Pro tip: In a pinch, two partial bottles of liquor equal one full bottle. Bonus tip: When mixing Bombay and Hendrick’s, pour the Bombay into the Hendrick’s bottle for a slightly less suspicious flavor profile. Gins blended, I was off to this year’s Saint Patrick’s Day party.

En route, I remembered why you should always copy and paste addresses from Facebook into Google Maps. If you navigate directly from Facebook, Maps rolls a set of digital dice to decide the destination you really want. This time I noticed I made an arbitrary left turn, parked, and followed the copy and paste procedure, only to find I had miraculously parked across the street from my goal. The saints must’ve really wanted me to get drunk with strangers.

I approached the glass doors of the brick building with uncharacteristic confidence before remembering to call the host to be let in. As I fumbled about on my phone to retrieve the necessary information, an old nosy neighbor arrived to question my presence.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling my friend to be let in,” I replied while awkwardly reaching for my bottle of blended gin, as though gripping a bottle of hooch would make me any less suspicious.

Luckily I found the number, made the call, and, as the saints would have it, the party was in full swing in an apartment three steps from the door. The host held it open for me to enter like royalty, still cradling the bottle of gin.

The apartment was furnished in the traditional bachelor style, with a number of chairs equal to the number of roommates and very little else. The dining room table was adorned with a variety of liquors with not one mixer in sight, green and orange Jell-O shots, and a Crock-Pot steeping a delicious beer and Velveeta dip to be eaten with fresh baked pretzel bites. The fridge was generously stocked with an international beer selection. I initially reached with glee for a Singha, but unable to find a bottle opener, settled for the predictable Guinness.

A major frustration of my work is that no one appreciates the effort I put into getting my lipstick just right minutes before ruining it by drinking the moment I arrive. As I ruined my lipstick, I took in my surroundings, which included a gas tank in the middle of the living room floor. It seemed highly suspect, until I looked up to notice the helium-filled green “Happy Graduation” balloons covering the ceiling. This wasn’t a graduation party, but green balloons are green balloons.

Guinness and pretzels were followed by turnovers, an Irish car bomb, and some bomb-ass Reuben bites. Then came the guac and Juanita’s Chilipeño chips, and to top it all off, the luck of the Irish revealed a bottle opener, so I could sip my Singha in remembrance of some dead Catholic dude who I guess did some shit worthy of a holiday. St. Patrick, you get 10 points out of 10.

Want me to review your party?

Send your invite to partyreview@portlandmercury.com.