salad days

In my mind lately, I've been hearing Dorkass call me a big tub of goo. A lot.

"A salad and iced tea?!" Amanda the bartender exclaimed. "Are you going healthy or something?"

"Yeah. I feel all blobby and gross after Christmas."

"Me too. I put on 12 pounds," she said.


The iced tea detail is important, lest you think I was impaired when I made a weight-loss bet with a 24 year old. No, I'm just that stupid.

When I saw her a week later, I repeated my order. She confessed that she and her boyfriend were about to go on a Cabo vacation and as a result, she was probably going to lose the bet. We chatted about weight loss while I picked at the plate o'crap in front of me. There's nothing quite like a chain-restaurant salad to make me lose my appetite completely. I asked her what the dessert options were. There were three. Her favorite was the six-inch-tall chocolate cake.

I ordered it, and she was beaming when she brought it to me. "This makes me feel better about Cabo!"

"Well, prepare to feel worse, because that cake's not for me." I ran for the door.

It wasn't the first time a woman yelled "ASSHOLE!" as I bolted out of a bar. Won't be the last.