Tomorrow night The Princess and I are going out for a ‘meet The Littlest Princess’ almost fiancee’s parents’ dinner. I’m sure they’ll be nice people, and I expect we’ll have a great time. I’ll be careful not to make too many obscenely dirty or horrendously morbid jokes. I won’t even accidentally on purpose have the parents overhear me asking The Littlest if the ointment took care of everything.

As far as I can tell, between the 6 of us there will be:

• 3 men
• 3 women
• 3 people under the age of 35
• 3 people over the age of 55
• 5 Jews
• 6 brunettes
• 3 doctors
• 2 guitarists
• 2 bassists
• 3 singers
• 6 bleeding heart Liberals
• 1 lactose allergy
• 3 potheads
• 1 nicotine addict
• 2 shoe addicts
• 2 chocolate addicts
• 6 foodies

Should be good. There’s no reason for them to be, but I think I’ll really enjoy it if The Littlest and his gal are incredibly nervous. Like, fidgety, laugh too loud, sweating through the jacket nervous. And then they’ll have to do the whole thing again with The Littlest’s mom and stepfather!

The best thing about my Ulcerative Colitis is unquestionably the post therapy bingefest. I take a drug called Remicade (Infliximib) by way of IV infusion, every couple months. It’s a TNF Alpha inhibitor, which prevents my colon from responding to my immune system, thus keeping me from having inflammation, and you know, dying. To help prevent my system from forming antibodies against the drug, I get a big shot of Cortisone (a steroid) beforehand. I usually get that at about 10 am, and by noon I’m pretty famished.

When you’re prescribed a steroid you can expect to gain some weight, this isn’t because the drug makes you gain weight – it’ll shift some fat stores, which sometimes equally sucks, but it won’t cause direct weight gain. What it will do, is completely prevent your brain from receiving the signal that your stomach is full.

And it’s awesome. Every bite is a quest to sate the insatiable. Every morsel is enjoyed like a jealousy guarded delicacy. And my body feels great. My brain can’t tell me that I’m stuffed, so it’s impossible to feel icky. I stop because my tongue begins to ache and my teeth have tired of chewing.

My Cortisone shot only has this effect for a few days, but I only indulge in the binge on day one; if I do this for even two days in a row I will cease to comfortably fit into my pants.

Moments into the return flight from Paris, I began to worry. I had a middle seat, the Princess to my right, and some guy on my left. The guy on my left had the worst – no, THE WORST breath I can recall ever smelling. It was going to be a 467 minute flight and I couldn’t envision any scenario which would result in his breath improving any. Only a drunken optimist would hope that he might brush his teeth during the flight. I’m a realist, I knew he would probably sleep and have airplane/’morning breath’ on top of his already decayed natural state.

Maybe they would serve mint toothpaste sandwiches for lunch? Do airlines ever do that? Has that ever been on a menu? Anywhere? Maybe one of those molecular gastronomy restaurants?

I swear his breath was so bad, I spent the first half hour of the flight wishing he had severe, medical calibre B.O. Or that we’d have engine trouble and have to turn back.

And frankly, the Princess’ prosciutto and port salut sandwich, and au revoir cigar wasn’t making matters all that much more pleasant on my right. Tolerable, but not a true respite.

This makes me have much greater sympathy for customs/immigration agents. They must deal with so much bad breath everyday, that it’s a wonder that they can be even remotely friendly with anyone ever. And what can they do about it? Insist that everyone brush their teeth after getting off a plane? Wear masks? Use that stuff that forensic scientists rub under their noses when they work with decomposing bodies?

The saving grace? As soon as the flight reached our cruising altitude the flight attendants brought drinks and bags of those weird nacho bbq Chex Mex’ish crunchie things only found on airplanes. They masked his breath completely!

The Princess and I are in Paris. Instead of a hotel we opted to stay in an apartment rental. We’re in a fantastic location and for the most part, the apartment is pretty decent. Except for the bathroom. The bathroom is divided into two spaces: the shower and sink, which connects to the bedroom, and the toilet, which is between the apartment entrance and the kitchen. The door to the toilet room sticks and I am now trapped in here. The Princess went out for a walk 40 minutes ago – I’m supposed to be dressed and ready to head out for a day at the Louvre when he returns (supposedly at 11), but instead I am still in pajamas, sitting on the toilet.

The Princess is never on time for anything, which means his 11am return is likely more like 11:30. So I’ll have been in the bathroom for well over an hour by the time he gets back.

I planted zucchini seeds and they were actually growing pretty well – no flowers or anything remotely suggestive of zucchini yet, but 8 inch tall leafy stems. It’s been hot and dry for days so I decided to be a responsible and caring gardener, and water my plants. I started with the plants furthest away – the zucchini, and turned the nozzle to ‘spray’ and … snapped my zucchini stems with the force of the water!

The worst part – an hour later the perfectly clear skies darkened to grey and now it’s pouring.