Last weekend Nick and I made plans to finally eat at Hot Doug’s together. However, when I woke up that morning my right hand was twice it’s normal size. I determined that I must have broken my wrist the night before when I tripped over the television that isn’t normally in the middle of our kitchen whilst carrying two deck chairs in the door, backwards. Knowing that the impending emergency room visit would take at least 5 hours, I decided that enjoying a fried veggie corn-dog (which they only offer on weekends) would make the gloomy looking end to the weekend somewhat rewarding (to much protest from Nick, I should add).
We walked to Hot Doug’s from Logan Square, and after a spell where I had to take a break on their lawn because I was sure I was going to faint, we sat down with our selection.
Nick ordered an elk sausage with a mustard sauce and mustard seed cheese, I enjoyed the aforementioned veggie corn-dog and we split a giant basket of duck-fat fried french fries.
It was all very greasy and very good.
We also bought celery soda. I had never tasted it before. It was definitely sweeter than most things I enjoy, but the taste was so unique that I hardly minded.
We then traveled to my HMO approved hospital where we spent the next many hours. (Conveniently located next to Binny’s at least!) Nick was sweet and put up with the crazy old men and poorly behaved children in the ER waiting room while those tending me decided I might have a novicular fracture. I spent this last week at appointments with my general practitioner and orthopedic surgeons, getting enough x-rays to take a year off of my life, and the verdict is still out. They basically told me to wear a wrist brace and if it hurts in a few weeks it is broken, if it doesn’t hurt in a few weeks it isn’t broken. Ah, modern medicine. I’m glad I ate first.