Now this has been a fun night!

Met up with Tripper at my assignment for the night: an upper-scale French restaurant that had contacted our service with an unexpected request. The owners wanted to know if their wait staff was being excessively rude to its plus-sized customers. "You expect a little whiffiness in a French restaurant," Tripper whispered as we waited for our reservation to come up. "But this community in particular has a fairly robust population - and no restaurant wants to get a reputation for being size-unfriendly."

We decided I would push things, act the gluttonous stereotype to the hilt, and see if our waiter held his composure. Soon as we were handed our menus, I quickly scanned the appetizer lists and, before our waiter Beau could take a single step back, said, "I'm ready to order appetizers."

"You've been here before?" Beau, an effeminate male with spiked hair, asked.

"No," I said. "I just don't take long to make up my mind. So why don't we start with a plate of duck pate, mushroom and escargot fricassee and some pan-seared foie gras?" I then smiled at Tripper across the table. "Would you like anything?"

"Oh no," he grinned back. "I'll just take a little bit of your pate."

"In that case," I decided, reaching for the basket of baguettes on the table. "Better make it two orders of pate."

Beau took it all in stride, but when he returned with our supply of appetizers, he seemed uncertain where to place each plate. Finally, I gestured to my side of the table and he placed three plates in front of me; the second pate plate he gave to Tripper.

"Have you decided what you wish for main course?" he asked, as if unsure that we would even be ordering one.

"It all looks so good," I cooed, between mouthfuls of pate.

"Order more than one item," Tripper advised me. "We can take the leftovers home!"

"What a great idea!" I said, and I pointed to my first choice.

"Balsamic Truffle Marinated Half-Duck," the waiter saw. "A good choice."

"Not half-duck," I told him. "Duck."

The man's eyes widened, and he carefully asked, "Are you sure? They're pretty good-sized servings."

"I'm sure," I replied, so he nodded and wrote the order down. Beaue turned toward Tripper, but my date knew better.

"Is that all you want, babe?" he asked.

"No," I announced. "The Smoked Apple Brine Pork Chop also sounds intriguing. And I've never able to resist a good Roast Beef Tenderloin."

"That's my girl," Tripper beamed, and he tapped the stunned looking waiter on the side. "You get that?"

Quickly, the man recovered, writing and then reading back my order. "And you, sir?" he finally asked.

Tripper had a tenderloin, but, to be honest, I ate half of that, too. It all was wonderful: we needed no take-home sacks, of course, and after his initial stumble, our waiter didn't even lift an eyebrow over my gourmand's order. He even came by with the dessert menu. I kept it simple with two bowls of raspberries and cream.

There were times, I must admit, when I got so lost in the sensation of tasting I forgot there was anyone else in the room. I did everything but rub my tummy to demonstrate my enjoyment.

Patting my belly would've been a mistake. By night's end, it was so full and taut that I'd started to reach the limits of my super-dress. It'll go down by morning, I reassured myself as I ponderously made my way to the exit. You've just got a lot of food to digest.

Used my company card to pay for the meal, but in getting it out of my purse, I must've reopened my old paper cut, since I felt a sharp sting on my thumb. A small droplet of blood landed on the back of the card, smearing into the white signature strip, but I quickly got most of it off with a wet finger. When I handed it to our waiter, you'd have never known that anything had happened: it was almost as if the card itself had soaked up the last remains. Gave our waiter a hefty tip (I swear if he'd tried to offer me a "wafer thin" mint, though, I'd have taken it back!) and we left the restaurant.

"So what you think?" Tripper asked, after helping me lower myself into his car.

"I'm thinking," I said, "that I maybe should've stuck to only half a duck." Getting in the car, my dress had ridden up my legs. I could feel the autumn chill on the underside of my paunch. God, I felt stuffed!

"So I guess no Baskin-Robbins," Tripper teased.

"I didn't say that," I decided, and I swear the man turned beet red when I said this. We drove to B-R, and Tripper left me in the car to make my order, a large decaf Cappuccino Blast. While he was away, I sat and considered my performance at the restaurant. As I did, it was almost as I was having my meal all over again: a surprisingly delightful experience. By the time Tripper'd returned with my ice cream drink, I was feeling like I'd eaten twice over, and my dress felt tight all over the place. Definitely an odd sensation.

I finished my drink before I got home. Tripper offered his arm to lift me from the car – the man's stronger than he looks – then supported me back to my apartment. Before he departed, he pecked my flushed forehead and handed me a small card.

"You've already given me a credit card," I told him.

"A present," he said. "For the woman who has more than everything." He lifted my hand to kiss it, then turned to leave. I examined his gift: a hundred buck certificate to the plus-size boutique. Much better than flowers, I thought.

10/17/01
[4:14 p.m.]

Drove to the office after brunch (realized today that my seat belt doesn't fit: wonder what an extender costs?) and Tripper was the flirtiest I'd ever seen him. "Denise!" he cried, once he looked up to see me in the doorway. "You're looking especially gorgeous! How the assignments going?"

I told him that I was nearly finished with the list he'd given me. "You've really taken to this job," he beamed. Then he reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a small white envelope and handed it to me. Inside were my second paycheck and a company credit card. "Use it on assignment," he said.

I'd never heard of a company handing out a credit card to a part-time employee, and I said so. "Isn't this unusual?" I asked.

"We're an unusual company," Tripper told me. He then pulled another assignment sheet from his desk. "Got some more restaurants for you to critique," he said. "You up for it?" On the corner of his desk, I'd just noticed was a large bowl of peanut M&Ms. I took the list with my left hand and grabbed a handful of candies with my right. "Free for dinner tonight?" he asked.

I quickly scanned my list of restaurants, finding the name of an eatery that looked suitably romantic. "Well," I told him. "I was planning on doing an assignment . . . wanna come with?"

"I'd love to watch you work," Tripper grinned.

I pointed to the restaurant I had in mind, and he nodded knowingly.

"Meet you there at six," I said, then I swiveled 'round to sashay out of the office, making sure to give the act as much hip action as my considerable sides could swing.

Shot over to D.Q. to update Bea on the last few days, but she wasn't working. Killed a half hour with a couple of full meals, tallying the menu as I did. Came up with ten sandwiches and baskets (five variations of burger, including the Ultimate Burger), fries and onion rings, plus more than forty types of ice cream/yogurt treats if you count like a small, medium and large ice cream cone as three different items. Forty ice cream treats if you counted 'em by size and type. Sure would be hard to avoid a major brain freeze!

10/17/01
[7:24 a.m.]

Found a message waiting for me on the answering machine yesterday morning from my old temp agency.

They had an assignment, if I wanted to come in. Probably should've called 'em back – my bank account took a major hit after last night's Wal-Mart run - but instead I decided to step up my Mystery Dining. Pulled out a clean dress and rummaged through the unopened underwear (am having a devil of a time figuring out this upper level sizing), then I left for a locally owned pizza buffet. The selection wasn't great (they only had three different pizzas up at any one time), but they knew how to keep their buffet tables full during lunch rush.

Mid-afternoon, I did a sandwich place: one of those pretentious bistros where you get your ham and cheese on pane instead of solid white bread, where the soup is served in a large bread bowl you can eat afterwards (actually, I kinda liked that!) and least one of the menu items has "California" in its title. The chairs were rather iffy, though. I probably would've stayed longer if the legs hadn't wobbled when I sat down.

But, instead, I took myself to one more restaurant on my list: a Midwestern Italian place that advertised "All-You-Can-Eat Spaghetti Night." One step away from Ragu sauce, but they didn't lie when it came to the "all-you-can-eat" part. I decided to test their endurance, and my waitress came through with flying colors. She was promptly present every time I finished off a plate. And once it became clear I was not going to get up any time soon, she'd simply ask, "Another serving?" then would quickly bring it to me when I indicated yes.

Though it took a whole lot more servings than it had on the weekend, I finally was able to reach the same state of gluttonous fullness I remembered from my ride home. Sat and watched the waitress clean off my table, feeling too overfed to rise from my seat, and momentarily imagined spending the rest of my life at that table being kept fed and satisfied. "Sure you don't want anything else?" my waitress finally asked once she'd finished - thus earning herself an even more glowing review. And though my belly twinged as soon as I said it, something from inside me welled up and asked to see the dessert menu.

Ate a three-scoop bowl of spumoni ice cream, then I finally rose to go home and write my three reports. Had to force myself to sit at the computer table and work, but I knew if I didn't get the info in that night, all three visits'd blur together. I didn't even bother to log onto the Internet (which is why this item is appearing the next day), just printed up my reports and then collapsed onto bed. It took some time to find a comfortable position. But once I did, I was dead to the world. Who'd have thought the simple act of eating could be so darned exhausting?