I was too sick to go out Saturday night. I spent the whole day in bed, save for pilates class and some very necessary grocery shopping.
I was too sick to clean my house Sunday. I dragged myself out of bed for a delicious Mother's Day brunch at Bar Americain featuring the highly anticipated chicken pot pie and a gravy-soaked biscuit-sausage-egg combo, self-medicating myself with two Kentucky 95 cocktails which were as packed with vitamin C as with Maker's Mark. It was a pleasure to spend Mother's Day with Edith, a mother who was not mine, and the spirit of Bobby Flay, but I got so pooped that I skipped dinner to sleep and had weird dreams that took place in my childhood home (typical).
I skipped an open bar party at the HUSTLER Club tonight to lie in bed and feel sorry for myself.
Who knows what other delights await me out there while I huddle in my bed, cold and hot, fuzzy-headed, within arm's reach of a box of tissues and a pizza-flavored Lean Pocket?