[NotesMaeve]

Thursday morning, Slamhot and I packed up for Frisco. Given all signs, I should have known this would be an interesting trip. Just as we're getting ready to step out the door, Slamhot's lost his MP3 player. It's not in the drawer where he normally keeps it. It's not in his luggage. It's not in MY luggage.

So we spend a good half hour before I realize there's a flat rectangle strangely jutting from my heaving bosom. Slamhot and I frequently stick things there because, well, you can hold a lot of stuff between the girls: Cans of Red Bull, MP3 players, tequila shots in my more frisky days.

But I digress: The Boob-Ipod Epidemic of '07 is an ominous sign of things to come.

Our hotel is near Chinatown, and we get there after spending a fun time at the zoo. NOTHING is open to eat. Not a problem. We have snacks! But, oh, wait, there's an Indian place open! It's a little lacking in cleanliness, but you have to keep in mind, Slamhot and I are godless heathens who will eat mushrooms that fall on the table of Bistro 33, so long as they're mushrooms from our dish, or reasonably suspected to be such. Samosas ahoy! Mm mm!

We're walking side by side, and he kisses me on the cheek and it's a profoundly sweet, beautiful moment. And he breaks that up with, "I really hope we get back to the hotel soon. I think I have to vomit." He manages to contract food poisoning.

Now, I go out in search of Pepto Bismol at about 4 AM because the situation is getting a little beyond the scope of what Sprite and my, "You'll be okay, honey!" cheering can accomplish. After about three convenience stores, ******** trying to sell me Tums or some other OTC medicine in place of Pepto, and me threatening to get revenge on the universe for making my life one episode after another of some supernatural "Punk'd," I find the pink crap. By this time, I am tired and angry and utterly humorless about my situation.

I get back to the room, and it's quiet except for the hum of the fan. Slamhot's huddled on the bed in a small, naked ball, and there's a note on the lamp:

"Thank you for being such a wonderful, loving person. I got some fresh ice and put a Coke on for you."

I sit down in the floor and cry for a minute, and try to find sort of zen in the moment, and finally, I do: We humans, so forgetful and forgettable, we take each other for granted, without even realizing we've done so, but once in awhile, somebody remembers us, fondly even, and it changes our outlook,
even if only for a second. I looked over at my can of Coke in the ice bucket. How nice it feels - being remembered - or, at least, not forgotten.

The moral of the story? Never settle for a different anti-diarrheal.

Oh, and if learning to love someone all the more in the face of terrible food-poisoning makes me crazy, then crazy I shall be. Take that, Sleestak.