Augh, Mike's mom discovered that I can't eat a bunch of things. She made dinner yesterday for Mike's daughter's birthday, and so she quite reasonably made stuff Amanda likes, which happened in this case to be lasagna and chocolate cake, a rather deadly combination for someone with IC. In an effort not to draw attention to myself, I told Mike not to say anything about my food problems. Of course I should have realized that was a stupid thing to ask of him, because it backfired in the way you have already predicted, and by the time his mom--and dad--were done fussing and wanting to know how Mike could fail to know that I can't eat tomatoes, I had all the attention I want for about three years. It did not help that I protested that I had told Mike he didn't need to say anything--his mother thought he should have anyhow. Luckily he's a good sport.

Then she thought I should give her the list of things I can't eat. Hell, there's an entire book to explain what I can't eat, and after seven years of using it, I still have to look things up. Plus I don't want to discuss my bladder at the table in anyone's company. Egads.

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I had novocaine at 8:00 a.m. The tiny cavity took the dentist 20 minutes to fill. I am just now, at 1:30 p.m., able to eat some breakfast without biting myself.

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Here's a way to IRRITATE THE LIVING FUCK OUT OF ME:

Ask me a question, and then talk while I'm answering. Do it a couple more times, and then get pissed because I've stopped trying to answer.