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Sunday, When in danger or in doubt, ogle I don't know if it's an emotional hangover from last night, disappointment from not going down to see JJ&F, general missing of Lyndon, or what, but I woke up this morning feeling seriously bummed. Not even curling up under my just-purchased-repaired-and-washed antique quilt while watching a nice big hissing, booming thunderstorm was enough to cheer me up. So I did the only thing I could do under such circumstances -- I went to the Blue Mesa and ogled my favorite waiter for an hour or so (who got put into a different section -- damn, I have got to start cultivating the hostess). Yeah, I know -- I'm a shameless slut. In my defense, part of me does feel a bit bad about this; I mean, I'm sure Mr. Flirty is a perfectly nice guy, and he probably doesn't need a post-menstrual stressed-out Chicagoan contemplating his interesting bits and mentally undressing him while he's trying to wait tables. But dammit, I don't have much else going on right now -- I deserve a visual treat once a week. Besides, I don't think he minds all that much -- I don't drool, leer or leave inappropriate mash notes on the bill, and I suspect that most guys consider a bit of politely appreciative eyeballing as a boost to the ego. As long as I don't offer to stuff a tip in his underwear, I think it'll be cool. No, I'm not going to discuss how tempting that is. Y'all really shouldn't egg me on like this. And for those of you who are puffing up in righteous indignation that a happily married woman should have such naughty thoughts, please remember that he was our waiter when Lyndon and I had brunch on Easter, so Lyndon 1) has actually met him, 2) is fully aware of the situation and 3) isn't particularly worried. I'm allowed to look at the menu all I like -- I just can't order anything to go. Which is fine with me. After all, I gained my basic mastery in the art of unattainable male appreciating back in high school -- this is just the graduate course.
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