T.G.I.F.

Thank Gays I’m Fed.

Today I would just like to outwardly acknowledge that if  it weren’t for my fabulous friends I would probably be one high-heeled step away from scurvy.

I’d say I eat dinner about three times a week. Once a week I date-dine, and twice a week I volunteer my services as a local Disaster Relief Project  so that  gay men in the city of Chicago can adopt me for an evening and give me pointers on how to catch a straight man. I’m ok with this because typically it involves a very delicious meal.

This week I called my good friend Honu on my way home from the airport:

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“Yes, I had two bags of pretzels and a TCBY.”

“Jesus. Do you know how  many empty calories are in that?!”

“Um, sorry–didn’t realize your a calorologist–but they are most definitely not empty. I’m sooo full.  I got the large waffle cone with extra Butterfinger toppings.”

“You’re going to die fat and alone,” he said, and hung up on me.

I took that as a dinner invite, which I graciously accepted by showing up, bringing nothing and expecting a three course meal.  (I blame my laziness on his ruthless generosity.)

He and his boyfriend sat me down and fed me a salmon dish with some side that I can only assume  was incredibly “heart-healthy” and  full of vitamins, antioxidants and fiber.  (He’s always talking about those things,  but he promised me they’re  good for my skin, so I’m down.)

I do suspect though that my meal tickets are secretly conspiring; they are trying to get me to lose a cool ten so that I’ll be in my prime bikini shape this beach season.  And I’m almost positive there’s a Super Fruit Bowl going on right now, where my adoptive gays are betting on the over/under that their efforts are going to get me under/covers.

But frankly, I don’t care.  In the meantime, I’ll just help myself to more of this delicious dessert.  Does anyone know if this chocolate torte is rich in Omega 3? I’m concerned about wrinkles.

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