So, clearing away a pile of unpaid bills, I put a pretty rattan placemat on my dining table, poured myself a teensy glass of chardonnay, and laid out my salad on a festive Christmas dinner plate my mom had sent me from the shopping channel. (Service for four, only $69.95 plus shipping and handling.)

Then I put a Tony Bennett CD on my stereo and sat down to eat. Or, shall I say, dine.

I took my first bite, chewing slowly, savoring all the natural tastes of the vegetables. How wonderful it was, I told myself, to be eating food that wasn’t drenched in ketchup and salt.

I savored each and every bite of that meal. Okay, I savored the first three bites. After that, I couldn’t help myself. I was starving. I tore into those vegetables like Bugs Bunny in a carrot patch. Before I knew it, I’d eaten every last morsel of the salad and was scooping the dressing off the plate with my finger.

By now Prozac had finished most of her halibut and was back on the living room sofa, taking an after-dinner pass at her genitals.

I eyed her leftover halibut hungrily. Actually, it didn’t look all that bad. Hadn’t I always been curious about how cat food tasted?

Don’t get upset. Of course, I didn’t eat it. What sort of desperado do you think I am? I would never sink so low, for heaven’s sake. Besides, Prozac was watching and I knew I’d never get away with it.

I walked over to where she was lying on the couch, looking perfectly content.

“How the hell do you do it, Pro? How do you stay on that godawful diet of yours?”

She looked up at me and yawned.

Nothing to it. For thinner hips, just zip your lips.

“You’re really beginning to get on my nerves. You know that, don’t you?”

I headed to the bedroom to distract myself with some television.

But wouldn’t you know, everywhere I looked I saw food. Lucy was eating that big plate of spaghetti in the booth next to Bill Holden, Emeril was cooking scampi swimming in garlic butter, and every station seemed to be playing the same commercial for the all-you-can-eat chicken parmigiana dinner at the Olive Garden restaurant.

I couldn’t take it any more. I grabbed a sweater and headed for the door.

“I’m going out for a walk,” I announced to Prozac.

You can’t fool me. You’re going for ice cream.

“You are so wrong,” I insisted.

And she was. I did not go out for ice cream. Absolutely not.

I went out for Reese’s Pieces.

I was sitting in my car, digging into my Reese’s Pieces, when my mind drifted back to my conversation with Pam.