‘Twas the night before Halloween and a thick fog rolled in. So thick, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, let alone the lamppost whose black paint had faded to a mottled grey, thanks to the constant sandblasting by the wind off the Chesapeake Bay. So that’s how I ended up in the ER, with a goose egg on my forehead, on account of I’d been running, and smacked right into the damned thing. “Why were you running in the fog?” one might ask. A valid question.
I’d had a phone call about seven p.m. “A wine emergency,” my friend Riley Wilson had proclaimed. Riley was eight-and-one-half months pregnant. (Don’t ask me to convert that to weeks…I birthed my babies when everything was calculated in tri-mesters, not days) so for obvious reasons she’d sworn off all things alcoholic. So at the end of her terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day, she called me to drink the wine for her. That’s my motto, “I drink for those who can’t.” I’m a good friend that way. So off I galloped, to Riley’s house. Only I never made it, on account of me running into the pole. So I ended up with the aforementioned goose egg on my head. Collateral damage included a bruised coccyx and a sprained wrist. So now instead of dressing up as a cute kitten for Halloween tomorrow I’m going as a bandaged –up mummy, but a bandaged-up mummy carrying a bottle of pinot grigio in my good hand.
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