Whine and Cheese

I got some serious power sleeping in last night.  Two blasts of steroidal nasal spray and a tumbler of Armagnac.  I can’t drink hard liquor, no matter how much I try.  I’ve tried for years to appreciate Cognac as my dad loves it so much but I just can’t.  Alcohol that can destroy living organisms on its way down to my stomach is simply too burly for me.

On the other hand, no sleep + sore throat = tired, cranky person who continues to pray for Cigar Man's painful death from cancer (it’s the least that can happen to him for depriving me of my ramen).

Quang gave me the tumbler last night and said, “It’ll anethesize you.”

Just before bed, I took a swig of the Armagnac.  Jules, sitting across from me on the other guest bed, started laughing.

“You should see your expression.”

Being the kind of friend who wishes to share the best, I breathed at her.  Actually, I didn’t need serious lung power:  the alcohol fumes singed her nostrils pretty quickly.

“Oh my God!  I can’t believe you just drank that!”

I took another swig.  “HHHHHHHHello,” I exhaled.  “HHHHHHHHHHHHHow are you?”

She fled.

So, deep sleep, breathing through my nose like an evolved being, and I’m fortified.

I’m at the airport now, loving my Mac for every wireless fiber of its being.  I was at the Duty Free store earlier to pick up a bottle of Pastis 51 for my siblings when I came across a cold fromage case.  All that gorgeous cheese. I love stinky, runny, gooey cheeses.  I can’t think of a better place to eat them than in France. And I can’t buy a damn one to eat on the plane in lieu of what is sure to be more crappy Delta food. 

See the headlines:  International incident as woman pelted to death with pimento loaf by exasperated seat mate for bringing rancid cheese on board trans-Atlantic flight.

I still can’t smell.  Which means I still can’t taste.  And if I can’t smell, I won’t be able to determine how mephitic a cheese is, and if I can’t taste, what’s the point?

On the other hand, I finally succeeded in finding a couple of bottles of the Faiveley Mercurey to bring home to hubby.  Found it at the same duty free store.  What luck!  Especially since Quang, Jules and I spent an hour last night walking around looking for it.  I wish I hadn’t checked in my rolling suitcase.  There were other Faiveley wines I wanted to pick up for Hubby but scoliosis is already setting in from the bag currently laden with the Pastis, a rather large hardback edition of the complete adventures of Le Petit Nicolas and other sundry items.

Ah well.  It appears a return flight to Paris is in order.