Something to smile about, parts 1 and 2

My original post was eaten. Round two.

I'm sitting at a sports bar on the south end of town called The End Zone. My cousin is watching the Titans, and I'm taking advantage of free Wi-Fi. There's an expensive car parked diagonally across two spaces in the parking lot, and if I were still in my beat-up Saturn, I'd try to sneak into one of those spaces.

Anyway, so yesterday I was supposed to get married. I celebrated by being depressed and taking everyone's money in poker.

We then went home and became ridonkulously lazy. I didn't cook. I committed a cardinal sin and something to smile about, part 1: I ordered Domino's. Marinara sauce dripped off my chin and I made orgasmic noises as I ate. D. stayed about ten feet away at all times, because pizza makes him sick.

It's a point of contention between us that I would pretty much sell my first born for a lifetime supply of pizza, but it'll make him sick for days. I woke up this morning with some indigestion -- some of it from pizza, most of it from gin -- but in general I'll survive. After a pizza night, though, I'll wake up at three in the morning and hear him in the bathroom, moaning like a dying animal.

That brings me to something to smile about, part 2: I have never been so happy to know about someone's bowels as I am now. With D.'s stomach issues, I get daily reports of his bowel movements, and they change based on my cooking. (I figure it takes a non-romantic relationship with someone to really achieve intimacy.) He updates me constantly on the quality of his bowel movements... and he has euphemisms:

"Just gave birth to twin girls."
"That was an elephant."
"Why can't I digest corn?"
"I've got a jumper at the door, demanding a green light, and begging for a water landing." (He's former military. Only says that while running.)
"It's a boy."
"Better make something mild tonight."
"That jambalaya was painless... well done, kid."

Needless to say, those plungers are handy. But my point is, the more I cook, the healthier his digestive tract gets. I go to regular seminars on endoscopy (I work for a medical device manufacturer), and from that I learned about hiatal hernias... I strongly believe that he has one, due to the severity and omnipresence of his symptoms. My grandmother (not on D.'s side) developed one and then died from cardiac arrest a few days later. I'd like for him to get his stomach checked out, but he's lazy (and probably nervous), and if my cooking can do something for him in the meantime, then that's okay.

At the end of the day, my cooking has improved the bowel movements of someone I care about, and that makes me happy.

On an unrelated note, I would like to invent a bar shot and call it "The Miss Jackson If You're Nasty." What should go in it? I once named a shot at Ace's Pub; they were calling it "Sake and Monster" for the longest time before I suggested "Godzilla."

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