dressing for an evening of sentiment and tradition with a chance of defiance

For the first time in a few years, we're attending a St Patrick's Day event.

I'm told that some of my elderly Irish relatives refused to march on St Pat's until all Ireland was free. Other, more contemporary friends and colleagues, refuse to march until all Irish are welcome.

I've also heard that the Celts invented stubbornness. Could be.

My naive and sheltered generation celebrated St Pat's with acts of defiance - for the time, that is. The green streaks in our hair, the green freckles and shamrocks painted on our faces, and the very vivid green outfits down to the socks would probably not even be noticed on any Casual Friday, but we were daring the teachers to make remarks, itching to provoke dispute. One teacher of English was notorious for showing up in an orange tie. While he was grimacing at the high-spirited leprechauns-for-a-day, his windshield was being painted green in the teachers' parking lot. Ah, tradition.

Just about every little town out East has a St Paddy's Day parade, they are staggered, I mean the dates are staggered, so that all the pipe bands and fire departments can participate in as many parades as possible. The parade in a town not far from Flintstone Manor is small, neighborly, serious and charming, and that is why I committed an act of genteel violence a few years ago. A couple we knew slightly were standing next to us and apparently hadn't expected a parade when they came downtown and were annoyed. "Disgraceful," she said, "just look at them, reeling drunk like that so early in the morning."

"That's the Brownie troop," I replied.

"Well, you know what I mean."

I knew what she meant all right.  Somehow my coffee accidentally slipped from my clenched fist and spilled onto her shoes. Oops.

Well, really, who wears shoes with high heels and red soles at the beach?

Anyway, the impending event has engraved invitations, and "cocktail attire" is specified, so I'm guessing there won't be a reading of the Speech at the Grave of O'Donovan Rossa nor of the last words of Robert Emmet.

To this respectable gathering, therefore, I am wearing a lace dress. Green, of course. And green suede KS sandals (eBay), weather permitting, and some gold jewelry. Considering a torque - assuming it works with the neckline.

And my greeny-hazel eyes will be festooned with Armani's green-black mascara, which I like to think makes me look mysterious and soulful, at least in the mirror of my mind. This mascara was a limited edition product last spring, and when I saw how it looked on, I went back to the store and bought another 3 tubes. Given how rarely I go out in full warpaint, this may be a lifetime supply.

Decided that my emerald satin Invitation Clutch would be overkill,  playing with the idea of the tweed clutch with studs (above), and have also decided not to put green polish on my toes. The next step would be trying those green streaks and freckles again.


Oh, and when Himself opens his closet door to hunt up a tie, surprise! he'll find a cute navy number with green shamrocks sprinkled all over it. Which he will be wearing

Update: here's a shot of a torque that's very close to mine: