Salt on the Wound

My intentions yesterday were to spend my Sunday in a way that was productive, fulfilling and wise. My intentions were to open the windows to the glorious, sunny day in the city, make the bed the right way, scrub the bathtub, buy flowers for every room. My intentions were to cook meals for the week ahead in a slow and steady manner - one that would yield delicious, satisfying results.

Instead, I went to a mid-day brunch and drank mimosas for 5 hours. Instead, I decided to bring my bad-influence, drinking partner friend home with me - a plan to continue our ridiculous behavior with red wine, baguette and french cheese while preparing my week's meals. Instead, I followed recipes through glassy eyes while gossiping about the men in her life and well, the rest is history.

I made the saltiest, most disgusting chicken salad one could ever imagine. I vaguely recall her observing the saltiness when it was immediately finished, but I also recall pouring lemon juice in it and being confidently (and wrongly) pleased. I also recall the husband arriving after a full day of a Cubs double header, hot dog eating and beer slugging and deeming the dish "perfection."

We both brought it for lunch today and an hour later, feel as if we've eaten spoonfuls of kosher salt with a side of chicken. I am on my 15th glass of water and it hasn't begun to satisfy my thirst. My fingers look like pork sausages and my shoes feel strangely tight.

Don't try this at home.