It's late, and I'm feeling too bloated to sit at the computer desk too long. But I thought I'd mention that I stayed 'til closing at Sinorak's - and got to meet Patti's hubby Eric. Think I was underestimating Patti's weight when I initially put her in the area of 500 pounds. (Considering the fact that the dresses I'm now wearing are supposed to go up to 500 pounds, it's clear that I had limited experience for gauging the weight of the Very Fat.) Looking at these dresses and looking at how significantly bigger Patti Dorian is in her outfits, I'm thinking I was off at least two hundred pounds.

Eric, in comparison, is in the mid-500 range. Much of it is hips and belly, of course, though the man's a good six inches taller than his wife. I know these numbers because Patti told 'em to me over dinner. Couldn't even tell you how the matter came up, but when she mentioned the figures, it almost sounded as if she took pride in her hubby's size. Maybe this feeder thing goes more ways than one, eh?

Anyway, the Dorians refused my money when I offered to pay for dinner, and I'm afraid I took major advantage of their kindness. Must be something in the air at Sinorak's since I found myself exceeding even last weekend's bout of hand-fed gluttony. Wasn't until I left the place that I began to feel my food settling. As I waddled back to my car, I tallied up all I'd eaten. (Had I really finished off half a chicken?) In that moment, Bea's story of the couple who'd eaten the D.Q. menu – well, let's just say that it didn't seem so unbelievable, after all.

Off to brew a pot of peppermint tea. And maybe have some sugar cookies. . .

10/15/01
[5:14 p.m.]

My newest shopping assignment was in the area's only other plus-size store. Not a chain like my first gig, but an independently owned "big gal boutique."

When I first got home from breakfast, I'd immediately hit the carton of multiply-sized lingerie. Found what I was looking for in the middle of the box: control top panties that would work with a 53"-and-then-some waist. Even with control briefs, my sweats showed more belly jiggle than many consider decent, but at least I'd managed to deal with my gap-osis.

My last blog entry, I should note, was written and posted in the nude. No need making myself uncomfortable longer than I needed to be, right?

Not much to say about my boutique experience. Saleslady was a super-sized black lady who dressed to the nines: all business yet not in an off-putting way. Told her I was looking for something flowing, casual, yet attractive enough for me to look like I'm not slumming when I stop by the office. She took me to a rack of tank dresses sized with titles ("super," "empress," "goddess"). The sizing chart nearby indicated that "super" fit anyone from size 34 to 500 pounds; I bought three in that size. When I left the store, I felt like I was floating inside my super-dress. Felt so relieved, getting out of my control top confinement that I decided to celebrate by going to Sinorak's.

But I haven't finished writing about my weekend yet, have I?

Didn't keep Tripper waiting too long. He was standing in the foyer with another guy: tall and average build, somewhere in his mid-thirties with a buzz cut and deep blue eyes. "Jason Something," one of the bigwigs in the Ample Services. "This the young woman you've been tellin' me about, Jack?" he said, looking me over appraisingly.

Tripper nodded then performed more formal introductions.

As we shook hands, my boss-man' boss did his best to ease me. "Jack's been sayin' lots of positive things about you," he stated. "Here's hopin' you'll be a part of this company for a long time."

Here's hoping, I agreed.

"So where you takin' Miz Purchess for lunch?" he asked Tripper. I told him we hadn't discussed it yet. He nodded thoughtfully then spoke to Jack. "Visit Antonioni's – and have 'em put it on my tab! It's a lovely fall day; might as well celebrate."

Tripper looked at me; I shrugged, and with that, we followed Jason Something's recommendation.

From its name, you can probably guess that Antonioni's is an Italian restaurant: Northern Italian, which Tripper explained generally means they're more reliant on cheese than tomato sauces. The restaurant's received its share of four-star ratings, and on the basis of my first visit, I can see why. They offer a weekend brunch buffet, so, naturally, I agreed to take advantage of it.

Tripper was all too eager to help.

"Let me serve you," he offered, after we'd been seated by a slender Mediterranean-looking hostess. "I've dined here before." He looked so eager, how could I refuse him? I sat back and watched him walk across the room, and as I anticipated his return, both my hunger and need to be with him seemed to swell.

I barely recall what I ate: I can only tell you it was very rich and cheesy – moments of spicy sausage and portabellas, ricotta cheese and mozzarella, sweet breads and artichokes. Quickly lost track of the number of times that Tripper returned with freshened platters. He talked the whole time, recounting the restaurant's history, tales of its customers and employees, stores of past and present owners. To be honest, I only paid attention to a fraction of it. The food was so good and Tripper's voice so soothing, I was barely aware of the passage of time. When we left, it was already dark outside.

At first, I didn't realize how full I was. Being served, relaxing in my chair, I'd eaten far past any sense of fullness. It wasn't 'til I started moving that my fat bloated belly started to protest.

"You okay?" Tripper asked, as a small mewl escaped my lips.

"Fine," I muttered, "just may've overdone it a bit." Dazedly, I lumbered after Tripper, collapsing onto the passenger seat and lowering it back as far as I could. I felt like a kid who'd gone too far with the Trick or Treat candies: stuffed but fully capable of doing it again tomorrow.

"Any place you'd like to visit?" Tripper asked. Not really, I told him. Unless he had other errands to run, I wouldn't mind going home. All I remember of the drive back home was a set of electric blues tunes on the radio. Then I fell asleep in my seat.

I woke as we were riding into town. Somewhere along the way, Tripper had pulled a blanket from the trunk and covered me with it: a good thing since I'd apparently pulled my jeans and panties below my belly in my sleep. My discomfort had abated, and, in fact, a part of me was starting to wonder about dinner. Just a small snack, I told myself: some cheese and crackers maybe, a glass of wine to settle my stomach.

We kissed on the stairs of my apartment building. I'd like to be able to write that it was long and romantic, but I cut it short, in part, because my jeans were making it difficult for me to breathe. Once Tripper drove off, I slid the front of my pants below my heavy belly, unconcerned if I came upon any of the neighbors.

I'd learned something about Tripper, and I'd learned something about myself. Clearly, the man got off on feeding his girlfriends for as long as they were willing to be fed. Equally clearly, I was capable of being fed for quite a long time. I stripped out of my clothes as soon as I got inside the apartment. Spent the night the night noshing on two different kinds of cheddar, some Swiss and a couple of boxes of crackers. Very relaxing.

But, hey, writing about food has got me thinkin' about dinner. Think I'll drive over to my favorite smorgasbord.

10/15/01
[11:58 a.m.]

Breakfast was at one of those faux country restaurants that dot the Midwest highways. The waitress was friendly, but she tried to sit me in a booth that would've been hell to get in and out of more than once. Place has a tiny breakfast buffet: one metal heating table with trays for scrambled eggs, French toast, waffles, biscuits 'n' gravy, plus bacon and sausage; a second with space for fruit, yogurt and cereals. Of the offerings (and you can bet I tried 'em all) the best was the biscuits and gravy. I went for seconds - or was it thirds? - on 'em and was thankful I didn't have to squeeze in and out of a booth to do so.

At the end of my meal, I had a slightly uncomfortable moment. I was feeling happily sated, ready to leave, when I noticed my tank top had ridden up significantly. Over the course of the morning, the gap between my top and size thirty-two jeans had opened and grown - it was now two inches wide. When I tried to pull up my jeans, my food-heavy paunch protested; when I tried to pull down my top, it just sprang back up and curled once I let it go. With one good breakfast, I'd stuffed myself so much that I was showing a healthy sliver of my 53" waist.

I felt like a novelty card parody of Britney Spears. With more natural boobs, of course.

What could I do? I got up and hurried over to the cash register, leaning against the counter to ineffectually hide my exposed belly roll, then I raced for the car, my top climbing up my paunch more insistently as I did so. A valuable lesson. A gal my size can't afford to go in too tight anything, especially if she's going out to eat.

But I don't remember my top being so tight when I put it on. I'd gotten a whole new set of loose-fitting hand-me-downs from Bea on Sunday, after all. I needed them after my day with Tripper.

So what about my road trip, you ask?

I arrived in the big city thoroughly well breakfasted. First thing that Tripper did was drive to corporate headquarters: I was somewhat surprised to see the office even operating on Saturday, but Tripper assured me they closed at noon. We entered an old city building that had obviously undergone major interior renovation and headed for the top floor.

"Got a quick connection to make," he said, leading me to a sumptuously upholstered reception area. I sank into a seat, wondering if I'd be able to gracefully get out of it again, as he disappeared around the partition separating waiting area and receptionist from the rest of the office.

Spent a few seconds tracing the company family tree, which was tackily emblazoned on the front of the dark wooden reception desk, and was amused to see that one of the companies on its branches was entitled Ample Services. (Same first name and initials as my email correspondent, I noticed: maybe he's the company mascot!) Then the receptionist cleared her throat.

"Jack leave you to your own devices?" she asked, and it was clear she was accustomed to such regular displays of male thoughtlessness around the office. "Come with me," she said. "I'll take you to the break room, get you some coffee."

She waddled around the desk, and as she did I realized that she was fatter than I'd first thought – one of those pear-shaped women, who gained more of their weight in their hips and legs than anywhere else. Tell you thing, she made my hips (at the time, somewhere in the mid-sixties) look practically boyish!

I followed the receptionist (whose name, incongruously, was Lena), passing a pair of plus-sized gals who looked about Bea's age. The break room was brightly lit with a large coffeemaker, an ultra-sized fridge with several smiling animal magnets on the door, plus a round white table and heavy kitchen chairs.

"One of the guys in the office baked a snack for us," Lena said, as she opened the refrigerator, "but he obviously forgot we aren't full staffed on Saturdays." She showed me two trays - one nearly empty, the other still untouched - of cherry tarts topped with whipped cream. They looked so fresh and beautiful, I couldn't take my eyes off them. "The men around here," she continued. "I swear their eyes are bigger than our stomachs."

"I know what you mean," I said, but I realized I wasn't telling the whole truth. Fact is, I'd eaten everything Tripper had bought for me and still didn't feel like I'd gone too far. "So are those tarts for anybody?"

Lena smiled and reached into the fridge, pulling out the full tray of maybe two-dozen tarts. Placing it on the table, she simply said, "I'll be back to letcha know when Jack's out of his meeting." She turned to go, deftly pulling a tart off the tray, then left with a final benediction. "From what I can see, Jack's picked a winner," she said. "See ya in a few." I nodded, not wanting to answer with my mouth full.

Tripper's "little meeting" took longer than a few minutes, of course. Left to myself and nothing but a tray of tarts, I did what any self-sufficient woman would do: I ate 'em. I'd just gone into the fridge to retrieve the second batch when Lena re-entered the break room. Hands on her wide-range hips, she took one look at the damage, nodded and said, "I knew it!"

Chastened, I held out the tray. "Want one?" I asked, and she came over to take one of the remaining tarts. Go ahead, she indicated. One of the men in the office'd be bringing in something else on Monday, anyway.

"Fine," I decided. "Could you tell Jack I'll be out in another minute or two? Need to freshen up a bit!"

Lena smirked. "Keep him waitin'," she noted. "Good idea."

I pulled out a compact to do a quick overview, ran a comb through my hair as I polished off the tarts. Girly gameplaying, I know. But more adult women than I have occasionally indulged in it, so don't expect me to apologize, okay?

Will finish this up tonight. Right now, I've gotta Mystery Shop me a new outfit.

10/15/01
[7:31 a.m.]

Another day, another dress size. If I weren't still coming down from my weekend, I'd probably be weary with it all. But, dear reader, my trip with Tripper was such a joy that, two days later, I'm still reeling from it.

Last Friday, I mentioned my discovery of feeder sites: web pages devoted to stories and images of women (and some men, too) eating and growing fat. Looking at these pages for the first time, I pretty much freaked. (And I've gotta admit, some of the more extreme fantasy images - immobile women being tube-fed, for instance - still seem pretty disturbing. What's up with that?) But after Saturday with Tripper, I think I can understand the allure of the lifestyle.

I should probably start with our trip upstate. It's two-and-a-half hours' drive time into the city, and when Tripper came to pick me up in the morning, first thing I noticed was a large grocery bag in the back seat of his SUV. "Brought a few breakfast items," he told me, as I leaned over the passenger and rummaged through the sack. "Wasn't sure what you wanted, so I may've gone overboard."

Which was an understatement. It looked like Tripper had pulled a sample of every portable pre-made breakfast item in Jewel. Danishes and donuts, breakfast bars and biscotti, strudels and strudelettes, and - lest we forget - Little Debbie brownies. By the sack was a small soft cooler filled with fruit drinks and bottled cappuccinos. Enough food to feed a class field trip.

I still wasn't keyed into thinking of this feeder thing, though. I was still, let's say "bedazzled," by the thought of two-plus hours with Tripper in the car to be too critically thoughtful. What can I say? The man looked good. And I wasn't too shabby either: yellow low-cut tank top beneath a thankfully loose jacket, with a nicely elastic black skirt - I felt like a model in one of Bea's BBW magazines.

We spent the trip swapping life stories (mine got us twenty miles out of town). Tripper, it turns out, has only just taken over the office. A month ago, he was living in New York, working for an "esoteric publishing company" (whatever the heck that is!) which was also part of the parent company. He'd moved into his new position out of a desire to get into something "realer than publishing."

"Can't live in the world of ideas forever," he explained. "At some point you have to move out into the world and do something real, something to help people grow."

An odd way to put it, I thought, but at that point I still thought the man was speaking figuratively.

Meanwhile, that bag of groceries kept beckoning. Would it shock you to read that I finished the whole thing off by the time we hit the Chicago city limits? Probably not at this point. All I know is I was thankful not to get anything gloppy on my tank top.

But more on my Day Trip w./ Tripper later. Gotta go do breakfast now: another notch in the ever-expanding Mystery Shopper belt.