Over the weekend we went to a "progressive party." [The polite, southern way to say, "Yo, oyster ho."]
[All political ideologies were welcome, the progressive part was about location.]
At the first house, there were appetizers and unlimited piles of steamed and raw oysters.
The second house featured a lowcountry boil.
Dessert, three perfect pecan pies, a masterpiece trifle and coffee, awaited us at the last house.
As soon as I arrived, I grabbed an apron, a glove and a knife and began shuckin' like a madwoman.
I proceeded to eat my body weight in steamed oysters.
When my friend Joe suggested that we go slurp down a few raw ones, I started to get a reputation.
"Jessica!" my friend Caroline said, "You've been eating oysters non-stop since they came out!"
[The polite, southern way to say, "Yo, oyster ho."]
I kept grinning at our hosts, drunk on Oyster brine, slurring,
"Thish ish the greatesht party!"I was one happy-ass honky.
I tossed and turned all night, waking up at what seemed like fifteen minute intervals.
I dreamt of sandy, dry places.
In the morning, I woke up to discover that during the night I had turned into Lot's Wife.
I was nothing but a desiccated, leathery old hag of a woman living in a dried and waterless body.
If I had walked out into a pasture, cows would have gathered 'round and licked me.
A salt hangover?
Are you kidding me?
I am officially old as dirt.
[Where's my water pill...]