Seventeen Hours of Sleep Later.
Yes, thanks to three consecutive nights of sleepless in the city, fueled with too much food, wine, whispers, high-waisted jeans, low waisted thongs, head-aches, heart-aches, adrenaline, warm air, red toes, vintage rap, indie rock, heels, hangovers, dirty dishes, dirty talk, dopamine, DVF, DVR, ADD, and an extra shot of espresso or eight…I crashed last night, HARD, somewhere between French fries and Friday Night Lights. Lullaby. And. Goodnight. Got more sleep than I have in years, thanks to half an ambien, some criminally comfortable sweatpants and a thirty-something body that couldn’t handle one more millisecond of fun.
I have awoken as a human being, again. Ahhh. I can write and cook and moisturize and organize and call back my married friends who still like my stories, or pretend to. It’s back to the kitchen and the book, too. Your frosting recipes were great. Thanks!! I’ll let you know the next time I dance with the devil, and if it tastes like Duncan H. Today, in the spirit of awakening, I’ll try to keep my sugar addiction at bay. I have ground lamb in the fridge, which feels appropriate for the Passover/Easter season. But what should I make? After the messy, magnificent week I’ve had, lamb meatballs feel too traditional. Need something more…L’Enfant Terrible.
