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Whoever told me I would never be an Irish policewoman was WRONG

St. Patrick’s Day 2011. Hands down, my favorite Saint Patrick’s Day, ever. Seriously. Brian and I tore up two cities this year. Boston and New York City. And for the first time, I got to share my love of leprechauns and shamrocks with my mom. A true Irish miracle.

We started the morning relatively early, for Brian and I’s track record. We had played this year strategically. The one condition for my mother’s participation in Saint Patrick’s Day was that we go to the parade. And being that for the last 3 years in a row, Brian and I have managed to miss the St. Patrick’s Day parade in each of the respective cities we were visiting, we knew we needed to make a steady effort.

As such, on the Eve of Patrick, Bee and I spent our night pub hopping. The only requirement was that it had to be Irish, or have an Irish name. Literally, that was it. Being that I was living on the cusp of a bad neighborhood on the edge of Chelsea, very near the warehouses dividing it from Hell’s Kitchen and way too close to the bus station and the Post Office, all that glitters was definitely not gold.

As Google was quick to tell us, there were 7 Irish pubs within a 2 short block radius of me and the Terr’s apartment. We hit them all. We had already hit the Molly Wee the night before, and being that this was my local staple, a known “goodie” and the fact that we’d already been there, we saved it for last. Which didn’t turn out to be too much later than the first. Turns out, it doesn’t take much to be able to call your pub Irish. Take any run-down joint, stick an Irish flag outside and add a “O” to the beginning of the name and viola! Instant Ireland. One place we stumbled into (and very quickly out of) was one of 3 O’Brian’s we visited this night. This particular O’Brian’s was about 10 feet wide and about 30 feet deep. Included a run down bar, a largely gangster looking clientele, hardcore Rap music, and Guinness in a can only. When we walked in, everyone looked up at us. It was clear we were in the wrong place. And we took a hint, chugged our cans and headed back to Molly Wee.

Even after a 5 AM lock-in at the Molly Wee with my favorite Irish bartenders, we managed to get ourselves up early to meet the Terr at Central Park South for the St. Pat’s parade. Dressed in green and ready for a party, we watched the bands and groups from around the world march up in front of the Plaza. Having successfully not missed the parade, the Terr was in good spirits and we convinced her to pop in for a couple beers at our first stop of the day. Singing, shots of Jamo, making friends. It was intended to just be a quick stop but like most St. Pat's stops, you just never know where it's going to take you. And it kept us right where we were.

After about 5 hours of warm-up, we headed back to the Molly Wee. Obviously. And if it's even possible, the party got more crazy here. We actually managed to get a table, though I'm not sure how. The Terr even stayed out with us for a while! There were bagpipes, firefighters and Irish policemen (who I stole hats from). And the next thing I know, I'm eating pizza on the street outside our little Chelsea apartment at 4:30 AM. Once again, we win St. Pat's day.

I have no idea...

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