I'm gonna have to say, coming off 28 hours of acid reflux/heartburn/throwing-up-in-your-mouth-continuously is not unlike coming off of a 2 day champagne hangover.  You know what I'm talking about?  How you had that feeling that you should just step away from the $5.99 cheap ass "sparkling wine" that someone brought over and just take the Moet out of the salad crisper drawer in the fridge?  But no.  You don't like these people enough to bring out the good stuff so you'll just suck it up and pretend you're back in college.  You thought it would all be better if you just poured a little homemade peach nectar right in the top of the bottle and then tipped it back for a hefty swig.  Drink water?  Who needs water?  Amateurs.  Day 1--Bad.  Day 2--Worser.

That would be the equivalent of being 35 weeks pregnant, eating EXTRA spicy chili, chased with Jamaican SPICY patties and maybe a Sierra Nevada.  And before you get all self-righteous on me, I NEVER DRINK and I am fairly certain that one beer with 6% alcohol that after being drunk keeps me from jumping off a bridge is not going to do much harm.  But you'll be happy to know that I paid for my sins for the next 27 hours.  I had a bottle of Tums but those things are crap.  Useless.  I have recovered in time to realize that if I eat now, I will get heartburn.  I want to kill myself.

My husband, on the other hand, has grown slightly bored with my continual complaints about the heartburn ("Do you really want to eat that chili, babe? Damn it, yes I do.") and has now become bored with my continual complaints about the gymnastical antics of Alien Nation. 

K:  Feel this.  He's trying to bust out through my side.

He reaches over with his hand for the kajillionth time and Alien Nation goes stiller than Zinni standing under the table waiting for The Boy to drop his food on the floor ("if I stand here really still with my mouth propped open, maybe his whole plate will fall in"). 

I begin to tap on my stomach.  I don't feel bad about this as he hasn't stopped moving for 3 months so maybe it wouldn't kill him to perform when I ask.

D:  Am I going to have to get a "Don't Tap On the Glass" sticker for your belly?  Cut it out. 
K:  Sure, Baby.  You can stick it right under the "Don't poke the bear" sticker. 

They are all brothas.  Every single one of them.