That said, I'm sure I am not alone when I can safely say that being sick...really, really sick, not the 'screw you, I'm not going to work today' kind of sick...you start thinking about things, and people, and places, and mistakes you normally wouldn't. Or at least I do. It just seems to go with the physicality of things...if I feel good to great, I tend to share that positive mindset of ideas, too. While in that 'feel good' frame of mind, I'm a regular Queen of Denial of any problems, worries, or inner doubts. However, when the body's acting up in all of its glory, it doesn't take long for my many frailities...both physical and otherwise...to come busting down the doors of the inner sanctum. The old 'woe is me' kind of drama that we're all guilty of feeling some of the time, but are all afraid of admitting to others for fear it would make us look weak. So each time I get sick I incumbate: phones silenced unless it's the emergency cell, lights off, curtains drawn, distractions unplugged, irritating noises eliminated. And I do this for two reasons: one, to really work on getting better and just relax, something I do not allow myself to do too often; and second, because I can be a real bitch to those who try and invade my little self-imposed peace and quiet.
For better or for worse, dear readers, the incubation period is closing now and your faithful blogger has returned, even if I am still at half-speed.
So, I'm gradually working back into the regular routine of things, and that includes posting here. I've started on a half dozen entries, and finally finished one that I started last week (see the most recent post below). I've also thrown myself into the full-on spring schedule, too, so some of the 'regular blogging schedule' is being reorganized. But at least I'm much, much better and thanks to those who sent me emails checking in. And one week's worth of drugs is now under my belt. I had my doubts when I still was feeling the effects from last week's horrific meal at The Rivieria even as late as Thursday, but the light at the end of the tunnel is now clearly seen. (WR actually was quite wise with his meal, and actually ended up not eating more than a few bites of his pesto shrimp. The bar was serviceable enough, but you can be certain that neither of us will go back there again and partake in any of the food. All in all, the St. Paddy's Eve meal has ended up as one of the most expensive meals I've ever been served. One week of complete and utter sickness is more than enough for me, thank you.)
The really good news is the appetite is ever so slowly coming back and the nightly fevers have abated. I just hate, absolutely hate, that the food made me so sick I could never enjoy any of my beloved Hercules Mulligan's St. Patrick's Day shows...especially the later one on Saturday afternoon. (Many, many thanks, though, go to the wonderful staff at The Hibernian in Cary whom several played nurse maids to me off and on in the ladies' bathroom.) And, of course, many thanks to the ever-consoling and watchful eye of the Wise Ricky.
And the moral to the story: never, ever, regardless of holiday or even in the spirit of trying something new or even because you find the meal's presentation 'cute' and 'comical', never eat a dish of somewhat profanely positioned quail:
I hope everyone else has had a much more pleasant week.
