I am currently awaiting the delivery of Tamales to my Chicago hotel room.
This really has nothing to do with anything, I’m just not entirely sure I’ll ever be in this particular situation again and I feel it needs to me mentioned, because honestly, has there ever been a time in your life where you were waiting for tamales to come knocking at your hotel door? (Actually I’m hoping the tamales don’t actually knock, because then I’ll probably wake up on a plane realizing I was only dreaming about tamale delivery to a hotel room en route to Chicago.)
Only this year I’m pregnant, so when all the raw turkey prep work goes down in the morning I’ll most likely be huddled in a corner with a roasting pan filling in for my usual bucket. Or not, I have high hopes that even Zofran can get me through the scented terror that will be 20 raw turkeys in one room.
My ears perk at every set of footsteps that go by, maybe those are my tamales! You see, since Zofran hopped on board I’ve been able to eat more food. Even enjoy it on occasion. However I’m finding that after losing 12 pounds thus far (boo) my body is attempting to make up for lost fluids with intense salt cravings.
If I could find salt flavored salt I would spread it on bacon, wrap it around pickles and dip the whole mess in fry sauce. I had to physically restrain myself from drinking a twee dipping bowl of leftover soy sauce after lunch. (Turns out my California Roll craving was simply a craving for an efficient soy sauce delivery method.)
I’ve also been able to keep down much more fluids. Which means that instead of the fluids coming back out the way they came in, they’re coming out the way they’re supposed to come out which means I am back to that pregnant lady stereotype of having to pee every 15 minutes, give or take. Let’s just say if I had to pay per flush? We’d be eating nothing but squash all winter, and last I checked there’s no such thing as salt squash.
I can honestly tell you it’s much more enjoyable being the stereotype (PEE! PICKLES!) than it is being the sob story (barf. IVs.)
My tamales are here and they beg my full attention. I hope you are well. I know a lot of you (me included) are gearing up for a long cold winter full of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Pull out those SAD lights, make sure they’re ready for when the gloomies hit. A couple of you have had miscarriages. I hope you’re being well taken care of. One of you (that I know of) is going through Lupron hell. Some of you are going through divorces. Some of you are just having a crappy time because for some reason all the crap in the world hit you square in the face.
I hope you know that even if I don’t know you (or even if I do), I have a special little place in my heart for you. It’s lit with glittery holiday lights and there’s comfy pillows all over the place. You’re always welcome there. Because I know you’ve opened your hearts up to me when I’m not doing so well for whatever reason, it would be selfish not to do the same when I’m doing so well for the moment.