I had planned on starting the day with some new friends from my intramural volleyball league and then meeting up with BR, who I have continued talking to. It was crisp and in the 50's so I dressed in as much kelly green as possible, which is surprisingly difficult for someone whose favorite color is lime green (thanks Old Navy for saving the day with a Friday kelly green lunch break shopping spree). If you can't appreciate the difference between the colors then you are missing the obvious challenges I faced getting dressed on Saturday morning. First world problems, they're real.
To compensate for my lack of green layers, I clipped on a hair extension, tossed on some beads and headed out. Knowing that an all day drinking fest would render me a hot mess, I took a "before" picture and sent it to BR. We were set to meet up in the afternoon and since I didn't trust my eyes not to be blurry by that point, I wanted him to recognize me. He was coming back from a business trip in Europe so I sent him the following email: "Woohoo, you're home! Now shower, sh*t and come out for drinks. I'll be this girl (below) but sloppier :)"
I met up with my volleyball friends at a house party at 10am and we had a traditional New Jersey Irish breakfast of bagels and Irish coffee (that's just regular coffee with booze in it, right?). I was pleasantly surprised to discover that there was an actual parade to supplement the drinking fest. Never one to miss a parade, I piled on some more necklaces, slapped a glitter shamrock sticker on my face, a fake tattoo on my hand and grabbed my ridiculously annoying but super fun St. Paddy's Day whistle (another Friday lunch break purchase) and headed out into the sunshine!
My friends and I took pictures and danced to the bagpipe bands that marched by while I blew my whistle in time to the music. For those of you who have never attempted to blow a whistle to bagpipes, let me tell you, this is no easy task. For the record, there is a ridiculous number of bagpipe bands in New Jersey. Whoever thought New Jersey was just Italian-descended guido wannabes is sorely mistaken.
I got so into the holiday spirit with my Irish coffee that I needed to use a Port-A-Potty. Gross, I know, but desperate times call for desperate measures. While I don't mind peeing in the woods (yes, this blonde has gone camping!), Port-A-Potties just aren't my thing. Aside from the obvious gross-out factor, my uber-sensitive olfactory glands and photographic memory make it an experience that stays with me much longer than necessary. Thankfully I've got strong quads, so I was easily able to squat while praying there was no splash back. I sanitized my butt and legs, just in case.
After the parade we headed back to the house party for a BBQ lunch and Jameson, which goes surprisingly well together. Fresh off of a transcontinental flight, BR met up with me at the party. I introduced him to my friends, who, for some reason or another thought he was a State Trooper and proceeded to ask him law enforcement questions. Definitively not a State Trooper, BR, a jet-lagged slave to corporate America, took the interrogation in stride. He was was extraordinarily patient with me and my drunk friends as I threw some necklaces on him, made him down a hefty dose of Jameson and we headed out to a bar.
As it turns out, the chemistry that BR and I both thought wasn't there previously just needed a little liquid courage to come out. There's something to be said for alcohol's ability to overcome awkward nervousness and before we knew it, we were really hitting it off. We met up with some of BR's friends at a bar and ended up dancing in the bar like college kids on Spring Break. I don't know how, but for some reason I didn't have an epic hangover on Sunday. Irish coffee, for the win!