I don’t usually paint my nails when they are this short. My sloppy self-manicure makes me feel like an unsuccessful child prostitute.
At dinner last night, I watched a man–who weighed around four hundred pounds–eat pâté. Dissatisfied with the supplied bread accompaniments of hummus and pâté, he and his partner had earlier asked for butter and oil, respectively.
I stared as he spread a large scoop of pâté onto a slice of bread–apparently having decided that he liked it–and then applied a liberal two tablespoons of butter on top of the pâté. My mouth was agape. I expected him to drop dead at the table.
The vicarious tightening of my arteries was somewhat alleviated by my new favorite drink, called The Mistress. I must learn how to make it. It contained some mixture of vodka, peach schnapps, lemon juice, champagne, cranberry juice, and sweet & sour mix, with a sugar rim. I had two and will never feel pressured to drink wine at a nice restaurant with a full bar again.
When one orders a $70 rib eye for two and has the leftovers wrapped up to bring home, it is unwise to forget the package on the restaurant table. One’s mouth will water at its perfect, distant memory the next morning.
I have discovered a new level of delight this morning, forgotten rib eye and mild hangover aside. I called in sick to work to attain a three-day weekend like everyone else, showered, and then got back into my pajamas. Excellent.
Let the week begin.