Gut Check

There's a new Mexican restaurant close to our neighborhood that we checked out the other night. Many non-Chicagoans don't realize this, but Chicago has a) one of the largest Mexican populations in the country (second only to LA, according to the 2000 US Census) and b) one of the best restaurant scenes as well, including a ton of great Mexican places. These range from super high-end meals (like Topolobampo) where you're likely to spend $400-plus on a meal for 2, to great taquerias (like La Pasadita, with 3 locations within 100 feet of each other) where you can get stuffed for under $5.

The place we went to the other night was called Mixteco Grill, a small place which served really fresh, tasty food. I had the pork; Kristen had the grouper.

And this interests you how, you ask...

Well, one of the sauces that came with my pork was habanero-based, and I have to say that it could possibly have been the hottest thing I've ever put in my mouth. I drooled. I cried. I smothered my poor tongue with refried beans. Nothing worked, and I just had to grin and bear it as the pain eventually (although not quickly) subsided.

While I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the meal, I knew that later that evening, I would be in some discomfort. How much, however, I couldn't have guessed.

That night -- after I carried up an air conditioner and a new (used) television, and carried down our old television -- I found myself in a prone position on the couch, moaning and groaning. (That lifting of appliances only exacerbated my stomach pain.) I could hardly breathe. I was sweating uncontrollably. It was not a pretty sight.

Kristen, however, had little sympathy. She checked in on me a couple of times, but every time I let out a wail of "ohhh, my poor stomach", she merely shot me a look and then pointed to her own stomach which has grown quite large over the past seven months.

You see, dear readers, you cannot get stomach sympathy from a woman who is pregnant. It's just not going to happen. And I should've realized this. Kristen has had gastrointestinal issues practically from day 1 of the pregnancy, and it's only gotten worse as the weeks and months go on. She pops Tums like they're going out of style, she's started to get heartburn (forcing her to stand upright for a while after eating), and she burps. A lot.

Kristen is what I like to call a delicate flower. At least she was. Now, we'll be walking down the street, and she'll be burping like a sailor. At first, I used to comment on them: "Nice one!" or "That was loud!". But now, it's old hat.

(The only time I do comment is when Kristen makes her burps come out of her body sounding like the word "burp." That really annoys me. I mean, when I sneeze, I don't yell out "sneeze," do I?)

So what's the moral of the story here? Certainly beware of hot sauces at Mexican restaurants. But also, if you're suffering from a physical malady -- whether it is headaches, back aches, or stomach aches -- your 7-months-pregnant wife likely doesn't care as much about it as you'd like her to.

And rightly so.