Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli

It took all my concentration to will myself to refrain from spinning around and racing toward the bar.

"Bar tender! A Car Bomb! And keep 'em coming!"

I stifled the shear panic and surveyed the battlefield like a 4-star general. J. was seated at the head of the table. The seats to his immediate left and right were unclaimed, and one next to one of those, flanking his sister's territory, as well. The kids took the tandem, my daughter, the one with Estelle's DNA on that second X chromosome, assuming the position next to Sheila.

The remaining seat, surely the Booby Prize. Right next to J. --- but unfortunately wedged between him and Endora. I inspected the seat surface for tacks and arachnids before tentatively lowering myself into the chair.

I scanned the table surface for potential weapons. I had a clear exit strategy if the serrated knife that had been plunged into the crusty loaf was suddenly wielded against me from across the table. But the scalding cup of tea at Endora's place could easily disfigure half a dozen exposed parts of my body. Doomed. I was doomed.

The bonus feature to this particularly enervating seating arrangement was that I was next to Endora's "bad ear." My attempts to make light, pleasant conversation seeming foolish since every statement needed to be repeated. Said at first in conversational dinner table tone, and once more in drive-thru-window tone. I desperately tried to send the waitress a telepathic message imploring her to switch out my iced tea with a Long Island version.

We ordered - there were a variety of parmigianas, and pastas and sides of fries with grilled sandwiches - and I ordered a chicken Caesar salad, which truth be told, is my favorite thing on the menu. A heaping plate of lettuce, tossed with dressing and sprinkled with cheese, and then laden with grilled chicken and homemade croutons is as satisfying as any veal cutlet parmigiana or lasagna or sausage and pepper sandwich. Truly it is.

But when you are trying not to get yourself bludgeoned to death by an angry mob while dining in a public place, it is probably not a great idea to flaunt the fact that your figure defies your age (and the fact that you carried two babies to term) with its unfair slimness by ordering the heart-smart meal, all while seated at a table with a couple of chubbettes. Especially envious disapproving chubbettes who have a bone to pick, so to speak, with the world of skinny b****es, especially those who sometimes forget to eat. (I am not one of them. J. says I eat like a condemned man.)

With the simple act of ordering, I had inadvertently started the descent into Hell. There was only one way to turn back - Scarf down the meal and part of J.'s too, and when it comes time for cake, take a deep breath and do not dare ask for "just a small piece." Piggishly ask for big one, one with a big sugary, grainy rose on it, and finish the whole damn thing, hogging down enormous bites and maniacly scraping the plate for any speck of icing I might have missed.

And refrain from mentioning any plans for any type of exercise later that evening. And for the love of God, no gym equipment. Survival may depend on it.