In Rejection

For 48 hours or so now, my Ulcers have been in full-on revolt -- possibly in response to Sunday night's WhiteTrashPicnic -- but I don't want to believe it's true.

For someone with a somewhat "delicate constitution," I pride myself on having quite the cast-iron stomach. Funnelcakes. Meat-on-a-stick. Even semi-annual White Castles. (See also More Things That Are In My Stomach.)

I don't eat a whole lot of junk food, I rarely eat fast food, so when I do indulge in things-that-are-bad-for-me, I am reminded of what my pal Leo always says, "Sometimes honey, ya just gotta fall back on your immune system." So I do, and it rarely lets me down. 

Right now though, it's betraying me. I have a searing pain in my stomach that only flares up every five to ten years. These episodes usually clear up with heavy doses of drugs, but if they don't, it means I'll have to go back in for another scope, and I'll do anything I can to avoid that. I figured out early on the myths and realities of ulcers -- I can eat all the spicy food I want, for example, but I can't have coffee. Not ever. I prefer red wine to white, but can only tolerate it (or any alcohol, for that matter) in very small doses. I'd like to drink more -- I practically turned pro in college -- I just can't.

I tried all kinds of new things at Sunday's picnic, and I liked almost all of it. But I'm willing to cede the possibility that I might be paying for it now, or as our friend Ann observed (the one whose kidneys I worried about all last summer): "Your poor little locavore body is kicking back the velveeta!" All I know is, her hanky-pankys and onion dip were delicious, and I refuse to believe I can't have more of them at the next picnic.