I’ll tell you this for free: traffic is bad enough without rolling waves of nausea threatening you with the rising panic of your utter lack of an expedient escape plan. I’ve just had the longest drive into work. Ever.
Last night my loveliest family, extended family and heart family and I trundled off to Stardust *for the first of my birthday parties. Stardust* is a “theatrical restaurant”. Being a “theatrical girl”, it was a match made in heaven. It’s one of those singing waitrons type places. You get food, then suddenly your waitron is on the stage belting out a Chicago number or crooning a 40s swing tooon.
I ordered the table next to the stage, settled down and made my first mistake; two bottles of Pongratz**.
It was downhill from there.
And now I hurt. And I’m green. And great billowing waves of biliousness keep threatening to unman me.
And if I can just make it until 1pm, I can get my meeting done and go home to my snakepit.
I’m too old for this nonsense.
**What’s a birthday without lots of bubbles? *gag*