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McDonald’s Monday

Yesterday was McDonald’s Monday at our house.

Lauren has tap and ballet after school and by the time we get home an hour later, the offspring are threatening to gnaw off their own arms unless I produce dinner immediately. A quick detour through the McDonald’s drive thru after dance class is a convenient and fast way to make everyone happy.

I realize they’re hungry. Lauren has just danced for an hour and Matthew is a nine and a half year old bottomless pit. Mama’s hungry too, especially since I’m following the low-fat reduced-calorie eating plan that Weight Watchers doesn’t think is a diet (ok, whatever).

I still make Dave and myself a healthy dinner when I get home although I’m starting to wonder if he wouldn’t like his own McDonald’s meal since he pissed Lauren off by eating half her fries and stealing a chicken McNugget.

The McDonald’s near our house has about a 60% accuracy rate when filling our order. It only took one or two instances of somebody’s happy meal being fucked up before Dave and I learned to always check the bag before leaving the drive thru.

When we went to McDonald’s last night, I pulled up to the window and prepared to launch my usual quality control efforts to ensure there would be no shortage of food.

I try to be quick when I do this because I don’t want to jack up the whole drive thru at McDonald’s and make all the other customers mad.

A teenaged boy who desperately needed Accutane handed me the bag and I quickly checked to make sure there were two orders of nuggets and two fries by counting them out loud.

I turned back to the window for the drinks and the boy handed me the cups one at a time. As he handed them to me he said, “here’s o-n-e and here’s t-w-o.” He spoke extra slowly and exaggerated the motion of handing me the drinks one at a time.

Wait a minute. I think Jr. McZitty Face might be mocking me.

Does he have any idea he has a pre-menstrual housewife in his drive thru and she’s not hormonally stable?

I gave him the benefit of the doubt because I am a mature mother of two and perhaps he’s just a slow talker.

I suddenly realize that they have forgotten to include Matthew’s order of apple dippers and I inform Jr. McZitty that they’re missing. I feel simultaneously vindicated yet irritated.

Zitty hands me the apple dippers and says (very condescendingly) “do you need me to put them in their own bag?”

“No,” I said. “I need you to stop being a smart-ass!”

I grab the apple dippers and haul ass out of the drive thru, forgetting about the big bump in the parking lot and I think my Explorer might have suffered minor axle damage.

Lauren asks from the back seat, “Did you just say ass?”

“Yes Lauren, yes I did. And I was wrong to say that in front of you.”

“Is this like that one time when you got in a fight at McDonald’s about the happy meal toy?”

“Um, yeah, a little bit. But its okay, I’ve calmed down now so don’t worry.”

I got home and re-enacted the whole thing for Dave. He’s not a fan of our neighborhood McDonald’s but my prefacing the story with “maybe I just have PMS” probably convinced him that nodding and agreeing with me was the only safe option.

Maybe Jr. McZitty didn’t mean anything by his mannerisms and comments. Perhaps I am wound a bit tight right now but I’m dealing with a serious Estrogen/Progesterone deficit so it’s not intentional, it’s just out of my control.

Hopefully things will go better next week on McDonald‘s Monday. I can’t promise there won’t be a smack down but I can promise to try harder.

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