Like most sleep aids, it has some risk of dependency.

That's BBQ I'm talking about. John had the quite smart idea to get barbecue for lunch, so after I got back from yoga and we hauled the last of my old textbooks to the post office* we moseyed down 11th Avenue to Daisy Mae's.

We stuffed ourselves, then waddled home.

I fell asleep on the sofa, reading a book about medieval crime-fighting whores and whining about how much I was craving Archway cookies.

Later, I got up and made caramel corn.

John and I had dinner at our local Ethiopian place again. I mustered the courage to ask the name of one dish I really like from the vegetarian combo, then could not for the life of me figure out what the waitress had called it. The name sounded like a sneeze, and I'm not the kind of idiot racist who says that sort of thing lightly. At least I emerged form the day-long food coma to check what was written on the receipt. It's called butcha, and it's not on the menu, but now I can order it!

We went home planning to play Scrabble, and we did, as I absent-mindedly ate half a pan of caramel corn.

Ugh.

*I'm sending them off postage-due to a textbook buyer, and they will allegedly send me money. We'll see how that goes.