& a lament

File this one under “Things the Pregnancy Books Don’t Tell You.” As the non-pregnant one in the relationship, my eating habits are subject to the wishes of my wife—whose eating habits are, of course, subject to whatever Squatch doesn’t force back out her facehole. Once a meal changes from dinner to decorating the inside of our toilet bowl, that restaurant is off the list.

I’ve talked before about the lack of options in small-town Okie-land. Restaurants are no exception. There are two places where we always took people who visited us because they’re actually good. One is a Mexican place here in town; the other is an Italian restaurant about half an hour west*.

*Betcha didn’t know Oklahoma had a “Little Italy.” Mining towns—go figure.

Enter Squatch and the little parasite’s discriminating palate. After eating at each place, Karli spent a little time worshipping at the porcelain altar, and now we haven’t been to either place in months. Damn it, fetus. We’re not starting this relationship well.

The thing nobody ever says is that guys get cravings during pregnancy, too. Okay, maybe they all don’t, but I sure as hell do. We eat what she wants because, after all, she’s got the trump card. That means—between the overall lack of options and the vetoing of viable eateries—there are a whole bunch of things I could really go for right about now.

And sorry about two food posts in a row. Daddy needs a taco. Bad.


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