Oh October

Last night a friend of mine had a scotch/cigar night at his house, so J. and I went. Turns out that not only can I drink scotch, which I had previously categorized with drinking Listerine (the yellow kind) or mud infused diesel oil, not only can I drink it, but I may actually like it. I won't be sidling up to bars to order it anytime soon, but when I hit my 50s and turn into one of those single women at the bar who flirt outrageously with anything in a suit, drinking scotch seems like a useful skill to have.

It was a good night, where everyone there was equipped with the necessary conversational skills to float around properly but not flippantly, just enough time to linger on subjects and feel like something was said, and then easily move to the next face. I appreciate that skill in people, it smooths over rough edges, you don't get monopolized by the guy who wants to tell you every story about him drinking scotch ever. Its probably from having to listen to so many trashed girls in bathrooms. I used to think it was cute, and maybe what? Artsy? To listen to so many drunk girls talk about their boyfriend, or their friend who wants to hook up with their other friend. Now it's a goddamn waste of time. I may look like your kindly older sister, but I am emphatically not. And you, drunk guy who has nothing but drinking stories, I am not your ex girlfriend. I don't find your ability to be an asshole at every bar in Tremont fascinating. Unless you are telling me stories about getting drunk in Prague and stealing a donkey. In which case, I will for sure sleep with you. Even if you made it up.

Point is, I judge gatherings of people by one thing: When you ask them a question about themselves, do they do the same? Because quality people are interested as well as interesting.

I didn't mean to say so much about that. I meant to talk about this morning. J. and I went to a divey little Euclid bar after, and got wasted and maudlin. His word, maudlin. My word would be "incurable". We drove home singing badly and softly to Belle and Sebastian, and then I crashed on his daughter's sometimes bed, clearing away the vast assortment of stuffed things, and the lipgloss under the pillow, the pink hairbrush wrapped up in the blankets. I love seeing evidence of his daughter around his house. Its the first time little girl things have been around in any part of my life since I was a little girl. They are familiar, but then also alien, because they belong to another person, and little girl things are theirs alone, they are marked. At my parent's house, I run across toys I used to play with, little miniatures or pieces of playmobil, and even now 20 years later I still feel that tight grab of the chest that says "mine". I had little girl dreams last night too, where my sparkly nail polish disappeared as soon as I put it on.

I woke up this morning with a stuffed weasel? ferret? under my chin, and Rikki Tikki Tavi ran through my head, like Nag and Nagaina were waiting under the bed to strike my weak little ankles. God, I'm such a fucking child. My mind is constantly full of childish fairy tale shit. Were they the only things that stuck with me? Then there is that moment, where you wait to hear noises from the rest of the house, and you stretch on the unfamiliar bed, legs and arms stiff and crackling like breaking a glo stick and letting the chemicals seep back into your muscles. I always feel best about my body in public places, other people's houses, hotel rooms, abandoned places. It feels stronger, younger, flexible. Unlike waking up at home, where it's a heavy sack of potatoes. I think it's the fear that makes me feel better, even at your friends house, that little tinge of fear at being discovered, or waking them up. Stumbling into their private morning. Walking down the hallway to the bathroom as quietly as you can, like you should be ashamed of your continued existence in their world.

I wiped the sleep out of my eyes with toilet paper, and walked as quietly as I could downstairs, to sit alone at their table drinking a glass of water and staring at the rain. Rain is always better for a morning after drive home. If it's sunny, you just feel like a loser. But when its rainy and cold, it takes all you have to focus on driving home, lighting a cigarette, finding a CD. It was dark enough at 10am that everyone on the highway was driving with their headlights on, and the streets were the same shiny color as the sky. It felt like the magic hour of 5am, when not everyone is awake, but you have front line camaraderie with those who are, and the cars travel past each other with respect. My clothes smell like cigars and fire pit smoke. My eye makeup is strangely intact. I wish I could drive all day today.