Poseidon's Revenge

Over the weekend we went to a "progressive party."

[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."]

[Oh, but they were so BRINEY and delicious!]So I made a gigantic oyster pig of myself.

[Ettiquette schmettiquette.]

I kept grinning at our hosts, drunk on Oyster brine, slurring,

"Thish ish the greatesht party!"

I was one happy-ass honky.

HOW. EVER.

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...]