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pseudoephedrine and Intervention
Wednesday, June 23 2010
Gretchen had to attend a memorial for the husband of a friend down in the City today, so she left early.
In the early afternoon Ray came with me when I went on a quick series of errands: some Liquid PlumrTM to unclog my urinal system, some World's Best Cat Litter for our five cats, and to pick up our weekly CSA share from a farm out on Sawkill Road. In this batch there was green beans, broccoli, lettuce, parsely, and turnips. I let Sally and Eleanor out at the farm and they immediately ran into the farmhouse. Eleanor even took the liberty of going upstairs. Hopefully Sally didn't piss a rug, an antisocial visiting behavior she has developed in recent years. On the way back home I stopped at the QuickChek gas station (at the corner of Sawkill Road and Washington Street) to buy some schwilly American-style ice beer, which I prefer over IPA in this hot sticky weather.
Alone at the house (by now Ray was off at work), I decided to recreationally indulge in pseudoephedrine. Sometimes pseudoephedrine allows me to complete vast amounts of work (either physical or mental), but more often than not it leads me to watch absurd amounts of television. Such was the case today. I went through my Tivo queue one show after another. Pseudoephedrine makes me more empathic than I am inclined to be otherwise, so some of the Interventions really tore me up. The most heart-wrenching of all was the tale of Bret the alcoholic. Bret himself was not a terribly sympathetic character, but his little nine year old kid sure was. To watch that kid having to deal with the ramifications of his father's alcoholism was so heart breaking. At the intervention, Daddy didn't want to go to rehab, so the kid grabbed him and refused to let him go until he said yes. And then the ending came. I don't often sob audibly when watching Intervention, but I did this time.
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