Sweet Baby Jesus in a Manger.
Can someone please explain to me how I have lasted 33 years on this earth and only TODAY been to a Sweet Tomatoes?
Did you all know about this place?
Any of you?
And you never told me?
And you call yourselves my friends?
Now, full disclosure – I probably have driven by this place a couple times in my life, but have paid no mind. Unless it’s pimped in the Biggest Loser, wrapped in wax paper, and comes with a medium drink and yogurt, I don’t do much fast food beyond Subway.
So when Cheese suggested we go to this unknown (to me) gem after we bought our first bike rack, I thought, “I don’t give a fuck – I’ve been training long for three straight days and in 90 degree heat today - just put some food in my fucking face before I eat yours off.”
Decision made. Off we went.
(Side Note: The new bike rack thing is a WHOLE ‘nother one of those life thrills that in my world is probably comparable to birthing a child – which is funny because my siblings post pictures of their kids on Facebook, and I post pictures of Ricky the Rack-y. Now, fingers crossed the fine upstanding citizens in my neighborhood don’t take a buzz saw to it tonight – here’s to hoping!)
Our new addition
So back to the Sweet Tomatoes….
One step through the door and it was like the mother ship calling me home.
A mother ship built with endless rows of food, fueled by free refills, and…
...wait for it….
FREE ICE CREAM.
*deep breathes deep breathes*
Now THIS is intense.
Cheese pointed out that I actually out-ate him.
And if you have ever sat to a meal with me, you can vouch for the fact that I am to food what Lindsey Lohan is to coke – a straight up whore of a Hoover. No plate unturned, no piece of lettuce uneaten.
In fact, it was hard to ignore the old lady who literally stared at me the entire time I ate. I mean, that old lady just STARED. She didn’t even try to hide it, like maybe sneak a pair of sunglasses on so I can’t see her eyes, or at least save the gawking for when my head was in the soup bowl. But no – ol’ girl went right on staring, and truth be told, I can’t blame her. If I were a betting lady, I would say that in her 180 years on this Earth, she likely has never seen something so appalling and shameless as me – all sunburned and sweaty, grabbing clumps of spinach and romaine and shoving it into my mouth, broccoli chucks flying everywhere, and garbanzo beans leaping off the table for fear of their certain death.
The busboy refused to collect our plates, the fear of me snatching off one of his fingers showing in his eyes.
I mean, picture this - I was at the tail end of many long hours and miles this weekend on foot and bike, and I found myself at dinnertime Sunday, quite literally in the middle of unending food. My will was already weak, my head throbbing, my stomach eating itself in hunger.
If God himself wrote a book called, “Recipes for Disaster,” there would be a picture of me and my shit-eatin’ grin on the cover, big old mixing bowl and spoon in hand, just stirring up the trouble.
There was really nothing anyone could have done to prevent what occurred in the Sweet Tomatoes.
Oh and fear not! I most certainly did not walk out empty handed….
Fuck yeah I pocketed an apple and an ice cream night cap.
There is no WAY I was going to walk out of that joint having consumed only one ice cream sundae-with-hot-fudge-caramel-topping. Come on now - It’s ice cream and its free –
I would’ve slapped my own face if I couldn’t squeeze a little more down my throat.
I can still taste the sweet creamy deliciousness of the frozen yogurt on my tongue as I write this.
Yeah, literally on my tongue – I just puked a little up just now.
Turns out that even though my mind doesn't have a limits, my stomach does. And it was three plates sooner than the mind could process.
So, now that I just realized I wrote two solid pages about nothing but my love for buffets, I should probably go take another shower. No, not that kind of shower– I mean, I love food but not THAT much.
It’s just still about 80 degrees and I’m sticky as a used GU packet.
That, and my food baby is about to be delivered, if ya know what I mean.
AND A LITTLE BONUS ADVICE
If people had told me that getting married guaranteed me a Nasty-Bug Killer at my beckon call, I would have hopped on this ship far sooner.
Especially since my town is infested with these horrific 6-inch long bugs with a bazillion legs that slither up the walls while I am innocently laying in bed trying to read. It’s like their surveying out the scene, just waiting for me to turn the lights off so they can burrow in my brain and have babies that will then destroy my frontal lobe.
But this is where fearless Cheese comes in. I scream, he shows up, I make him keep an eye on that brain-eater while I get a baseball mitt full of toilet paper, and then I supervise while he crunches it.
And I do have to supervise – once he pretended like he got it, but I saw it fall out of the toilet paper, and he still tried to convince me he got it. Until ten minutes later, when the little shit crawled right back up the wall.
Moral of the story? Marriage is good.