I Am Not Miranda

Met Pumpkin and a few of his posse at a little holiday party last night in downtown LA. Went straight there from work, had a couple glasses of wine and nothing to eat, so was starving by the time I got home. And, that's when I almost choked to death on a bite of hotdog. I couldn't swallow it or cough it up. I couldn't speak or breath. For a split second I honestly thought, I'm going to choke to death, alone, in Casey in California's kitchen. How weird would that be? Those were the exact thoughts that went through my head. I was Miranda in that "Sex in the City" episode where she's choking on take out Chinese and throws herself onto the edge of the kitchen sink to dislodge the chicken and broccoli and then calls Carrie all freaked out that she's going to die alone in her new apartment and her cat will eat her. Luckily, Casey in California doesn't have a cat. I would have called K if it weren't for that damn time difference thing. Carrie and Miranda were always in the same city. Well, except when Carrie moved to Paris with Mikhail Baryshnikov. But, I digress. Clearly, I was in fact eventually able to cough the dumb dog up and out of my esophagus. Or trachea. Wherever it was. My throat still hurts. I may never eat another hotdog. Alone anyway.