Crying Over Spilled Meatballs

I actually had to back over the meatballs with my car to pull out of the parking space.

The scene: Primo's on US 41.
The big idea: Picking up a spaghetti dinner for my sweet friend in Punta Gorda with a broken leg.

The outcome: A massive spill of 8,000 degree meatballs all over the asphalt.

Yep, I'm still a vegetarian as I've been for 17 years. But when duty calls for a special person, I'll pick up the meat. The line is drawn when it's all over the ground.

But this time, I'll blame my little Honda Civic. I erroneously presumed that my trunk could double as a tray while opening the back door. Not so... As the meatball portion of the meal slid off, I watched in horror while darting after it in slow motion. The predictable splat must have completed a 3 mile radius, showering my car and what seemed like everything outward to Nokomis. A couple of home boys walked out of the restaurant saying, "Dude, that girl done spilled her food."

Luckily, the balls were the only casualty. After collecting myself and mopping up the mess on the unscathed food, I placed the bags in the back seat and drove off. 30 minutes later a call came to my cell from Primo's.

In a thick Italian accent I heard, "Hello, ma'm? Did you spill your meatballs outside all over the parking space? You come back. We get you some new ones."

Awwww, how sweet. Really, that was nice. They'll credit me the next time I visit for dinner. The lesson: Don't cry over spilled meatballs. Also, a trunk is a trunk. Nothing more.