@hovy and I were at the 13 Coins, after a night with Miss Coco Peru, who is amazing live. I thought I was going to have one drink and then turn into a pumpkin as usual, but LO there was an amazing singer there belting her face off doing jazz standards. It was like my own personal playlist.

I ordered an old fashioned, and it came back in a martini glass with only a cherry, which I thought was a little strange. It tasted weird, too. I’m kind of used to them being abused, though. It happens. The waitress came around again to check on us and asked if we wanted another round. “Yes,” I said. “Can you do this again but on the rocks with an orange added?” She didn’t bat and eye and said, “Sure.” I got the bill and it said “2 Manhattans.” Well, that explained that. I am hopeless.

Thing two is Edmonds. We were noodling around the art galleries and other shops there and I asked a clerk where to get a drink. He recommended an Irish pub up the street. “It’s dark but the bartender is really nice,” he assured us. It was dark as promised and they had potcheen on the menu. “Irish moonshine” it said. I’d never had it, so naturally I ordered one. Since Hovy was driving and we weren’t going to stay for too long, we closed out the bill right away. The bartender was an older guy–a very jovial fellow and insisted on “buying” me another shot of Bunratty. “If that’s okay with you,” he said to Hovy.

“I hope I don’t turn you straight,” I said to Hovy as we were leaving. “Everyone today thinks we’re married. We need to cover you in giant sequins before we come in next time.” We had a conversation about how weird it is to ask someone permission to give your “wife” another drink. I can drive my own vagina AND liver. I’ve been spending a fair amount of time lately wondering what it will be like when the old timers aren’t around anymore and I am the old timer.