Buy me a drink; sing me a song. Take me as I am cause I can't stay long.

Last night, Mhairi and Jason had their friends Jessica and Owen over to have dinner and I was on my way out to study at the library, Mhairi intercepted me and offered me chocolate. Never one to refuse chocolate, especially such delicious-looking chocolate, I accepted gratefully and sat down to join them for dessert. Or, as they say here, "pudding." It was every bit as delicious as it looked, and it had a really interesting and rather divine texture. Kudos to Mhairi and Jason for dessert!

I also tried to explain, in a nutshell, why Jake Ryan was the perfect boyfriend, but it all began when they talked about a used-panties vending machine in Japan and I shouted, "I can't believe I gave my panties to a geek!" No one understood and it instantly became necessary to extoll the many virtues of Molly Ringwald, Jake Ryan, and Farmer Ted.

When they ran out of alcohol, which I abstained from, they decided to head out to the pubs and told me I absolutely must join them. Because they needed an American punching bag, of course, but I was oddly okay with this. I was having fun. Also, they seemed to like me, despite our private healthcare system. So we went to this place right down the road that was tiny and shockingly well-lit. I liked it. They played BNL on the iPod and the tall bartender looked like Timmy. It felt like a friendly place, full of warmth, and light, and good people. Soon enough, it was time to move on and the two bartenders including the Timmy-look-alike, told us to come back.

So we went to Tollcross to this place called the Cuckoo's Nest. It had a disco ball in the window and I thought it might be my kind of place. We talked about The Departed for awhile, spurred on by my only wanting a cranberry juice and Mhairi asking, as I have apparently trained her well, "What, is it your period?" Whitey came up later, but that was in a debate about whether the Irish mob or the Shetland mafia was more powerful. Vote's still on the mob. Anyway, they started playing "Free Fallin'," and like the good American Girl that I am, I belted it. I was on a roll, you know, the kind of free-fall only Tom Petty can induce. Tom Petty is cool. Tom Petty is the only person who can peer pressure me into anything. I was actually a little surprised that no one else felt the overwhelming need to sing along. I'm not sure if this is normal.

But then "Sweet Caroline" came on. And that's a terrible song. But it felt oddly prophetic that it came on at the exact time the Sox game would have been starting. Plus, I'm not heartless, so being on a Tom Petty-induced high, I belted it. I was the only person who knew the whole chorus, but I did manage to get them to join in -- sort of -- because they love "Sweet Caroline." It was just really lovely and I had a great time being American at what Owen referred to as a "stylish" bar. I don't care how stylish a bar is; you sing when Tom Petty comes on. Especially "Free Fallin'." That would be like not singing to Juicy Brucey.

But this combination of songs made me almost-sad because, well, how can I not miss my home when I'm listening to something as quintessentially American as Tom Petty. But I perked right up when we started talking about The Departed again. We left after Oasis finished and the bar closed.

As we walked toward Whistle Binkies, we stopped so Jessica and Mhairi could get chips. (Fries. Not Lays.) I was standing on the curb talking to Owen when an exceptionally inebriated woman came out of the chip shop and says, "Oh, you cut off your hair!" She then proceeded to go on about it. Said I was beautiful and she wished she could just cut off all of her hair. I told her I did it to annoy my brothers and she informed me she had six brothers and two sisters. It was awkward, strange, but not by the standards of my life.

As Susannah asked the other day when I told her about the cute bartender who likes to watch basketball, people just talk to me. I don't know why. It doesn't matter where I am or who I'm with. Strangers talk to me. Like that crazy homeless man on the train. So it's not always nice or even comfortable, but people find me really easy to ask for help, I suppose.

For instance, yesterday as I went for an afternoon stroll in the middle of a rainstorm, an old man asked me for help across the street. Being an able-bodied young woman, I obliged. But I think I have a bit of my father in me that way, the whole "approachable" thing. Though I've also heard it said that I'm incredibly intimidating and hard to talk to. So I don't know.

Either way, Drunk-Mhairi suddenly became overwhelmed with a rush of sadness for her sober friend and said, "Ashley, you're the only who's alone and sober!"

Didn't you listen to "Free Fallin'," Mhairi? "All the good girls are home with broken hearts." I pretended to be hurt for a second, but really, that's sort of how I like it. After all, it worked beautifully the first twenty-one years, so I really can't complain too much. I do find it funny, though, that even though I was the only sober one, I was the loudest when it came time for Tom Petty and Neil Diamond.

For the record, I once wrote a very, very long blog that involved Whistle Binkies, the last bar we went to last night, and involved it in less than flattering ways. I'm not saying this is the bar's fault, but yeah -- it's the Teddy Thompson place. So we went there and had our last drinks, then it was time for Mhairi to fall asleep. Mhairi did manage to say at some point that every single person they have introduced me to has loved me instantly.

This made me feel warm and fuzzy.

We also decided that we are watching Cat On A Hot Tin Roof Sunday night, and eventually, Rebel. Because if I go too long without Jimmie, my heart caves in.



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