*Note: No I am not expecting.
I'm not a big eater, well most of time anyway. I absolutely love food, but I have such a picky palate that it takes something really special to make it water. I'm mostly a grazer when it comes to appetite. Except for during my pregnancies, that is.
During the 54 months of my life that I spent growing a human being inside of me, I gave all new meaning to the phrase eating for two. I ate every meal like it was my last. No exaggerations here people. I gained more than half of my normal body weight with each child. I was hungry! And just to make you all hate me, I was always back to my regular weight no later than 6 weeks after delivery.
I ate in such a fashion that Dom DeLuise would have backed away from me at the buffet. You didn't dare stand between me and the roast beef unless you wanted me to take you down like a fullback. Seriously, it was a spectacle to watch and watch is what people did.
There was an ice cream parlor that Mr. Weasel used to take me to where I would order the biggest sundae that they made, the one that was made to be shared by 3, and would woof it all down by myself. They would always bring a second spoon, but Mr. Weasel dared not try and use his. Once another table stuck around long after they had finished, just to watch the show and then picked up my tab and thanked me for the entertainment.
A good friend of ours would treat me and Mr. W. to the Sunday Brunch Buffet at a local restaurant just because he enjoyed watching the absolute absurdity of the way that I would clear it out. I used to look at that buffet with little cartoon T-bones in my eyes.
The one that really took the cake though actually, I was always the one who took the cake is the day I struck the original shock and awe into the eyes of a waiter.
We had gone out for a special anniversary dinner. I was great with Big Macs child and ready to enjoy dinner at my favorite steakhouse. I had appetizers, side dishes, a 12 oz fillet, a 1 lb loaded baked potato and about 4 baskets of bread without leaving a crumb of evidence in my wake.
The waiter reluctantly came by and asked about dessert. I enthusiastically jumped on that wagon. "Yes! I will have the creme brulee and the death by chocolate". The waiter attempted to walk away with the order when Mr. Weasel stopped him, "Aren't you going to take my order?". It was at this point that the poor guy's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates full of fried chicken, au gratin potatoes and asparagus and his jaw hit our table. He apologized and took Mr. W's order also and walked away in an unbelieving stupor. Poor guy.
I totally could have won a food eating competition back in those days, only I wouldn't have to dip the hot dogs in water to get them all down fast.
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