If a cow ever got the chance...

Well, I feel like a complete and utter jerk today. Thanks to a miserable hangover, I was unable to get up at six for the proposed Starved Rock State Park outing. No, at six I was becoming reacquainted with the bathroom floor tiles. Luckily, C didn't mind a few extra hours of sleep, which is what we did after revising the plan to include the Chicago Botanic Gardens all afternoon, then a light supper somewhere. 10 a.m. rolled around and C woke up and started getting antsy. To stall for time, I asked him to go out and get me some coffee--which he did--I couldn't drink it without fear of digestive repercussions. Asked him for two more hours. So then it was noon and I tried to get up but could barely even turn onto my left side. So he went home, and I slept until two, and have recovered enough from the magical case of Eight-Hour Dysentery to be sitting here in the bedroom with the curtains closed, feeling more than a little angry at myself. I really, really wanted to go somewhere out of the city this weekend and commune with pretty red and yellow trees, and I cheated myself out of all forms of arboreal life except those found on the side streets of the North Center neighborhood. Well, they and I are both kind of scraggly today.

In my defense (or maybe this is only another excuse) I get alcohol-sick very easily--frequently without ever having been officially drunk. I've never thrown up in a cab or been cut off in a bar. I can drink and drink and drink, and stay lucid and reasonably coherent--albeit slightly less inhibited than usual--right up until I go peacefully to sleep in my own bed, not even having forgotten to brush my teeth; and then wake up the next morning with my whole body a lake of nausea. Or, I'll be fine. Once I go above a certain number of drinks it's a complete crapshoot.

There would seem to be an obvious solution. Because these drinking stories aren't funny; they're stupid and pathetic and kind of dangerous. I don't want to end up chain-smoking in a basement, cold sober (and fighting for it), retelling them. And I may very well be headed that way if I don't get hold of this.

Okay, now you say something confessional.

Just kidding.

I am grateful for every evening I get to spend with Lass, despite the horrible aftermath (which was in no way her fault) of this one. Mr. Wonderful Someone had better know how lucky he is. Fortunately, he certainly seems to.

Now I am going to wander off to the grocery store on my shaky little legs. There were beautiful tiny Brussels sprouts in yesterday's vegetable delivery, and I have a recipe that caramelizes them with maple syrup and Dijon mustard ,and adds toasted pecans and pearl onions. If I don't like them now I'll be able to safely say I don't like them. It's nice to be able to definitively check vegetables off the mental list--like avocado (shudder).

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