One hour, three miles later

Last night I left work at 5 p.m., hoping against anything to get home around 6:30 and take a nap. I’m fighting something over the past couple of days and all I want to do is sleep. and take Tylenol.

So naturally, one of the lightest traffic days of the year, I sat in the no-exit zone on the parkway for an hour, alternating between blasting the heat in my car so little flora didn’t overheat and flipping through bereft traffic guides who all had the same thing to say:
“Ooo.. the parkway is a parking lot. Don’t take it.”

There were also a plethora of the old “why do you park in a driveway and drive in a parkway” jokes thrown around at the expense of those of us waiting for them to clear the accident.

So instead, I sat there, listening to one of the few benefits to working 70 miles south: Wendy Williams. I love her absolute honesty, her crazy moments where she hops off the subject at least five times and her very personal stories about things that you know everyone does but no one admits to. She’s fantabulous.

I also played my favorite Fairfield county driving game: count the luxury cars. You have to pick just one kind, because without a pen and paper, you just can’t keep track. Like last time, I counted Audis. I got to 56. So last night, I counted BMWs, which are like the Honda civics of Fairfield. After 76, I stopped counting. I thought it be a more interesting game to count actual Honda Civics, but once you get north of the Sikorski bridge, it’s just not fun anymore.

I got home at 7:35. J heated up my dinner, poured me a glass of wine and by 8:05, drool was starting to form. I managed to watch one female ice skater before carrying my carcass upstairs to bed.

so naturally, my dreams were full of ice skater costumes, with over-the-top narration and like 12,235 luxury cars.