It took me five shots just to get the hang of it. I am a perfectionist, and I would not give up until I succeeded in sucking one down clean. (Everyone thought, since I was the single chick, I'd have good technique; go figure.) Thankfully, I had a designated driver and I metabolize alcohol at a ridiculously fast rate (oh, were it only so with all the chocolate and fried food that for some reason insists on making a lengthy pit stop at my mid-section). I was home and in bed early, and awake at my usual ungodly hour with no more than a moderate pounding headache.
So while most normal people are still sound asleep on what should be a lazy summer Sunday morning I am wide awake and have already put in a good day's work. I have fed and walked the dog, popped in some laundry, emailed my mom, and engaged in my daily (as of five days ago) routine of job hunting in my underwear. I am already fantasizing about lunch, but the cupboard is bare and stores are not yet open. Sigh.
I have discovered that thoughts about putting my house back on the market and keeping it in shape for today's open house and the endless stream of showings that will no doubt ensue are wonderful appetite suppressors. My hunger pangs have turned to nausea as I think about all the tasks I must complete this morning, including replacing the no-brainer flowers in the planters on my front stoop that I managed to kill in about three days. The feedback form from yesterday's showing didn't help my mood. The folks loved the house -- or at least had no problem with it -- but hated the location. Does that mean it's location in deep dark suburbia generally or on a decidedly non-idyllic suburban corner in particular. The sometimes three lane but usually two lane "thoroughfare" bordering the side of my house has never bothered me; I grew up dodging traffic and bullets on the mean streets of Brooklyn. Ambulance and police sirens were my lullabies. Sigh.
The good news, I suppose, is -- except for the dead flowers, which really give off kind of an icky vibe -- I don't really feel the need to tidy up any more than I already have. Let the buyers beware; if they open up my daughter's closet, there will be an avalanche. But it will be an avalanche filled with all the trappings of upper middle class Jewish suburbia -- designer jeans, Tory Burch shoes and purses, and sweatshirts and sweatpants festooned with logos from zillions of bar and bat mitzvahs. Hopefully, the designer muck will take their minds off the cars whizzing by at twenty miles per hour on the veritable freeway outside her window.
Sigh. I just scrolled through the pictures on my phone from last night's party. I look really happy, in a blurry sort of way. Come to think of it, maybe I shouldn't be so hasty about giving up the jello shots.
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