Pity Party

There’s nothing like being greeted first thing in the morning by a great big dead roach on the bathroom floor. I normally consider myself a pretty tough cookie, so why does a little (well, smaller than me) bug provoke me to fits of sweating and squealing and gagging? Why do I need 14 paper towels to pick it up? Why must I first toss experimental paper towel bits at it to prove that it is really dead? Why must leap and shout obscenities while conveying the paper towel wrapped carcass to the trash? (Sorry neighbors.)

Since I’m already feeling really sorry for myself, I share with you one of my most pathetic recent dining experiences. I traveled to a small town – when I arrived, all of the restaurants were closed. Here was my dinner the first night…



Yes, that is Taco Bell. I ate it at the table in my stinky and damp hotel room. Fortunately I had the sense to bring wine. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the sense to save some. The next night was even worse. A series of meetings and events conspired to thwart my dinner plans a second time.

Dinner #2



Orange Fanta and Cheetos from a vending machine in the hotel lobby. It’s a wonder my skin didn’t break out in orange hives immediately.

Poor me. As you can tell by this post, today I feel like a miserable orphan in a Dickens novel. This morning is clearly some kind of karmic retribution for yesterday’s lovely morning, when I rode in an elevator with George Clooney. (At least he REALLY looked like George Clooney, and he was wearing sunglasses indoors. Who does that?) It took all my strength to refrain from licking his arm, and I may have drooled on my shirt a little bit.