I was already a little weirded out, because in the self-checkout line at the grocery store, a normal-looking man may have been flirting with me over my choice of lunch. "Looks good... want to share?" about my self-serve plastic-encased salad. That's flirting, right? Right? I've been married almost 7 years, I don't know anymore.

It was weird, because for one thing I am neither thin nor beautiful and strangers don't come on to me, and for another, I was also buying two packages of training-pants-diapers for Jacob, which seems like it would be discouraging for even the most desperate of individuals. He looked sane and well-groomed, but maybe he was blind. Except he could see my salad. I don't know.

Anyway, I made some comment about how if the salad looked that appealing, he could have it and I'd go find myself a steak. Got in the minivan, thought briefly about putting everything in the back, and decided it'd be safe on the passenger seat for the drive home.

And then some bozo pulled out in front of me about 1/4 mile from my house, and I chose to step on the brakes rather than introduce my bumper to his passenger-side door. This caused the plastic salad box to leap off the seat in gleeful abandon and disgorge its contents all over the floor of the minivan. Quite a bit was still safely within the box and unspilled, but the act of spilling apparently caused some sort of light-speed orgy amongst my greens, because there were easily 15 pounds of sunflower seeds and peas and cucumbers dispersed throughout the winter's worth of sand and grit down there. When things like this happen in my house, we call it the Brita Pitcher Effect. Guess why.

So I still had a salad for lunch, albeit a smaller one. I should've just gone for that steak.