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year of the chicken
03/23/2008 = 08:52 AM

First rule about drunk blogging, painkiller posting, or medicine-headed meandering: you can't edit it after the fact. It has to remain for posterity so you can see what you forced other people to look at.

Fortunately for me, it never seems to affect my typing or spelling skills, just my perceptions.

Unfortunately for me, it never seems to affect my symptoms that much, either. For instance, I've had a painkiller, but my pain is not dead. It's resting. And it prefers kipping on my back.

Anyway.

When I was a tiny kid, the Mom didn't give us Easter baskets because a) Jewish kids don't have Easter and b) Jewish kids do have Passover, which generally fell around the same time.

As I would chew (and chew, and chew) my dry, flavorless matzah, I swore to myself that, when I grew up, I would buy massive Easter baskets for myself with the biggest chocolate bunnies I could afford.

Now I am a grown up. I know this, because I own my own sofa and loveseat.

And I am allergic to chocolate.

So I got a dozen of the tiny Cadbury eggs (not "mini-eggs;" rather, the eggs that are just like the big ones in that they are chocolate, filled with white and yellow fondant, but sized small), ate two, and gave the rest to That Man.

Naturally, I am not at all allergic to matzah, but it still tastes to me like what I imagine corrugated cardboard would taste like, if I were adventurous enough to eat it. I am not. We'd have to call on Tony Bourdain or Andrew Zimmern for that one.

So I had to make up a new spring holiday for Golfwidowism, and I call it Whichcamefirstday.

The idea came to me yesterday, when I was hopped up on another painkiller. Well, I mean, the same type. A different pill. This weekend is making me its prison bitch.

So Whichcamefirstday falls on the Saturday before Easter. The traditional food is either two sandwiches (your choice of bread), one each of chicken salad and egg salad, or a scoop each of the same.

You put the plate down, you close your eyes, you give the plate a little spin (not too much English, it'll go flying) and then you pick up a sandwich (or your fork) and take a bite. Whichever salad you get is the winner of the Great Chicken or Egg Debate for that year.

The chicken salad came first this year, so 2008 is the Year of the Chicken, in Golfwidowism.

I like this idea very a lot. I hope I can remember to do it again in 2009.

A postscript, or punchline, if you will: Last night, after That Man of Mine gave me the pill (I make him be the one to decide if I'm in enough pain to need a pill, because that way I can be sure of neither overmedicating nor becoming dependent — we already know from my chronic cigarette jones that I am fully capable of becoming so addicted that I can give up a habit for over five years and still want it), he went into the living room so I could rest.

About an hour later, I was still in pain but my mind had gone soft and fuzzy round the edges. He came in to see if I needed anything to drink (the pill gives me fierce cottonmouth).

He said, "Coming in to check on you."

I thought he said, "Come in, chicken," so I replied, "Bwawk, bwawk. Over."

It was funny yesterday, and it's still funny today, but we'll see how I feel about it later on, when this particular dose wears off.

Happy Year of the Chicken Came First, or Easter, or Sunday, whichever you observe.

Tags: Easter

drinking: ginger ale
listening to: Pink Floyd, Money
if my iPod really was a magic 8 ball: it'd be playing comfortably numb