I hand Susan a bottle of Woodchuck Cider and lay down among the dandelions.

Someone's playing Elvis Costello nearby. I can feel my blood pressure dropping already.

I don't think I drank all that much, really. Maybe I have a cold coming on. Maybe a storm is coming. That can cause a headache, can't it?

My house is a shambles. One I leave to the Instagolem. I can't seem to deal with compound sentences. Or is it complex? I don't care.

I wander outside until I hit a park. Dandelions? In March? Whatever. I flop on the grass.

I stumble into the dandelion patch, belated but elated to find my kindred.

I flop down next to Penny and start rubbing her feet and ankles. "Good party," I murmur.

DXM hands me a beer. Knuts hands me a plate of potato salad. I nod at Susan. Beer good. Brain hurt.

Dandelions. It would be dandier if I could find Edward. I don't know what I drank last night-- or even if it was something one doesn't drink, as such-- but I seem to have lost Edward. And Jilli. And Clovis. And I've no idea where Dagfari is, either.

I flop down on the grass at the edge of the group, and start digging in pockets for painkillers.

Witches' hat... napkin... fangs... stake... paper aeroplane... red nose... chocolate. That'll do.

"Anyone else for a chunk of Fagin's Extra Dark?"

David's masterful foot rub has put me into a state of near coma. I may have an out-of-body experience any moment. Above my head, I'm vaguely aware of people passing bottles and other items to each other. There's a gentle breeze, the sound of distant water. I feel myself letting go.

I'm not sure if hours, days or weeks have passed before I shake myself aware and begin heading home. Unfortunately, before I get there I overhear the latest news on the radio.

I feel as if a weight is pressing on my back. My steps slow as I reach my street. My front yard is covered with dandelions. Good.

It's Saint Patrick's Day, so the music and beer are flowing freely at The Client & Server. The crowd seems on edge tonight, so I murmur to the husband to pour up a round of Guinness on the house, and suggest that the musicians pick up the tempo a little.

Dancing will make it all better.

It's hard to find a good place to stay when you are a troll. People think you have designs on their babies and it just gets ugly. But on St. Pat's being green is an advantage.

I have never seen Bob the Vampire so close to losing his cool in public. "What's wrong?"

"If I hear one more rendition of 'It's Not Easy Being Green', I swear I'm going to find out what frog blood tastes like. I hate this holiday."

"Bob, you're Irish. It's supposed to be your national holiday."

"A, I wasn't Catholic. B, the Irish in Ireland wouldn't be caught dead drinking green beer or wearing pins that say 'Kiss Me I'm Irish' or plastic green bowler hats." He glances down at the hand I'm trying to hide behind my back. "Don't even think it."

Sighing, I put the headband with the sparkly green shamrocks on springs back on the merchant's table. "But you'd be cute wearing that."

Whatever he's muttering, it's a good thing I don't speak Gaelic. I think it was something about me getting tickled and not enjoying it.

erika, when my relatives have come to visit, I've had very good luck with both the Trolliday Inn Old Quarter and Kat Perez's hotel in Bresilico. Both have very high ceilings, large beds, and generally cater to, er..., larger beings. You know, trolls, giants, defensive linemen...