Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Female nazi wearing Herve Leger waders

Actually, let me be a little more specific. Female nazi wearing Herve Leger waders and living in Nashville for 6 years.

Yep, that should do it.

Those, my friends, are the search phrases people are using to find me on Google. Well, to accidentally find me, I hope.

I am actually the very first Google hits result for “Herve Leger waders.” Herve needs to get on marketing that shit, and give me a cut of the profits. Women want to look stylish while hunting for asshole fish, attempting to ford a raging river on foot and silently crying on the inside.


Like designer iPhone covers – if you don’t jump on this now, there will be knock-off Herve Waders all over the place.

Also? Female nazi in waders? What kind of sick pseudo-sexual fantasy results in THAT image query?

Mmm yeah, lemme tap that.


I guess I came up because of the salad nazi experience (is it just me, or would that make an awesome punk rock band name?), but it doesn’t change the fact that you were searching for it, creepy random internet person.

I totally did live in Nashville for 6 years, so that’s … relevant I guess. Why are you searching for that on the internet? Why 6 years specifically??

So what are the craziest search phrases people are using to stumble across your blog?

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Planet of the Ants... in Grandma's Pantry

There’s a running joke in my family about the age of the contents in my grandparents’ refrigerator. Actually, it’s not so much of a joke – more of the truth, actually.

I once found mayonnaise in there from the year I was born. It may have sprouted legs and tried to run away from me.

So when we were at my grandmother’s house this weekend to sit Shiva (mourning) for my grandfather, my stepmom decided to clean out their pantry. She kind of decided out of necessity, since a colony of ants had taken up residence and were in the middle of staging a mutiny to kick my grandmother out.

Had I been there when she started, I would have insisted on facemasks and hazmat suits, but she’s a brave lady (she did marry my dad, after all) and she just dove right in.

I missed something that may or may not have been a food product from 1998, but I did get a picture of this gem:

Mmmm. Eight year old tuna.

Then I proceeded to organize the (non-expired) canned goods alphabetically, because I’m OCD like that.

We found a cool ice bucket thing hiding in the bottom of the pantry, so I pulled it out and decided to clean it, thinking maybe we could use an extra ice container for all the visitors.

Thirty minutes later, I was still scrubbing. There was a solid inch, maybe more – not kidding – of unidentifiable black sludge in the bottom of the container.

And no matter how many times I rinsed it, more blackish sludge-water kept coming out. I finally pried the rim/handle and found more thick, gooey ickiness under there.

It looked clean when I finished, but without a gallon or so of bleach, I wasn’t about to serve ice to people out of that thing. My skin is still all creepy-crawly from touching it. Blecch.

But now the pantry is free of antique olives and vintage vinaigrettes, and hopefully it’ll stay that way, at least for another few years.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Come on, Irene...

So this whole Hurricane Irene thing is allegedly happening this weekend. Boyfriend is originally from Miami, so I thought we’d be golden on this whole preparing-for-the-apocalypse thing.

Not so much.

Yesterday, we headed to Giant to stock up on supplies (after first stopping at TJ Maxx – have to look cute if we’re going to get washed away, right?) which was a not-so-natural disaster in and of itself. So. Many. People.

The gluten allergy makes it hard to stock up on classic staples like canned soup and spaghetti-o’s, so we had to be selective. We ended up with bottled water, apple sauce, 2 cans of sweet kernel corn and a Hershey’s bar (which I already ate). We could be in trouble.

We also tried Home Depot, but the sales guy just laughed at us when we asked if they had any lanterns or flashlights left.

Then we found out that there would be sandbags distributed today. Probably a solid idea, since we live in a basement. It wouldn’t take more than about an inch of water to start flooding us out.

The distribution was supposed to start at noon, so we left at 10:30 to head the 2 miles over to the stadium. When we got there at 10:45, we were told they were already out.

We got shooed away by some angry federal workers, and naturally, as soon as we got home, the news let us know that ‘oh yeah, we have 7000 more bags now.’ Screw you, too.

We briefly considered heading back over, but they said it’s about a 5 hour wait right now. Forget that. We’ll stuff towels under the doors or something.

So right now, we’re going to go grab some lunch (we may have to ration the corn and apple sauce), and then we’ll be back to hunker down and wait this out. Stay safe, everyone!


The recommended FEMA emergency kit. At least, I'm pretty sure...

So what are you doing to prepare?

Friday, August 26, 2011

Boyfriend didn't let me forget about Fabulous Friday!

So I was working on a post about the vaguely-horrifying contents of Grandma’s pantry, when Boyfriend reminded me that today is Fabulous Friday.

Now that post is saved for tomorrow, and the streak (3 weeks!) is still alive!

So today’s Fabulous Friday Find… my new denim jacket!

I love shopping, and I’m an utter designer clotheswhore, but I’ve had the worst time trying to find a cute, denim jacket.

I saw one in J Crew probably a few months ago now, but they only had mediums and larges, and I really needed the small. I figured I’d just check a different J Crew location and buy it later.

I never saw it in a J Crew store again. And I tried several J Crews in DC, MD and even New York.

I considered buying it online, but I really wanted to try the small first, just in case it didn’t fit. So I kept looking.

I found the perfect jacket in the AG store in NY. Soft, broken-in denim, dark-washed color, hit just above the waist. It was $550.00. FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS.

I considered writing a letter to Mr. Goldschmeid and demanding to know just exactly who the hell he thought he was. Pompous ass.

Needless to say I didn’t buy that jacket.

I tried White House/Black Market (too ruffle-y), Free People (too short-sleeve-y), Urban Outfitters (too hipster-y), Lucky (too expensive-y) … no luck.

So today, after walking all over Georgetown and en route to Hurricane Irene shopping, we decided to stop at TJ Maxx (because if we’re gonna get washed away, I’ve got to look cute, right?)

Honestly, I didn’t expect to find anything there – I just said I’d look for a denim jacket so I could trick Boyfriend into letting me shop for more long dresses (I’m addicted to those things).

But there, between these horrible chunky sweaters and some atrocious ankle-length tiered skirts, were about 6 denim jackets.

And just like that… my epic quest was over.

I have a denim jacket, and its every bit as fabulous as I’d hoped, AND it was only $19.99!

Gettin’ my model on.

What have you bought recently that you just love?

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Goodbye, Grandpa

Something woke me briefly around 4:45 this morning. I haven’t slept through the night in ages, even with sleeping pills, so I paid no attention- just sighed at the clock, rolled over and drifted back off to sleep.

Mere moments later, my grandfather took his last breath and was gone.

My relationship with my grandfather hasn’t always been perfect; there were a lot of hurt feelings when the promised car and later, the promised college fund never materialized. I thought he mishandled his dealings and relationship with one of my cousins. Despite 20 years of history, he wasn’t always civil to my mom during and after the divorce.

But those are just actions; not a full reflection of the man he really was. The man who never finished college, but instead spent years building and running a successful typewriter business. The man whose savvy and investment skills provided for his family and his wife of over 57 years. The man who taught us all how to swim, how to fish, how to drive a car and steer a boat.

He taught me how to take a leap of faith and jump in the deep end, even if I was scared, because he was always there to catch me.

Despite being ill at the time and barely able to stand, much less travel, he got on a commercial airplane (something he very rarely did) and flew down to Nashville to watch me graduate from college. He didn’t make it out into the heat on Alumni Lawn to watch me walk, but when I finished and we returned to the hotel room, he was there.

He fought the cancer until the very end, determined that his sheer will would be enough to overcome even this. He fought, because it was not in his nature to give up, and he smiled, because he never wanted us to worry or see the pain.

Those last few days in Hospice were the hardest, watching him transform from the tall, hard-working, straight-shouldered man with the “blonde” combover and goofy grin, into just another old person, gaunt and nearly swallowed up by the hospital bed.

But I am so thankful for all the time we had to say goodbye, and more importantly, for all the time we had to learn from him, to enjoy his presence and to love him.

Rest now, Grandpa, we will love you forever, and we will see you again one day.

March 11, 1931 – August 23, 2011

Sunday, August 21, 2011

No proposal yet... but otherwise it was a great weekend!

So obviously this was a momentous weekend. Lots of build up. Lots of speculation. So much excitement and anticipation. Like the royal wedding, but BETTER. That’s right … it was my birthday! (Kim who?)

It was hard to go away while my grandfather is clinging to life by a thread, but the B&B’s ‘no refunds’ policy kind of made the decision easier. If you’re spending the money anyway…

Boyfriend took me to a super-cute little B&B down in Oxford, MD on the Eastern Shore. We stayed in a little two room cottage with a view of the bay and a lovely two-person soaking tub *wink*

Also, this was the view from the front door. We had to be really careful about making sure the curtains were closed before going to the bathroom…

The room was a little strange- there was really dark red/maroon patterned wallpaper on ALL the walls and lots and lots of crazy patterns jumbled on top of each other – but they left us these little notes throughout the room which were cute AND totally practical. Things like “You won’t run out of hot water with normal use” by the tub and “Check-out at 12pm noon” above the mirror.

But my favorite was the note by the lightswitch that said “Moonlight.” I flicked the switch, no change. I looked around, expecting to see low lights somewhere … you know, creating a moonlight effect or something. Suddenly, I saw a silver moon ornament dangling in an alcove where part of the old roof (the bathroom section used to be a separate building, I guess) was still visible. Ahhh… Moon. Light! Not sure what the purpose of lighting that area was, but it was cute.

Anyway, we had a lovely weekend biking, kayaking, shopping and wine tasting in St. Michaels, and getting drunk and dancing on the private beach to a live band from across the water. It was so amazing to walk outside and see the stars so clearly. We don’t get a lot of that here in DC.

Well, to be fair, Boyfriend probably did most of the kayaking. We rented a tandem kayak and I really did start out with good intentions (arm muscles, yay!). But about 10 feet off the beach, I happened to glance down as I dipped my oar in the water, and there was a giant, gelatinous, tentacle-y, blood-sucking jellyfish just bobbing there, plotting my demise.

Those things are like Cylon crazy-aunt evil. I was entirely sure one of them was going to wrap itself around my oar and then slither up the handle and attack/stab/choke me to death with its slimy death-legs. Absolutely a rational fear. So I spent most of the 2+ hour trip with my oar hovering about 2 feet off the water so the jellyfish couldn’t get me.

Boyfriend likes working out anyway, so I was really helping him out, too. I’m such a thoughtful girlfriend.

At dinner on Saturday night, boyfriend reached into his pocket to pull something out. An additional gift (because obviously the weekend wasn’t enough … spoiled, much?).

For one itty bitty split second, I thought it might be that diamond ring I’ve been angling for, but it was just an envelope. I did squeeze it to make sure there was nothing hard and shiny stuck inside, just in case, but alas.

So what did he give me? A certificate for another weekend away :) My spoiled-ness is only going to get worse…

So what did y’all do this weekend?

Friday, August 19, 2011

Time for another Fabulous Friday!

I’m determinedly sticking to this (woohoo, two weeks in a row…!) even though this week has been anything but fabulous.

My grandfather has been declining rapidly since we moved him to Hospice care. This time last week, he still thought he was going home to rest for 2 weeks before starting up Chemo again. Now, he’s just a gaunt shadow of the man I remember.

If not for the long, wispy tufts of “white” hair floating about his head, he’d be almost unrecognizable. Of course, if he could talk, he’d insist that his hair is still blonde.

Also, my bat-shit crazy aunt is still being her charming narcissistic, selfish and horrendously awful self. I’ve had conversations with brick walls that were more self-aware than this lunatic. (No, I don’t often talk to brick walls. Other inanimate objects, yes [side eye, laptop]; brick walls, not as much.)

Anyway, when I went up to visit on Monday, he was talking, though a bit understandably confused from the drugs every 2 hours.

My favorite conversation involved his sudden insistence (after overhearing my grandmother dubiously proclaim something on the food tray to be cornbread – verdict is still out on that one) that he had to have cornbread. Immediately.

At one point, I suggested he just relax and we’d get him some cornbread. To which he responded by laying back for half a second, then shaking his head, propping himself up, staring at me like I’d gone utterly daft, and going “Nope, I’ve just gotta have it. I’ve gotta have the cornbread!”

Clearly, I get my love of food from this man.

So with that long-winded and just-barely-related intro out of the way, my fabulous favorite Friday thing is finding actually-tasty gluten free food. Also, using lots of “F”s, apparently.

Tuesday, I went up to the REI in College Park to pick up my bike, and decided to stop at the Mom’s Organic Market in the same shopping center to get something for dinner.

I’d been in there once before and the selection was terrible, but they’ve renovated and now there are aisles and aisles (ok, 2 of them) of gluten free food. Heaven!

I picked up a box of Glow Gluten Free Chocolate Chip cookies for dinner dessert, and they are really, really good! Not homemade, of course, but really good!

Actual "glow" may have been added. But they really were that good, especially for gluten free.

Boyfriend was out of town Tuesday, but got back Wednesday afternoon. He was already home when I got back from work, and I was all naively like “Did you see I got new gluten free cookies!?” and he was all “… [guilty eyes]” so I said “Did you already eat some gluten free cookies? And he was all “…[really guilty eyes with cute smile that sometimes-but-not-always works]”

And then I picked up the box and it was suspiciously light, so I opened it and was like, “Wait, did you already eat THREE gluten free cookies?” (there are only seven in a box) and he was all “Well, I only meant to eat two, but the third one just … got eaten!”

Then he tried to convince me that they weren’t really THAT good, so that I wouldn’t be so annoyed with him for eating almost half the box… I’m on to your games, Boyfriend. I am on to your games.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Another biking post that does NOT involve me face-planting on concrete

I just picked my bike up yesterday from her 6 month tune up, and I am so glad to have her back. I’ve been a cyclist-commuter for about 6 months now (figuring in bad weather, etc.) and I love it.

I bike about 2 miles each way, 5 days a week to work. It’s not a super long ride, but it sure as hell beats listening to the homeless guy on the bus screaming about how he’s jet black, and there are PEOPLE in Iraq now, and don’t you forget it.

At least if the homeless people yell at me while I’m biking, I can ding! my little bell at them.

Before Boyfriend and his parents bought me the bike for Hannukah, I really hadn’t ridden a bike in almost 15 years.

Needless to say, I'm kinda awkward/uncoordinated/not-capable-of-functioning-like-a-moderately-graceful-human-being, so the (re?) learning curve has been steep. And yes, I'm aware that it's "just like riding a bike...!" [gag]

So here are some of the things I’ve learned about being a cyclist-commuter in DC:

1. Sidewalks hurt. Avoid walking on them face/nose-first.
2. Brakes are nice. Having them functional is generally a good idea.
3. Silly bicyclist, crosswalks are for idiot-drivers-who-can’t-judge-when-that-light-is-going-to-turn-red.
4. There is a bicyclist hierarchy. You are at the bottom of it. People on racing/road bikes are way too cool to talk to the likes of you. Do not attempt to engage in conversation if stopped at a light; just glance covetously/wistfully at their bike so they’re aware that you’re aware of how expensive it is.
5. You have a ‘comfort’ bike. Let's face it, you’re not even as cool as the yuppies on hybrids or the hipsters on townies/cruisers.
6. You will still occasionally get hit on, despite looking like that 400+ lb-er during his first workout on Extreme Makeover: Weight Loss Edition.
7. There’s a goddamn pothole at the corner of your street. STOP RIDING THROUGH IT.

This is what the cool kids on road bikes see when they look at you, but its ok, because your butt hurts way less than theirs does.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Everything I learned in life, I learned from Wilson Phillips

“Mama said home is where the heart is, when I left that town // Made it all the way to West Virginia, and that’s where my heart found // Exactly where I’m supposed to be, didn’t take much time // It’s just south of the Mason Dixon line”

I love music. I love how a particular song can speak to you and soothe a part of your soul, especially during difficult periods in your life.

When my parents were fighting all the time and divorce was imminent, I hid in my room and blasted ‘Hold On’ by Wilson Phillips. Then I rewound the cassette and blasted it again (yeah, I’m getting old). Side note: I –may- have been singing along and dancing in my seat at the end of Bridesmaids…

When a girl from college/my Birthright Israel trip died suddenly in a car accident, it was 'Who You'd Be Today' by Kenny Chesney.

When I graduated from college and suddenly everyone was moving away, it was 'I Go Back' by Kenny Chesney.

After Senior Week at the end of high school, it was 'Soco Amaretto Lime' by Brand New (I liked 'cool' music for a while...)


Right now, I’m stuck on ‘Home is Where the Heart Is’ by Lady Antebellum.

I was so desperate to get out of Maryland when I turned 18. I just felt like if I’d gotten stuck going to school at the University of MD, I’d have been the same person I was in high school for the rest of my life. And that chick was awkward like nobody’s business.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m still a dork, and the 6 years in Nashville and 2 in Austin weren’t always perfect, but I had a chance to start fresh and discover more about who I was and who I’m becoming.

Then after 2 years in Austin, Boyfriend graduated from UT and landed a job in DC, and just like that, I was right back (well, ok 45 minutes away from) where I started.

And you know what? I miss Austin and my horse (… and my dad and stepmom and brothers, of course. Hi dad!) like crazy, but at least right now, while Grandpa is slowly fading, this is where I need to be. And this Lady Antebellum song really speaks to that.

So what is/are your songs? What lyrics really speak to you or get you through when times are tough?

Friday, August 12, 2011

Fabulous Friday!

There’s been a bit of negativity going on in my life lately. I’m worried about Grandpa to the point of not sleeping and barely eating. Family drama. Vague-booking that may or may not have been directed at me. (Seriously? If you have a problem, say it to my face, don’t hide behind holier-than-thou quips posted at random on your facebook wall.)

Anyway, I don’t want to dissolve back into the stress-monster that I was back in 2008. That led to lots of completely unnecessary fights with poor Boyfriend, overeating, weight gain, depression, panic attacks, etc., etc.

So instead, I’m going to post about at least one thing every Friday that makes me happy.

This week? Doing or having someone else do my nails/toenails.

I know it’s girly, and I’m so rough on my nails anyway that I’m not always sure why I bother, but I love it.

I love the way my freshly-polished nails look flying over the keyboard. The contrast between the color and my skin. How the right color can really make an outfit or a statement.

I did this last night. I saw it on someone else’s blog, but I can’t remember who to give credit. If you know, comment or email me so I can give credit!

I love setting aside an hour or so and sitting down with my nail clippers and my nail file and my nail buffer and my cuticle pusher thing and my collection of polish and ending up with nails that look fabulous. (Or mostly fabulous, if my hands are unsteady and I end up with lots of nail polish outside the nail bed…)

I especially love the elegance of French tips. Clich├ęs be damned. The minute I have those white tips at the end of my fingers, I automatically carry myself with a little more confidence, a little more sass.

I also really love spa pedicures. Relaxing in the big massage-y chair with a trashy magazine and secretly eavesdropping on all the twits talking on their cell phones.

Maybe this is a little weird (or a lot weird, whatev.), but I totally compare my feet to theirs, and I pretty much always win. I have narrow, dainty feet, and long, skinny toes with toe nails that don’t look like misshapen little chips of color in the middle of a fat-toe wasteland. Ok, I admit it, I’m a snob about my feet.

While up in Whitefish, MT last week, I spent a little too much a small fortune on a pedicure. With tip, it was $77, and I just got a solid color. Ridiculous, right? A good mani/pedi shouldn’t even cost that much. But I needed it. And you know what? It was $77 well spent.

So what little things in life make you happy?

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Ahh blogger's remorse

But only because I'm so "open" and "full of love."

Also, hammy says y'all are driving him to drink...

Monday, August 8, 2011

The phone call.

I just got one of those phone calls you never want to get. I got one last year after my great grandfather, who was pushing 101 and still spry, took a fall and ended up in the hospital with pneumonia.

The “it’s time” call.

My grandmother called my dad, and my dad called me. My dad, stepmom and brother will be on the first flight up to Baltimore.

We don’t know how much time he has left; now I just sit anxiously, trying to distract myself with life going on, and wait for the phone call that will hurt even worse.

My grandfather has been in the hospital for 3 weeks now, and I feel so nauseatingly awful that I’ve only gone to see him twice. I was out of the state/country for 9 days, and I live an hour away in DC, but still… that’s no excuse.

Now my sushi lunch is threatening to make a reappearance, and obviously I’m blogging instead of working, so I’m having a bit of a tough time concentrating.

He hasn’t always been the best grandfather in the world, but the past couple of years especially, as the cancer has gotten increasingly more aggressive, he’s started to make amends. To be more tolerant. Even to reach out to his estranged whack-job of a daughter, who probably didn’t deserve it.

One of my favorite memories from my childhood is standing on grandpa’s shoulders in his swimming pool. Being on top of the world for a moment, and then that push he would give as I’d dive off into the water.

I lost my other grandfather, my Zadie, just before I turned 13. He didn’t get to come to my Bat Mitzvah. Now it looks like grandpa will miss my engagement, my wedding.

Hold on to the family you have while you have them. Even if they’re not perfect, what matters is that they’re yours.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Waders are the new Herve Leger

I am so going to turn waders into a fashion statement. Soon, all the interns in DC will be wearing them. Then Michelle Obama. Then Sarah Jessica Parker.

No? Ok, maybe not.

But I did have fun fly fishing in the Flathead River Valley with the Boyfriend and our exceedingly-patient guide.

So maybe the day started at 5am with me dry-heaving on the side of the road (twice), and maybe I almost cried when I saw the first cliff I was expected to slide down.

And maybe I almost pulled the guide’s pants off in an attempt to not get swept away while wading across a very fast-moving river. And maybe the entire black fly and mosquito populations of Canada have put a hit out on me.

Seriously, I got left in the truck for about 15 minutes at one point, and I’m pretty sure the black flies were trying to tunnel through the glass to get to me. The sound of giant black fly bodies pinging against metal will probably haunt my nightmares tonight.

Not to mention that we were in the most densely-populated grizzly bear area in North America. Our guide carried this ridiculous magnum shotgun thing. Just in case.

Hmm. This sounds worse on paper.

But actually, the views were incredible. Being in a valley, every time we went around a bend, the scenery changed. And we saw lots of funny gophers with mouths full of food, and deer mamas with their babies, and a mountain spring waterfall.

And though I was completely unable to catch one obstinate little asshole of a fish, I did manage to catch two other tiny trout on the fly, which made boyfriend (and me, that meant we could go back) happy.

Of course, I’ve now been awake for about 18 hours, so it is crashy-crash time.

Yay for catching the fish and not having to hold it!

Our guide, Kim, was awesome. I almost puked in his truck, and he didnt even make me touch the fish.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Come take a ride with me

The world is just a little more lovely from the back of a horse.

Here’s a brief video clip if you’d like to ride along the Elk River in Fernie, BC, Canada with us:

Monday, August 1, 2011

Canada is trying to poison me

I’m really stubborn and borderline idiotic when it comes to my own health. I hate doctors, and will generally avoid them unless absolutely, physically, without-a-doubt necessary.

Which explains why, when I’ve had a terrible, high-pitched cough for over 2 weeks AFTER getting over the rest of my cold symptoms, I still haven’t gone to see a doctor.

I’ve been drinking Delsym straight from the bottle (grape is way preferable to orange), and alternating it with Robitussin, just in case my body decides to get used to the Delsym.

I did go on WebMD to make sure I don’t have whooping cough or West Nile or something. Of course, when I checked the “high-pitched, barking cough” and it came back with “See a doctor immediately,” I unchecked that box. I mean, it’s not really “barking,” per se…. And high-pitched is a matter of judgment. It’s probably just because my speaking voice is so child-like, right?

Anyways, we’re up here in Canada, and I’ve drained the last of my bottle of orange Delsym (I forgot to get a new bottle of the grape) so I decided to pick up some cough medicine at the gas station. I know, I know, first mistake, but it was next to the NyQuil and DayQuil, so I didn’t think it would be that bad.

So for $7.29, I bought a bottle of something called Buckley’s Cough Syrup.

I opened the box, shook it as instructed, and opened the bottle. I was immediately assailed by the smell of straight-up menthol.

In the US, we rub menthol on our chests – we don’t drink that crap.

But I figured, maybe this cough was messing with my sense of smell and it wouldn’t be THAT bad. So I drank it.

Hi, my name is Buckley’s Cough Syrup. I am death in a bottle.

I couldn’t speak for several seconds, and I’m pretty sure my life flashed before my eyes. I immediately grabbed the box and double-checked to make sure I didn’t grab the cough syrup for dogs or something.

Then I started copying down the number for poison control. Yeah, they have that printed on the box. Probably for good reason.

My nostrils burned, my throat burned, the backs of my eyeballs burned. Yeah, I wasn’t coughing, but that was mostly because my body went into shock/preservation mode and I couldn’t do anything.

I’m pretty sure this stuff isn’t/wouldn’t be legal in the US.

Unfortunately, I can’t sleep without taking something, so this stuff will have to do until I can get to a real food store. Now I’m off to take my second dose… wish me luck. And if I’m not here tomorrow, call poison control for me, ok?