Cowboy Up

It's time for a trip to the ranch. The Pizza Ranch. 

Wilberforce didn't have to work until 4pm today, so we made gym date plans and I promised him we'd go to the Ranch for lunch. He talked about it all week. He may have hidden a countdown chain in the house somewhere...like Christmas. 

The boy likes Pizza Ranch.  

We went straight to town after killing Chest and Tris at the gym. If we're goin for pizza, we gonna eaaaarn that pizza! 

Wilberforce found muscle striations he hadn't seen before, so he was pumped. Ha. See what I did there? 

We had to wait in line.  Do they not know who my dad is?  That's like telling Arnold's offspring to wait in line at the gym. 

Get to the choppah. 

Anyone watch Jimmy Fallon this week? Anyone anyone anyone? 

Meh. 

Just in case you were wondering...Colorafo Pizza Ranch has dessert pizza.  Oodles of it. 

Not anymore though...the Clarks inhaled those pies.  And that's all the Clarks inhale in Colorado.  FYI. 

Breasted chicken is serious business. Note the plate of chicken skin. I think Wilberforce was working on chicken piece número four by this point.  

Taco pizza piece number two. Dessert pizza piece number 8? 

A coworker of his started a debate about the deliciosity ranking of dessert pizza flavors. Naturally, we had to have numerous pieces of each flavor to determine who was correct. 

Blueberry always wins. Always. 

We're getting ready to leave when Wilberforce says he wants another piece of chicken. Ok. No. No I'm too full. Ok maybe just one more piece. 

He sat staring at that piece for a good minute. I asked what was wrong. "When I move my whole belly sloshes...whoosh". 

Pizza Ranch problems. 

After Wilberforce hobbled out of The Ranch, he went home and I headed to the grocery store. I was worried he wouldn't be conscious his whole trip home. Food coma. Sugar coma. Call it what you want, it can be a problem. 

I didn't hear a peep or a text from him the whole three hours I was out and about. I got home with a car full of groceries...made four trips into the house, letting the door slam behind me each time because my hands were full. 

Out like a light. Not a movement. Not an eye flutter. I'm convinced he was actually passed out asleep and not even pretending to avoid unloading the car. 

Blood sugar: 650.  Happiness: off the charts. 

Pizza Ranch: where boys are made into men and gym rats are made into diabetics. 

I bet hes already planning our next trip.