After The Storm
Lucky Dog

I Think I'll Eat A Peach

I got home yesterday at lunchtime, abandoning my mother to my younger sister's tender ministrations ("You are NOT having a stroke! Now go back to sleep!") and speeding all the way home. Who knew that a Honda Accord could top 85 miles an hour? (Just kidding, SonnyeBoy.) Joe bundled me straight into his car and we went to lunch, where I managed to not soak my pad thai in tears as I described the Week of Woe.

After lunch, I took the World's Longest Shower and let the hot water pound down. I scrubbed and shaved and shampooed and soaped. I napped in front of the TV. I sorted through the mail and ignored the bills. I watched the encore of Rescue Me. I stretched out in my own damn bed and Joe rubbed my back and I slept.

Well. So much for that.

A coworker brought in some hand-picked peaches from a local farm. I think they would taste great in a milkshake or sliced up over a big dish of super-premium vanilla ice cream or made into a smoothie with a good big dollop of peach schnapps.

I'll tell you what, I am not the kind of person who gets depressed and stressed out and doesn't eat. No, no, no. I prefer to eat my stress and feed my depression with all kinds of yummy treats, particularly those of the salty/crunchy, sweet/cold, chocolate/anything variety. Mom and I demolished a half-gallon of cherry-vanilla ice cream, but I put a hurtin' on a half-gallon of Oreo cookie ice cream all by myself. And let's not mention the Terra chips and Fritos, okay?

Damn. I keep coming back to it, don't I?

I think I'll eat a peach.

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