Last night we celebrated our two year anniversary. In retrospect “celebrated” may not be the most appropriate description of our night together, unless your conception of the term celebration is broad enough to include explosive diarrhea. In that case, it would be a fairly accurate account of our evening.
Had we stuck to our original plan of going to the fancy sushi place downtown, the tragedy might have been averted. But after a day of shopping and walking along the waterfront, we both found ourselves with a hankering for a hamburger, and it was our night after all, so we could eat whatever we wanted, gosh darn it!
So we ended up at a burger place in Belmont called Dick’s (no joke!). This is not to be confused with the chain of burger joints in Seattle of the same name, which, despite it’s ghetto perception, and being the favored late night eatery of Capitol Hill drunks, never gave me food poisoning.
This Dick’s is a gourmet burger joint featuring pictures of famous men named Richard, from Nixon to Montalban. The burgers spotlighted last night were the lamb, which Carlos had, and wild boar from the Texas badlands (redundant?).
I decided to play it safe and ordered the buffalo burger, with some yam fries, and a chipotle aioli dipping sauce. I don’t know if it was the burger being undercooked, or the aioli being “off” but before I was two thirds the way through my burger, my stomach began cramping with an urgency that made my brow sweat as I prayed to the Invisible Pink Unicorn that I made it to the restaurant bathroom before ruining a perfectly nice pair of American Apparel undies.
I returned sheepishly from the restroom, quietly mortified by the thought that if I could hear the conversation of the couple at the table nearby, then there was every probability that they could also hear me messily evacuating my bowels. Not to be too graphic, (at this point, I assume readers of my blog are prepared for TMI), but I’ve never experienced the expulsion of anything from inside me with such force that I was reminded of a movie where a car hits a fire hydrant, and the water explodes upwards in a never-ending, forceful geyser. Because that’s what it was like.
Carlos ordered dessert to go as I went back to the restroom a second time, after which I made him flee as if we were getting away from a crime scene where we were the culprits. Needless to say, it was a very long bus ride back to his apartment. We cuddled on the couch watching the Garfield Halloween Special, followed by Trick R’ Treat, punctuated by intermittent trips to the bathroom every 20 minutes or so.
Last year on our first anniversary we wandered around the waterfront in Seattle before ending up in an overrated steakhouse that still had Halloween decorations up. I’d given him a card with a picture of two chimpanzees on rollerskates with their arms around each other. On the inside it read, “I like the way you roll.” Underneath I wrote some heartfelt, personal note, ending in the words, “I love you, monkey,” because I was too afraid to say the words out loud. He pointed out that chimpanzees were apes.
Who could have predicted that two years after meeting on a sleazy, gay hook-up site, we’d still be together? My journal entry from the day we met was, “Met Carlos at Peet’s on Broadway. He’s totally cute. Turns out he’s a massage therapist! He’s one of those “natural medicine” people that I can’t seem to avoid. Don’t know if we have much in common, or will “date.” But we had a lovely chat (despite the fact that I was supposed to be working) and we’ve made a date to see each other on Friday when I’m done running. My goal is to either fuck him, or at the very least, weedle a free massage from him.”
Despite my initial cynicism, I was quickly smitten. One date led naturally to another, until spending our days off with one another was just a given. In many ways we’re completely different. Despite my avowed atheism and total devotion to the scientific method, and his general open mindedness and affinity for alternative medicine, he’s the logical one with his feet planted firmly on the ground, while I wander around with my head in the clouds. But we complement each other. I think.
We have enough differences to keep us (well me, because I guess I can only speak for myself, here) fascinated with one another, and just enough in common for a firm foundation to build on. (Mostly comprised of all the things we both hate.) Every time I see him I tbink that he’s more beautiful than he was the time before (if that’s possible!), his sharp wit always keeps me on my toes, and he can always crack me up.
I think that’s what I love most about him. He always makes me laugh, and even during the times when outside factors conspire against us, specifically when food poisoning completely lays waste to my bowels…I always manage to enjoy myself when we’re together. Pluse, even though I was sick to my stomach all night, he pretended not to have heard a thing. For a pessimist like me, that’s a real testament to how we feel about one another.
So, thanks for sticking it out with me another year, Monkey. I love you!