Wednesday = Heartburn

I might just use this little blog as motivation to ensure I do something interesting everyday. I don't like logging on when I feel as if I haven't done anything worthwhile, nothing worth writing about, just staring at the link "New Post" as if it's laughing at me in challenge--and then I think, "Just about anything can be interesting if I feel it's interesting." Damn feelings. They can either be more true than any physics equation or more illusory and uncontrollable than mercury flowing through a gloved hand.

Wednesday evening: Dustin and I went out to eat at a little Italian place a few blocks from campus, a somewhat nice place, still homey and yet a little trendy, since it caters college students AND their parents. (If it were marketed to cater college students only, it would most likely be a dive, but that's an entirely different blog in which it would lead me to jump on a soapbox, then preach about how the community subjugates the poor students around here to low paying jobs and over-priced, run down rental property.) We had what you usually have to begin the meal at an Italian restuarant: fresh bread with oil and balsamic vinegar. Dustin ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio, a good white wine I'm slowing beginning to appreciate more and more. I ordered a coke, and Dustin gave me a strange look because I almost always have a drink with a meal.

"You feeling all right?" Dustin asked.

"Yup. I'm just getting bored with drinking," I said. "I haven't had anything harder than beer in almost a week. I was drinking too much rum."

"Well, I can't drink the entire bottle myself."

"That's okay. It's legal to take it home with you."

"Wouldn't that be considered open container?" He asked.

"Nope. Not with the cork in it."

"Huh. An opened whiskey bottle would be an open container. I know that. Even with the cap screwed on tight, it's still open if you've opened it."

"Yeah, I know. It's Oklahoma. It's not supposed to make sense."

"I'll drink to that." Dustin stopped the waiter. "Excuse me. You only brought one glass. Could you please bring another?"

"You don't want to drink alone, do you?" I asked.

"No."

"Pansy."

"Who's the pansy? The guy who says 'No' and then has a drink anyway or the guy who doesn't have a problem with it in the first place?"

"Becoming a wine pusher, huh?"

(The conversation isn't exact, but it's close.)

So I had a glass of pinot, and it went okay with the shrimp pesto linguini I had. Dustin had the grilled salmon with some sort of pasta (I don't have a keen eye for the differences in pasta) and white sauce. It wasn't a bad meal, and during the rest of it Dustin talked about his job and how his research on K39 growth hormone (???) in cattle was going. I didn't understand much, but he seemed to enjoy talking about it.

But a word of advice: make sure that a decent Italian place serves whole wheat pasta. This place didn't, and my stomach was pissed off for almost 24 hours--a constant little ache of heartburn that Pepto couldn't solve.