I am a tub of goo. A blancmange. A custardy treat. I wiggle and jiggle like a JELLO mold. Truly, I've enjoyed my holiday eating and the scale reflects it. Weight training, thou art my True Bitch Goddess to come.
Being from the South, fun times and food are synonymous and the five pounds I typically gain a Christmas are de rigueur. These, however, are five pounds I really do not need to be carrying. Ooof.
I went out to dinner this evening with a friend. Originally, we had planned to go to Bogart's, but as it was closed for an post-holiday employees-only night, we walked up the block to Sullivan's. When the maitre d' began arranging to seat us, I noticed a large party of nothing but men in all shades of gorgeous sitting slap in the middle of the room. Being the brazen tart I've recently become, I asked the maitre d' to seat us near the beefcake table, which he charmingly obliged.
As Sullivan's was not so overwhelmed with guests, the adorable brunette waitress assigned to our table had a chance to sell the menu and flirt with us a tad. On her visit between the soup and the entree, she let slip that "she could really tell us" about the sex toy party her and a friend hosted.
I think I fell in love. Truly, any hot chick that can describe an Egyptian-themed dildo labeled "The Pharoah" and end it by saying "I don't want a dildo I have to feel subservient to, I want a dildo called 'The Slaveboy' or something!" is a bold woman of rare wit and worth hanging out with.
As the restaurant was unable to fulfill my order for oysters on the half shell (most of the shipment had apparently gone bad over the holiday period), they kicked in a free dessert, which unleashed a new round of promotional effort on behalf of a different waitress, equally brunette and cute as our primary waitress. And then, both the General Manager and a different maitre d' stopped by to ensure we were satisfied with our meal. Well, I wasn't able to get one of the boys from the beefcake table on the half shell, but hey, you can't always get what you want.
As my friend and I were contemplating a dessert selection over a pair of Oban scotches on ice, the Battaglia family, including hockey star-son
Bates, came in and were seated for dinner. Unfortunately, Bates was not situated in clear view of my stunning new boots, else he might have given up that awful, greased quasi-mullet he chooses to wear in favor of a reasonable haircut in order to become my personal post-Christmas fitness trainer. However, the evening was not without victory, as mine and my friend's concerted efforts at ego-stroking yielded the sex toy-using waitress' phone number tucked in with the bill. My friend is certain that the waitress overheard my dessert wish for "hottie waitress a la mode" and felt compelled to respond to our request to have her contact information and socialize occasionally. Oh happy, happy New Year's Day!
