wine night, i knew that if i turned you on your head and pounded on your rump i could squeeze out a few ketchupy globs of fun.
it's nearing the party time. i'm on the couch in a pair of sweaties and a t'shirt that is indecently tight among polite society. i'm cooing with fannie on the phone. she's all: then our house got egged by some thugs ...
i'm all: whoa ...
and i hear the whomp! whomp! of what i think is jcrew's escalade and the sweet sounds of the pixie running up the steps. cigarette in one hand, phone in the other, sprawled teenaged-girl-on-the-phone style across the least comfortable couch in the world. i yell: come in! expecting jcrew's screeching entry. the one where she plows into the apartment clomping across the plywood entry in a pair of expensive shoes she got for 60 percent off, seemingly mid-conversation, dropping "bitch this" and "bitch that" like an enraged socialite.
and it's f.scottie, that prompt little effer. i really should be wearing a bra.
f. scottie and i aren't really on the "you sit on my couch and play with my cat while i shower" sort of friend basis yet. but 10 minutes later we are.
we crack a red.
jcrew arrives with a goodie bag of cheeses: a small triangle of brie and a circle of honey chevre. i saw away at a bagette. i've contributed pancetta, which i assume you can eat like prescutto since the two meats were laying next to each other at cub foods, they are both italian and start with the letter 'p'. turns out you can eat it raw, if you want to die of trichinosis. i put it back in the fridge. we circle my small bistro table, snarfing. mouths foaming, ripping into the fare like rabid wolves who actually hunted and stalked this wily assortment of cheese.
jcrew and f. scottie find an elite kinship. they seem to be quoting the pages of vogue and making the sort of jokes found at a cocktail party teeming with smart, well dressed people. instead of a wine party in the hillside teeming with smart people and a host in a wife beater.
"toonses is retarded with lonliness," jcrew observes.
i begin writing down everything she says.
"i'm not mean to people's faces!" she says.
i scribble away in a notebook.
"his breath smells like mothballs," she deduces.
she is golden, that one.
bubbles arrives with two bottles of wine from france, and a bonus bottle that has been marinating in her fridge. with her is the greeter, who has a backpack filled with beer, trail mix, pretzels and granola bars. lest an avalanche hits the hillside and he needs to camp out in a bunker.
"you're like a swiss army knife," jcrew tells him as he pulls these items from his bag.
f. scottie leaves.
chuck arrives just in time with a bottle of wine big enough ride around on, like it is some sort of vespa. we put it away easily.
i try to open a bottle of wine, and for the second time in three wine-openings, have pushed the cork into the bottle rather than tugging it out. my very sophisticated screwdriver is smarter than me. bubbles jimmies it with a knife, and the drinking continues. remember that time i woke up with an empty wine bottle on my coffee table next to a small hacksaw, a screwdriver and a rubber mallet? maybe i should stick to that technique.
the greeter and fng leave.
the wine is gone. all that remains is a sliver of back up brie.
chuck, bubbles and i hobble to the ghetto spur.
i get cigarettes.
chuck buys me a powerade.
bubbles heads toward home. realizes she left her apartment keys at my apartment. cruises back to my place, then leaves again for the mile hike to her home.
much like the early days of our relationship, chuck and i blabber away on my couch until long after the sun has come up and construction on the hillside condos has begun and we are forced to sleep to the soothing sounds of jackhammers and saws and productivity.
waking, later, it will feel like they are building condos in my frontal lobe.
mid-afternoon, i receive the following missive from ms. crew:
I feel like crap. Please do not ask me to come out on a weeknight ever again. I can no longer deal with the morning hangover, the lack of sleep and the zero ambition ...
I like to stay at home on weeknights ... I possess an inability to leave when i should or to know when to cut myself off. i tell myself, self, i will only go out when there are things to celebrate or someone has a problem that only the pio can solve. but in our world, we celebrate everything! wine from france was a reason to celebrate!
i am a piece of crap today. P.O.C. So I am putting my foot down. if you have problems that require the pio, please seek advice from the troll. its your birthday? i'll send a card. i am celebrated out. 4 straight weeks of weekday drinking has killed me. i am no longer your weekday drinking buddy unless you're dying. even then, i may try to leave by midnight.