You see, thanks to really robust genetics from the Princess Mom's side of the family, I have a dandy cases of acid reflux that has caused a little dealio called Schatzi Ring. I know it sounds like a German coffee cake, but it's not nearly as pleasant. This is my second round, and I know I need to go back and see my gastroenterologist, but... it's not a fun process to get it (temporarily) fixed. And I certainly can't arrange to get it done between now and my date on Sunday.
Also called Steakhouse Syndrome, it just means that sometimes my esophagus decides that it's just not having whatever it is that I just ate... and it shuts the hell down. Tight. And then there's a moment of rebellion when the blob of whatever-the-hell-it-is-that-I-just-ate decides to line dance up and down my esophagus. Sometimes, if the Gods are smiling on me, I can relax enough that the pesky bugger decides to open wide enough to let WTHIITIJA slide on down. But most times... I turn into Mount Vesuvius just about to spew.
I have no prior warnings that I should have just ordered soup or mashed potatoes and gravy. Nope. Schatzki is a fickle bitch with a vicious sense of humor.
So when to have the conversation? Before or after I back away from the table and run/walk to the ladies room before Vesuvius blows?
And is there a polite way of saying, "Excuse me sir, but I have to puke... right now"? (All helpful suggestions welcomed)
Mr. Nice Guy from my local is enough older than me that Sunday's dinner will be in the afternoon. We're driving about 20 miles to what I'm guessing, based on his demographics and prior conversations, is a steakhouse. With an early bird menu. (The horror!)
With my luck, to add insult to injury, it will happen, and probably with this playing on the piped in Muzak:
My life in reality?
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