Saturday, January 17, 2015

It Just Goes to Show...

So, I'm a Girl Scout Cookie Mom.  Yup, go ahead - have a laugh.  I'll be waiting here when you get back.

And we're back.

Today we juggled a birthday party and our first cookie booth in a beer distributor.  Yes, we booked the troop to sell cookies in the lobby of a beer distributor; council approved, of course.  I wanted to hand out recommended beer/cookie pairings, but I guess it wouldn't be appropriate for our little ones to be endorsing alcohol consumption.  Riiiiiiight.  Overall, the girls did a good job selling cookies and using their manners.  I only felt like slamming a few beers a handful of times; and, I don't drink beer.

Ava started to melt before I.  We were both hungry, had to pee and just wanted to sit the hell down.  I fashioned a makeshift chair for her out of two empty cookie boxes.  She plunked her tired little frame down like a sack of potatoes and hung her head in her hands.  I continued to stand with my right leg over my left trying to breathe through the urge.  Just before the end of our three hour stint, the rest of our family helped pack everything away to make room for the next troop.
Ava worked hard; she was grumpy and tired.  I did not have a plan for dinner (other than take out), so we gave Ava the choice.  "If you could get take out from anywhere, what would you like."  (Please don't say McDonalds; Please don't say McDonalds; Please don't say McDonalds.)  "MCDONALDS!"
Fast food and I go way back.  Point blank: I don't eat the shit.
Wellllllll, I will eat a salad from Chick-Fil-A.  But other than that, no way, Jose.
When I was pregnant with Ava in '07/'08 I breathed for Burger King.  I ate Whopper Juniors like it was my job.  I had a side gig as a fitness instructor and lived a double life ingesting fast food.  Fast forward 9 months and 60+ pounds later - I was a miserable bloated human being.  I promised I'd never do that to myself.  I have also read so many books about fast food manufacturing that I could vomit recalling the scenarios.
I might have taken Ava to McDonalds at 9 months on our way back from Tennessee.  We needed to stop somewhere and that was the best place (?); yes, that really is a question.
So, tonight, both girls really wanted to go, so I sucked it up and went.

I immediately stressed out.  I turned off the radio and requested silence in the car.  I asked Marcus to help me out if I said anything wrong to the drive through attendant.  I swung around the little curve, stressing about my unfamiliarity with the menu.  Salads; where are the salads?  In true fast food fashion, the salad menu was the smallest section, hanging out on the bottom right hand of the electronic trifold.  I, very slowly, ordered the food, almost ending every fragmented sentence with a question.  I was out of my element.  Paranoia set in as I envisioned cars piling up behind mine; irate drivers hanging out their windows, in line to feed their greasy cravings, like the drug that it is.  After finishing the order, I pulled around the horseshoe to pay at the first window and then made my way to the food chute.  The window slid open and bags of food were rapidly firing into my hands.  In a matter of 60 seconds I had everything.  I pulled away from the building still sweating a little.  Of course, the hubbs made fun of me while we envisioned the local road runner's club taking an impromptu group run through the parking lot of McDonalds.  Yea, I was kinda paranoid that I would be seen.

Sticking with the Parents of the Year mojo, we planted the little beauties in frot of the TV and served their dinner.  Damn, McDonalds forgot their dipping sauces.  Ugh.  Well played.  I pulled my Southwest Salad out of the crispy bag only to observe wilted lettuce lazily supporting a few slices of grilled 'chicken' among a few black beans, ten corn kernels and 1/4 lime.  Thankfully, my dressing was not forgotten.  I drizzled half on the salad and put the lid back on to give it a good shake.  Excited about a squeeze of fresh lime, I grabbed the wedge and went to give it a squeeze when it snapped out from between my fingers, sliding across the kitchen floor.  It just goes to show...I wasn't meant to eat at McDonalds.