patrick’s Day celebration at The Boy’s – in the lovable, original way that only Polish/Italian New Yorkers could do it. Corned beef (yick), cabbage, soda bread, potatoes… and egg noodles, pickles, rye bread and cannolis.

Erin go bragh. Sarah go bed. (I wish.)