There are certain times throughout the year when it’s worth celebrating your heritage with a couple of beverages in the beautiful city of San Francisco. If you’re German, you love Oktoberfest and the free steins…If you’re Italian, you love North Beach Festival and the delicious cuisine…If you’re Chinese, you love the Chinese New Year and parade… Being of Irish decent, one of my most beloved San Francisco celebrations is St Patrick’s Day.

To commemorate St Patrick’s Days gone by, I thought I’d share some very important advice on how NOT to celebrate this holiday with your family…

So in March of 2007 St Patrick’s Day fell on a Saturday. For me, this meant double bookings between my friends and my family. My friends and I had planned brunch at Kellan’s and rented out our, then favorite local watering hole, The Black Horse for the afternoon, while my family had scheduled an all-call dinner that evening at my Auntie Anne’s house in San Ramon. Never to miss a moment of fun I happily agreed to attend the brunch, the bar and the bart ride out to the east bay.

At that time Kellan was living at the exact same address as me, but one block over. This made for rise and shine the morning of March 17th rather convenient. I headed over pretty early, probably close to 9am, where breakfast and irish car bombs were waiting for me. A year out of college my ability to party hardy was above par. Since then of course, Sundays make better for a day in bed than for a day of boozing. But three years ago, I could start at 9am and continue the whole night through. You could call it my prime. (My parents are so proud…not!)

I admit I was a bit aggressive with the cocktails that morning knowing that I only had a couple hours with my friends until I had to hop on Bart to get out to the East Bay. Kellan’s house was soooo much fun, but around 12pm we had reserved the bar, and had to head over to The Black Horse, where James, the owner, had opened early for us.

(Note: The Black Horse is literally an alley that they put a roof over. It’s actually Black Horse “Deli” which is a sneaky was of serving beer and wine without needing a liquor license. Of course the only item on the menu is a cheese plate. When James runs out of ingredients for his cheese plate, he pops up to the local liquor store, buys mini bags of chips and re-sells them back at the bar. Oh and did I mention this place only seats 18 people?!)

So my 40 (this is not a typo) or so friends and I head over to the Black Horse, where I belly up to the bar, order my delicious cider beer and shoot the shit with James until around 2pm. Around this time things get very, very fuzzy. From what I can piece together, I headed home, packed an overnight bag and called a cab. The cab took me to the Bart station where I purchased my ticket and got onto the train heading towards San Ramon.

The next thing I know I am literally being man-handled by the train attendant, who is attempting to wake me from my sleepy slumber to let me know we’ve reached the last stop and it’s time to exit. I quickly pull myself together, grab my belongings (which were luckily still in tact) and call my cousin Cait to find out where I’m supposed to meet her now that I’m off the train.

Her then boyfriend, now husband, was with her and they had brought his brand new truck to come and pick me up. After a very confusing five minute phone call with Cait she found me wandering about the parking lot. From what I can recall, upon finding me, our exchange went something like this:

Cait: “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you drunk?”
Me: “Yes. And I’m hungry. You have to help me sober up before I see my parents.”
Cait: “Trevor has some crackers in the car for you to eat…wait a minute….What’s on your pants? Did you pee your pants?! ”
Me: “What are you talking about?! (I look down) Holy shit! I pissed my pants!!”

Yes. It’s true. Apparently my nap on the train was soooo relaxing, I had peed my pants. Cait was laughing so hard she could barely get the words out to Trevor to explain what had happened. Of course Trevor was not blind, nor was he thrilled to have to put someone with wet pee pants in the back seat of his new truck. On the ride to my aunt’s I sat on an old dog towel shoveling crackers down my throat to try and sober up before I came into contact with my parents.

Once we arrived I changed into a clean pair of pants in the driveway (flashing all the neighbors I’m sure). Within seconds of walking into the house my family was informed of my Bart potty trauma drama.

I was struggling to look sober at that point, but luckily they sat me at the kids table next to my grandma, who had no idea what was going on.  By 8pm the delicious corned beef, cabbage and mashed potato feast had soaked up the alcohol and I was feeling pretty ashamed. A part of me wishes that I could have just stayed drunk all day to avoid remembering how horrifically embarrassing the day actually was. Lesson learned.