Things I do not recommend:

The alarm went off at 8am on Sunday morning. Had to take Catherine to Penn Station to put her on an early train. Woke up moderately hungover. Not nauseated so much as the headache and the dry mouth. After I I left Catherine* to battle it out with the other Northbound passengers on the Metroliner Regional (*detailed post of our weekend adventures to come) I began stumbling towards the 2/3 train to take me back to Brooklyn when I made the amazing discovery that there is a K-Mart attached to Penn Station.

Despite the hangover I decided to wander in and make a quick trip to buys some pots and pans. Like the alcohol that had yet to wend its way through my body I soon realized I had residual 80s/karaoke toxins flowing. K-Mart was playing a NJ radio station heavy on the 80s hits and I could not help but sing along and dance. Well, perhaps "sing" is the wrong word considering my aforementioned cotton-mouth but I was able to make sounds like "hemmmm" and "huhnnnn" along with Whitney. And I was wearing sneakers, who doesn't love to dance in sneakers? I was trying to be covert about this, but I'm pretty sure at least two K-Mart employees witnessed this spectacle.

After selecting a new door knob installation kit and over the door shoe organizer I went up stairs to housewares. However, my display on the floor below had sapped what very little energy I had to run on. Normally the prospect of purchasing pots would not seem so daunting but I was bottoming out and the task seemed insurmountable. Since I was considering dropping $80, I decided to call my Dad, which I swear made sense at the time.

I got out my cell phone and called home. "Pop, it's Nancy."

"Hey, how are you?"

"Good. Look, I'm in K-Mart and I'm trying to buy some pots."

"You're trying to buy pot in K-Mart? Why are you telling me this? My God, they have everything in K-Mart these days. It's that city you live in."

"No, I'm trying to buy a set of pots and pans. I'm looking at two 7-Piece Sets right now. I just need to know from you whether you think I could get the Non-Stick or the Stainless Steel."

And then my father just started talking. Few of the words managed to penetrate my hangover "...Gourmet ...Savory sauces ... How many? ... Whole chicken... Four quart... Heat-resistant handles..." I decided to use this time to visit another planet. After about five minutes of this my father's voice brought me back to Earth, "Are you there? I'm talking to you!"

"Look Dad, I'm a little hungover. Do you think you could maybe narrow these questions down?"

"Oh. Did you have a good time last night?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I had a good time last night too. Okay, what do you want to cook?"

"I just want to make some Ravioli," I said as tears ran out of my eyes. I could not afford this much needed moisture escaping when I was so dehydrated.

"Okay, how many people do you usually cook for?"

"One," I said hoping we could skip the unsolicited advice about my dating life.

"Okay, are you in the pots and pans aisle right now?" I wanted nothing more to be back in bed with a bottle of Poland Springs until a more reasonable hour, but what could I do? He was helping and afterall, I had called him. When I reached the nexus of having picked up some basics and not thinking I could maintain a vertical position for five minutes longer I said, "Okay Dad, well, thanks for talking me through this."

"No problem," he said. "Go home and make the ravioli. The carbs will help with the hangover, Sweetie."