I feel.... accomplished.
I lost 15 lbs.
I didn't slip and die.
My husband didn't crash and burn from a peanut allergy. Not that I'm about here to sit and bitch about peanuts or how far from hygienic peanut shells all over a floor is... Or how bad peanut dust coating every fixture looks. Nah. Not gonna bitch about the ambiance, since it's a road house. Kinda cute.
What I am going to choose to whine about and kick up that peanut dust over... Sand. All. Over. My. Sweet. Potato.
That's right.
Sand
Black, gritty, nasty, sand.
Sand that filled my open mouth when I was expecting the awesome bite of cinnamon and sugar and sweet potato and and and marshmallows... But no. Sand. Sand filled my senses with it's gritty, iron tasting nastiness. And much to my horror... It was ALL OVER my plate.
The waitress AND manager argued with me over the fact it was sand. They tried to say it was cinnamon. Allow me to launch a contradiction, my friend, cinnamon is not gritty and sandy and does not shine like ground glass when I swipe my finger over my plate and show you.
Finally when I continued to insist and yet ANOTHER manager came over... They digressed and admitted it was sand and apologized profusely.
Fine. Free meal that was ruined. Great.
And then it continued.
EVERYONE and I do mean everyone, that ate dinner at my table (Hubby, a friend and myself) suffered a GREAT round of the almighty needle hole. You know... When your #2 is the consistency of #1 and you could squirt through the eye of a needle? Yeeeeeah. I'll leave you with that repulsive thought and know that no less than 40 minutes after vacating the Logan;'s Roadhouse premises we were ALL hit with that lovely and intense urge.
And it continued
For a day and a half.
Though I have to say the steak was tasty and I sincerely thank them for the crash diet.
Thumbs up pause NOT!