It’s been a day. It’s late. It’s hot. We’re sitting in traffic. Kids are hungry.
“Girls. You know this totally calls for fast food.”
Only it takes us forever to get to the Golden Arches because of all the crazy traffic.
Finally we pull up to the drive-through, and the line is long.
Hope places our order: “We need some French fries!”
We drive up to the second window, I quickly hand the woman the money, and the race is on.
Gotta get home fast. Because Rhema, my picky eater, is deeply offended by cold fries.
(Truth is, I strongly dislike cold fries, too. Now, I’m not going to call 911 over it like some people. But once they’re cold, they’re inedible. I’ve heard of people using a microwave to reheat them. This is no bueno. Soggy, limp fries are like a cake with no frosting – such a waste! Fries must be vetted. They need to be crispy. But not so crispy that they are approaching burned. And not the ones with the dark shriveled ends. McDonalds fries that are hot, salty and perfectly crispy are tolerable without ketchup, but Burger King and Wendy’s fries always require ketchup.)
So I drive like a maniac, get a little road rage on the way home. We hit every single light. Can’t believe these slowpoke drivers. I’m talking to the man in front of me like he can hear me. Seriously, dude? That light was so orange – you totally could have gone!
And then we get stuck at a railroad crossing, and the train lurches and crawls down the tracks.
But we’re almost home.
Yeah, I’m a tad over the speed limit. Thank goodness I don’t have a fish symbol on the minivan. If a policeman were to pull us over I’m sure he would totally understand the urgency of the situation – that I, I mean Rhema, cannot stomach cold fries. In fact, the friendly officer would probably escort us home, sirens blazing.
We come upon roadwork and a detour on a main street. You have got to be kidding me!
Finally, finally we turn down our street. I’m peckish around the mouth as my mother would say.
“Mommy, I’m sooooooo hungry. Can I just have a fry right now???”
“O.K., babe. Me, too.”
I reach over to the passenger seat.
No bag. No box. No fries. Nothing.
I didn’t even get my change. Just handed the McDonald’s lady a $20 and took off.
“Mom? Fry? Can I have a fry?”
Oh, our poor, poor homeless fries shivering in their little paper bags back at the store, sitting next to a cheap toy in a “happy” meal box.
Have I finally gone mad? Tell me I’m not the only person who has done this.