I will also never have children, because they�ll sometimes be sick and won�t be able to tell you what�s wrong.

Post-party inventory:

1. Bouncing alien ball in my bra.

2. Muddy jeans and socks.

3. Blisters on the soles of my feet and on the big and little toes.

4. Finger smashed in a door.

5. Went with 1 coat, returned with 2.

6. Countless martinis followed by pumpkin beer and vanilla porter.

7. Very little, if any, food consumed. By me.

8. Lovely political discussions in which I held my own quite well.

9. Drove home at 3 am, then promptly passed out.

So Saturday was horrid. The worst hangover in memory, and by 9 am, I was riding around in a Suburban full o� people, feigning interest in antiques, when really it was all I could do to not curl up in a corner and die. And oh, the horror of having to have them pull over on the way home, just so I could get out and get some air, in lieu of throwing up. Twice in a month M & J�s mom has seen me like that.

And why do my hangovers worsen through the day? By nightfall, I knew I was at death�s door. Or that I deserved to be at death�s door. Tragically, the cat could no more keep his food down than I could, so we were a pair.

I got better; he did not. I just left him at the vet�s. They�re baffled. He�s having blood work, and they�re going to have to put him on an IV or something, since he�s dehydrated.

I�m going for a nap. Maybe to work on that old cabinet I bought when J. and I went to Danville yesterday. But mostly to sit by the phone and wait for word about Fuzzy J., the hippest little catman on the block.

I�m also going to take a moment to be grateful that I do not have to endure the injustice of anal thermometers.