Bedridden

My powerful desire to wring every last minute of fun out of my trip to the Big Easy has left me exhausted, mute, and bedridden. I'm going to blame at least 50% of my current condition on a wicked virus that waylaid me on the plane. (By the way, thanks so much person sitting in front of me, for refusing to cover your freaking mouth while you hacked from Baltimore to New Orleans. Really. Thanks.) I'll own the other 50% though. I should have gone to bed early, avoided beer, and eaten my Wheaties. I should have taken it easy, gone only to the meetings I had to go to, and not roamed the city.

But I was in New Freakin Orleans. I wasn't going to miss this. Want to know what I did instead? I walked to
Cafe DuMonde for Coffee and Beignets not once, but twice (and looked like I'd been snowed on after eating that powdered sugar slice of heaven). I listened to Cuban Jazz here and danced up and down the Frenchman's Quarter (not to be confused with the French Quarter, which is more "drunk college student.") I bought pralines from Southern Candy Makers and discovered that pralines are freaking gross. And expensive. So not only do they make you gag, but you pay 18.97 a pound for the privilege.

By Saturday morning, I had no voice. I couldn't do my presentation and I was miserable all the way home. Three days after my return I'm still in bed.

And I'm still smiling. Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez!

Sometimes a good time is more important than being responsible.