Happy St. Paddy's, y'all

That's right -- it's one of those funny religious holidays when people get totally trashed to honor a saint, or other matter of religion.

This isn't where I was originally going with this post, but because what's on my mind is interesting only to me at the moment (wedding planning), and not even very interesting to me, at that ... let's take a walk down Ye Olde Memory Layne instead.

Let's cast our minds back to the B.L. era -- before Lizzy. The year is 2002; the date is mid-March. March 17, in fact. It's seven months after 9/11, and the poor souls at the FBI are still sorting through the World Trade Center wreckage for bits of, well, people. It's quite horrible work, or so I heard. Duffy's friend, whose name escapes me, was assigned to this gruesome task, and given a hotel room on LuwonGisland (Long Island, to those of us who don't hail from there). She invited Duffy to crash there, and Duffy invited me.

Actually, this isn't strictly B.L. -- the Lizzy embryo has already made itself known, but the life-changing news has only been realized for a few weeks. But, what the hey. Sure, I'll go on a road trip to Manhattan. Yes, I feel sick and tired all the time, but -- eh. It'll be a BLAST!

So we drive up there without incident, bum around a bit, try to stay warm (no easy task) and meet up with some of the Duffster's friends for dinner. I hope I don't offend anyone at this point by saying that the significant thing that sticks in my memory about them is that they are a) practicing Catholics, b) fully grown adults, and c) enthusiastic about their chosen faith. I have so rarely met this combination -- lapsed Catholics are a dime a dozen, at least in my experience -- but these guys were refreshing. So we have dinner. Everyone but me drinks wine. Etc.

Duffy and I checked out Ground Zero that day, we went to one of the big museums, we saw part of a parade, blah blah blah -- let's skip to the part where it's getting to be party time in the Big Apple, and everyone is out, bedecked in obnoxious colors. For some stupid reason, we jam ourselves into a few Irish pubs before realizing that, you know what, why. Because, it's miserable. Waaaay too crowded. As for me, I had yet to figure out what triggered the physical 'icks' of first-trimester pregnancy -- the shepherd's pie I had for dinner was quite festive, but perhaps not the best idea ever. Because, I feel quite sick. Not the hurl all over the place kind, but definitely the my stomach hurts badly, I feel completely antisocial, just go away and leave me alone kind. But my friend Duffy and I are in Manhattan, we are here to Have Fun, it's St. Patrick's Day, and our hotel room is a ferry ride away, so we press on. Her Catholic buds (I think it was them) find a not-so-crowded (sort of) pub across from Madison Square Garden. We go there. I slump at a table and try not to cry or be too big of a party pooper. Duffy dances and has fun. Eventually, feeling slightly not so horrible, I join her. Little Lizzy gets to jump up and down in utero to some random Irish tunes.

Finally, I feel it is late enough that I can beg her to leave. So, we leave. It must've been about 2 at that point. Or maybe the place closed. I dunno. The important thing to me right then was, we left. We managed to catch our ferry. We made it back to the waterfront at LuwonGisland. We try to start the car... Um. Car? It's a good time for you to start. It's now after 3, in a sketchy part of NYC, and we are two women who are tired and not feeling like being toyed with. Thanks!

The car kept stalling. As I recall, braking was part of what caused a stall. So we'd get it going, then try to coast as far as we could. Corners were fun! If you're Evil Knievel.

Finally, we come to our Waterloo -- an overpass that was too much to coast over. So, we slide to a stop. I get out and push, over Duffy's loud protestations. She steers. We go pretty much nowhere, not very fast.

Then, a pickup truck pulls up. Long Island -- 3-something a.m. -- what are the odds this will be a pretty scene? But, miraculously, it's two young guys who genuinely want to help us. Their names (this is so cute!) were Harry and Danny, and they are happy to bumper-push us several miles to Duffy's friend's motel. Earning us their everlasting gratitude.

We spent most of the next day (Duffy and I; not the Catholic guys or the pickup-truck guys, if that wasn't clear) hanging out in a slapped-together pizza shop on the island, watching people who looked like they'd jumped straight off the set of a gangster movie sashay in and out, while the car got worked on. About six hours and $800 later, we were on our way.

When I told my mom this story, I said, "Maybe Harry and Danny were angels!" She pointed out that they had the same names as my dad (Harry, but he goes by Ed) and my uncle (Dan). I got a kick out of that, for some reason.