picture it, philadelphia, 2005

Two more days go by, four days late and getting later by the minute. My friend Samantha and I were at the South Philly Tap Room enjoying a few pints and sharing some nachos when I complained that my mouth tasted like metal. Pregnant?, she asks. No way, not me and there is a stick in the trash that proves it. But, because she is a smart girl I stopped at the neighborhood apothecary on the way home and shelled out another $12.50 for another test. I waited until the next morning, since that is when the hormones are the strongest. Another negative. Another happy hour. I assumed I was late and metallic due to a delicate mix of rampant cancer (which was due to be attacked about two weeks later), Philadelphia tap water (which I was drinking by the gallon), and perhaps a little bit because I was at the tavern every day that week.