Reinhold mofos whoop it up at Bacar

"You know, Katy," Shannon said, swallowing a bite, "you get down about things, but at least you have had a great career and are doing the things that you want to do. I hate my job." She was right. My personal life could use work, but I can't complain professionally. "It's a tradeoff," she concluded.

Truth be told, I'm just a curmudgeon. I would be dissatisfied with my life however it was. I hate this about myself and want to change it. Oh, wait — that's a curmudgeonly thing to say. D'oh!

The chiseled-features bartender came back and gave us a sample of wine. He must've figured out that we were broke after I joked that we'd have to polish glasses ourselves to be able to afford Bacar. Then he asked how the olives were. I had to be honest and say that they were a bit strange. They were! I don't know what they were brined in. Maybe sea beans.

"He keeps looking at you," Shannon said after he walked away, giving me a nudge.

"Yeah, yeah," I responded. I am realizing that when push comes to shove, I like being single. Or I am just lazy.

Shannon and I smiled at each other quietly. We were feeling quite chic, quite content, and quite happy. I had my pal back.

Some guy let out a loud "Whooop!" at the table near us, and the sound traveled up to the rafters and bounced around like a lost balloon. If I had a monocle, I would've slowly placed it upon my face and glared at him down my nose. "Sir!" I would exclaim, "one does not whoop in a wine salon!"

"Judge Reinhold mofo," Shannon muttered under her breath. I giggled.