The Drive-Thru

The following is an example of why people at the McDonald’s drive through hate me:

France: Hello? Is this thing on? Hello? Can you hear me?

A static-y and muffled voice responds.

Cashier: Yes I can hear you. Can I take your order please?

F: Oh, you’re there. I need a minute, is that okay?

C: Yes ma’am.

At this point I confer with my kids, meaning I tell them they can only order a hamburger Happy Meal, even though they are too old for a Happy Meal, because as far as fast food goes, I feel this is the least obnoxious option. (Their response makes me wonder if McDonald’s will ever have the ingenuity to make a Talking Back, Eye Ball Rolling, Sulky Kids Meal).

F: Hello? Hello?

C: I’m here.

F: Okay, I need one hamburger Happy Meal with fries please.  I need the burger plain.

C: That’s one plain Happy Meal, will this be for a boy or a girl?

F: Uh, excuse me one second.

Now my kid is telling me she wants ketchup on the burger. 

F: Hello, that plain burger Happy Meal, can you put ketchup on it? It’s for a girl, but it doesn’t matter because she doesn’t want the toy.

C: Okay. What would you like to drink with that?

F: Apple juice please.

C: Anything else?

F: Yes. I need another Happy Meal, this time a cheeseburger with fries. But I need it plain with ketchup and cheese, and a little bit of mayonnaise, if that’s allowed.

C: You said you need it plain?

F: Plain with cheese and ketchup and mayonnaise. For my other daughter, who obviously, also is a girl, and also doesn’t want the toy.

C: So you want a cheeseburger with ketchup and mayonnaise?

F: Well only a tiny bit of mayonnaise. Like a dime sized amount. Can you guys do that on a Happy Meal burger? Is that allowed?

C: Mayonnaise is allowed. What about the drink?

F: Sorry, I thought I told you apple juice.

C: That was for the other Happy Meal.

Someone behind me in line now honks.

C: Is that all?

F: No.

We both wait a few of seconds.

C: Is there anything else then?

F: Yes, I am looking at your menu.

There are 9 bazillion items on the menu. Plus, the sun is hitting the plexi-glass and the glare is making it hard to read.  We don’t really eat at McDonald’s, I don’t know the menu by heart. I search for the beverage section but can’t seem to find it.

F: Do you guys still have $1 ice tea, I don’t see it?

C: Yes.

F: Does that mean I can get the biggest ice tea I want for $1, whatever size that is? Like jumbo if I want? For only a $1?

The cashier doesn’t answer.

F: Hello?

C: Yes.

F: Yes, what? Yes I can get jumbo for $1? Or, yes as in hello back?

C: Yes you can get a jumbo for $1, would you like your tea sweetened or unsweetened?

F: Definitely unsweetened. But could I get 6 Splendas to go with it? On the side please.

I realize 6 Splendas sound excessive and if I am going to use that much, then I should just get the sweetened tea. But I want to be in control of how much sugar is my tea, even if it is a funky sugar derivative.  I hear another honk from behind, this time, it’s a little more aggressive. And did I hear the engine rev?

C: Is that it?

I am silent for a few seconds as I review the order on the little screen.

C: Ma'am? Will that be all?

F: Yep, I’m pretty sure, that’s it. Thank you!

The angry person, who is a guy in pick-up, has had enough and now swerves around and in front of me, essentially cutting me off. What an asshole. The kids meanwhile, are shocked at the brazen maneuver, as they both rush to tell me what just happened (as if I didn’t see it for myself).

C: Please pull up to the first window please.

Which I can’t, because angry guy is now there and paying for something.  So I wait. My kids are looking at me, expecting some kind of an explanation. And then I tell them that sometimes guys in pick ups are angry, maybe I muse, it's because the rides are bumpy; it could be that years of bumpy rides slowly loosen up driver brain bits that are supposed to be intact, resulting in a slew of personality problems, including impatience. (I don’t know about you, but for me it’s rare that I ever see a guy in a pick-up who isn’t driving like a swarm of bees are all up in his ass.) 

Pick-up guy then pulls up to the next window and gets a drink. Ah, so he was angry and thirsty. That’s a tough combination.  I pull up to the first window with the cashier.

C: That will be $6.39.

F: I think I agitated the guy in the pick-up, don’t you? (I hand her a $10).

C: I think so too ma’am (she gives me a sardonic smile).  Here’s your change. Please immediately pull up to the next window.

Hmmmp. I am pretty sure being told by a teen drive-through cashier at McDonalds to immediately pull up to the next window is a first for me. I pull up to the next window and get our food.  As we pull away, my eldest informed me they gave us someone else’s order, and sure enough, they did. Adult chicken tenders and an order of fries.

So honest me, I get back in the drive through line to return the food (although had it been something bacon-y, I might have not been so honest.  I may have also stole a fry or two from the bag that wasn't mine, as a small token for the inconvenience I was sure I was about to experience). My kid with the cheeseburger informs me that her burger has onions and pickles on it and no mayonnaise (which I tell her: tough luck kid). The line is long and when I get to the window, the cashier is not happy to see me. I explain what happened and she sends me to the next window.

Because I think I see his manager standing close to him, twice I try to quietly explain to the fool who gave us the wrong food, that he gave us the wrong food. But he doesn’t seem to understand or hear or even care. Finally after his third time asking, “What do you need”? I shout back, “I don’t need anything, I’m just trying to return the food you gave me that I didn’t order or pay for!”

That got his attention, and two other McDonald’s employees as well. They all stand still for a second and look around (I think they were contemplating consulting a manual for this situation). I give him the bag and as I punch the gas, I realize that for all those people at McDonald’s who thought I was a giant pain in the ass, well guess what?

The feeling is SO mutual. 

Bugs

Sometime between the non-spring and the non-summer we are currently experiencing here in Chicagoland, big spiders and slippery silverfish seem to have taken up residence in my home.

This is troubling because I hate both of these bugs (although I don’t hate all bugs. Remember the 17 year locusts a few years ago? They were so ugly they were cute.  I had no problem picking them up and letting them crawl up my arm. Too bad they only come around every 17 years).

Last week on different occasions, I encountered two of the same type of huge, hulking dark brown spiders. They were about the size of nickel, had a distinctive white stripe, and seemed to crawl almost as fast as I could run. (I am pretty sure one of them was even carrying a spider-sized machete and was aiming for my little toe). And I will just put this out there, okay? I am afraid to kill spiders. I don’t like to step and/or crush them with a shoe, boot, napkin, paper towel, toilet paper, Kleenex, or anything else. I hate the crunching noise they make the moment they get smashed, I hate the spider guts that come oozing out post crunch, and I hate the errant lifeless spider eyes that sometimes escape off their heads and roll onto the floor. But mostly, I’m pretty much convinced they will somehow survive my rare tepid attack and come find me while I am sleeping and do unthinkable spiders acts on me, even if perchance I have seen them flushed down the toilet.

So back to the spider encounter, which of course when occurs, automatically prompts me to scream for my husband to handle the kill, as he’s my go-to person when I need a bug taken out.  However when it comes to spiders, turns out he is a total chicken shit too (although he will totally lie and say he isn’t. But he is. I know this and still scream for him anyways, in hopes that he has miraculously overcome his irrational fear for killing spiders, because I don’t see this trait changing for me).

As usual, he yelled back that he couldn’t help at the moment because he was “busy” (read: scared). This left me with only one other option, and that was to call for Trixie.  Trixie is our spaz-tastic black cat; she also has a very a limited palate and only eats Iams dry cat food (Proactive Adult, as she is mindful of her waistline), whipped cream from a can, the occasional ladybug, and….. spiders. (I know, lucky me, right? Although seriously, I have tried to feed this cat salmon, peas, chicken, corn, steak, cheese, pork, and bacon, and she reacted to each attempt with a bored sniff and a withering look that made me feel like an asshole for wasting her time.)  However when it comes to spiders, all I have to do is hysterically scream, “TRIXIE SPIDER, SPIDER, AAAUGH SPIDER, TTTTRRRRIIIIIXIE SPIIIIIIIIII-DER” and no matter where she is or what she is doing, she will crookedly come bounding over, ready to kill.  And eat. I know this is gross, especially when she is looking at me with her expressive big green eyes and a partially masticated spider leg hanging off her dainty furry chin, but I try to look at the positive, which is the fact that this saves me from dealing with the nasty deed of dead spider disposal.

Thankfully Trixie rescued me in both instances.  In the past, her interjections always bought me time to devise a backup plan, in case of a kill fail or if I felt the spider looked too poisonous for her to eat. (Although really? How could I actually know the toxicity level of a spider, based on its looks?)  My backup plan typically equates to me grabbing whatever household item/product with a sprayer nozzle is nearest to me and spraying the spider. My actual favorite is Windex, because the ammonia seems to kill all bugs instantly, however I have used Chi Keratin Leave-In Hair Mist, which doesn’t work so well, but I imagine leaves the spider feeling silky soft; Sarah Jessica Parker’s perfume Lovely, which also doesn’t work so well, but I think blinds a few spider eyes; and Febreeze, which doesn’t seem to work at all, but does make the room smell nicer.  

My hope is that neither spider was aware of the other and that a spider tryst resulting in the production of an egg sac and hence, the subsequent arrival of more unwanted arachnids, did not occur. (Incidentally, I tried to find a picture of the spider to post, but ultimately it was too nerve wracking, so please use your imagination to conjure your worst spider image, horrify that by a multiple of 8, and know that would be the type of spiders I was dealing with. For reals).

As for silverfish, I have found them in the bathroom off my bedroom, and they make me squirmy, yet strangely violent. And they must be killed as soon as they are seen (I can’t save all of God’s creatures people, I am sorry. When evil bugs are in my home they are going down if I can muster up the courage, the cat, or the husband).  If you have never seen a silverfish, consider yourself lucky, because they look like some sort of zippy shrunken remnant from the Paleozoic era, all skinny, armor-like, and antennae-y. 

Since the silverfish have appeared, I have been finding myself entering the bathroom with trepidation, for I don’t want to be caught in a compromising position while these loathsome insects decide to make an appearance. My sources (ahem, the internet) state that silverfish prefer the dark, but I have seen them during the day in my bright bathroom.  This either means the silverfish living in my home are: 1) dimwitted or 2) actually, I don’t even want to think about what the alternative means.

Because of the presence of these stupid silverfish, before I am able to do anything one typically does in a bathroom, I now have to conduct a pre-bathroom-use-silverfish-patrol.  This includes me walking through my bathroom and checking all visible surfaces for evidence of these unwanted intruders.  If the coast is clear, my immediate reaction is always relief.  If not, I reach for the one of six bottles of Scrubbing Bubbles I have strategically placed for such moments and douse the silverfish with a healthy squirt, which not only kills it, but provides the added benefit of chemically scrubbing a dirty spot I may have missed in the corner.

Sometimes if I find a silverfish that doesn’t move as I hover above it (hence, dim-witted), I put on my Danskos, throw a piece of toilet paper over the pest and do an Italian version of the polka.  While the dance may not be elegant (have you ever seen a pair of Danskos? Have you ever seen Italians try to polka?) it is certainly effective, which equates to one good and smashed bug (and take note, I clean up carefully afterwards, as silverfish residue on the floor is high on my list of ‘eewwws’).

I have whined enough about these stupid bugs over the last few days, that my hubby has promised he will spray the inside and outside of the house this weekend with major bug killer.  Which? I certainly hope will rid my home of this particular insect population, without ultimately causing me and the kids to grow third eyes or antennae.

Wish me luck!

September 2010

Late last summer I quit my well established successful career (for several reasons) and got to spend about three weeks with my kids before they headed back to school, which then left me with the kind of free time I hadn’t had since the tender age of 14.

I had many options on how I could spend my new release from work obligations: empty out cluttered closets, tidy up messy rooms, volunteer work, exercise, learn how to sew, or lunch with others.

Meh.

Instead I watched TV. Lots of it. I checked out DVDs and caught up on shows that I never had time to view.  I watched these DVDs on the sly, somewhat embarrassed with the notion that the first thing I did with my new found freedom was to sit (or lay) on my ass and be entertained.  (Although I do realize now that this was my way of decompressing and dealing with fact that I just killed something that took me 16 years to build, but that’s for another post).

For the entire month of September 2010, I proceeded to watch three shows non-stop, which I now feel compelled to rate, in case you find yourself in a similar situation in the near future.

(Please note, for my rating scale, 5 forks is the equivalent of piss-in-your-pants great and you should totally stop what you are doing to watch; whereas 1 fork is equivalent to having vomiting and diarrhea simultaneously and therefore should be avoided at all costs).

Six Feet Under:

Originally airing during 2001-2005, this Showtime drama centers around the Fishers, a dysfunctional family of undertakers, who run an independent funeral home.  Each episode began with someone dying and then eventually being put to rest, courtesy of the Fishers. My niece recommended this show, which I viewed in its entirety marathon-style, over the course of three weeks. And honestly? I hate that I got sucked into this stupid show because: 1)It was depressing as all get out 2)I had no real love for any characters and 3)I didn’t find any of the lead male characters to be hot or even freakin’ lukewarm (and while male lead hotness is not a requirement, it certainly is a plus). Topping off my misery of watching endless joy-sucking episodes, was the series finale, which I found so disturbing, I almost called my doctor to beg for a Xanax prescription. Maybe at the time watching SFU was a cathartic way of working through my career decision, although looking back, I wished I would have just visited a damn shrink instead of squandering ~63 hours.  If you have time to kill, don’t waste your time on this show, unless you enjoy making yourself uber despondent. My rating:  1.5 out of 5 forks 

Do They Look Like Fun Times? No.

Dexter:

Another Showtime series, Dexter is actually based on a book series, and its first season started in 2006 (original episodes are still airing).  Dexter is a bloodstain pattern expert for Miami Metro and is also a serial killer who only kills bad guys.  He’s got some serious issues due to a terrible incident in his youth and doesn’t seem capable of real love. Last year I got my husband hooked on it and we marathon watched seasons 3 & 4, right after the kids went to bed. Dexter is the ultimate good/bad guy and although he is kinda of creepy, I totally dig him and think he’s kind of hot (Is that sick? Although I should note that Dexter is played by Michael C Hall, who also played a major character in Six Feet Under, but I did not find him at all hot in that series. In fact he was anti-hot, if there is such a thing).  Dexter has a sister who's a cop and she swears like a sailor on steroids, which I find totally comforting, nay, awe-inspiring even. In season 3, Dexter forms an uneasy friendship with a guy name Miquel Prado, who like a neighbor of mine, is always popping up when least expected or desired; hence I gave our neighbor the nickname Prado, which causes me and the hubs to go into giggle fits whenever we see him. As soon as the series ends, I plan on reading the Dexter books (a backwards rationale I know, but oh well).  If you can handle the sight of fake blood, stabby knives, macabre humor, and maniacal characters, you would very much enjoy Dexter. My rating 4.5 out of 5 forks.

Dex and my neighbor Prado, who looks just like Jimmy Smits

The Tudors:

Another Showtime series, The Tudors is about Henry VIII and focuses on his marriages and split from the Catholic Church. This series had lots of sex scenes, which surprised me because I didn’t realize those Renaissance folks boinked like bunnies. (But then again I guess it makes sense, because what else could people back then do, come nightfall?  I mean, it wasn’t like now, where they could ignore their partners by blogging or tweeting.  Still, even though the fornicating looked all sexy in the series, I’m thinking that in real life it probably wasn’t so glamorous, given that back then people were probably really smelly and had even worse teeth than the Brits do today.)  Jonathon Rhys Meyer (what a long ass name) played King Henry VIII and although I thought his acting was great, I always found him a bit disconcerting because I think he has crazy eyes.  Fortunately this series included the actor Henry Cavill, who made up for Crazy Eyes with his total Renaissance hotness (good grief, do I sound like a teen, or worse, a guy). I marathon watched this series during the day right after I completed watching stupid Six Feet Under, which helped me overcome my TV-self-imposed-gloominess.  I am even going to go so far as to classify this series as educational, since it exposed me to things I didn’t know about the British monarchy, Catholicism, and Protestantism, which then prompted me to go out and learn more on my own. A word of caution, don’t watch it with the kiddies around, unless you feel like explaining the act of procreation.  My rating: 4 out of 5 forks.

Crazy Eyes or Sexy Eyes?

So there it is, probably about 200+ hours of TV time in one month.  I know I should be a little ashamed, but I'm not. You may be wondering if I am watching any ‘adult series’ regularly right now.  Well I am proud to admit that since my kids are home and it our first summer off together, I am enjoying spending time with them and have decided to watch only one series, in real time.  And that show would be: The Real Housewives of New Jersey (What? You weren’t really expecting me to watch a History Channel series, were you? I don’t even know if they exist. Plus, I’ve never watched any Real Housewives series, so it’s about I time I hop on the damn bandwagon).

In fact, I’ve watched four episodes of RHNJ and I am not sure if I will continue.  Why, you may ask (I mean, you know, besides its obvious mind-numbing premise of course). Well, if you have been reading my blog for a while, you would know that I am 100% Italian, which basically means I grew up living the many kinds of shenanigans this show portrays (minus the over top opulence).  In fact, I feel I could just rename it The Real Housewives of Elmwood Park, IL, circa early 1980’s.  Considering I spent my entire adulthood running away from this type of cockamamie drama filled family life, I can’t believe I am now watching it on TV.

Real Housewives of Elmwood Park?

Although….I may not be for that much longer, because the Big C is starting up soon, and I may have to drop RHNJ and watch that instead, since I find Cathy’s homeless brother Sean to be, sorta, kinda, dirty-hot.

Infomercials

I’m a sucker for an infomercial. No matter that I was in sales and marketing for the bulk of my career and understand the little tricks used to pitch a product, I still fall hard for a tacky TV gimmick.

Unfortunately, all my infomercial watching is now done on the sly during the middle of the night when I can’t sleep and sneak downstairs to indulge in my illicit passion. 

(It’s also during these times when I learn that I have been doing certain things, wrong. For instance, I did not know I wasn’t supposed to wash my hair with shampoo that lathers. Apparently sometime between Johnson’s baby shampoo and Nexxus hair care, bubbles became B-A-D. Evil even.  Who knew they could strip my hair and scalp of all beneficial natural oils, to the point of potential spontaneous head combustion due to excess dryness? But luckily for me, I found a simple solution: The Wen hair system.

Of course I bought it.  I told you I was a infomercial slut, er, sucker. Plus it was obvious I needed to do a better job at keeping my scalp oils firmly ensconced on my scalp.  And with the summer looming around the corner, I also needed something to control my hair, since my frizz can sometimes make me resemble a living used Brillo-pad, with body-like appendages. Finally, Melissa Gilbert was hawking Wen, and for Christ’s sake there’s no way Laura Ingalls would lie to me, right?

My assessment of Wen? I never felt as though my hair was quite clean, although it definitely felt like I kept all my scalp oil, in addition to perhaps someone else’s too.)   

Any rate, back to my late night insomnia-tic infomercial habits, which came to be after a verbal exchange that occurred between me and my Hubby while I was watching an infomercial.  It went down something like this:

Hubby: What are you doing?

Me: Writing down the number for this omelet pan so I can order it.

Hubby: You don’t even like omelets.

Me: That’s only because I wasn’t making them correctly.  There’s a method to making omelets.  And this whole time I’ve been using the wrong method; but with the right tools, my method would be corrected and then I’m sure I would totally discover my love of omelets.

Hubby: You don’t even order omelets when we go to restaurants where they have the “right tools” (and yes, he used finger quotes).  In fact, I can’t remember the last time I ever saw you eat an omelet.

Me: Plus this is such a great deal! When I order I will actually get two omelet pans for the price of one, so I can make you an omelet at the same time I make mine. It’s a total win-win situation.  

Hubby (who now walked over to me): Hmm…let me see that number. (After I foolishly hand it to him, he proceeded to rip it up).

Me: HEY!

Hubby: Come over here.

Me: What?

And then I made my second mistake in less than a minute, as I walked over to a kitchen cabinet that he had now opened. There is a slight chance that this cabinet is littered with things I had to purchased after the influence of an infomercial, but have somehow never gotten into the habit of using.

Hubby: What’s this? (He holds up a metal contraption).

Me: A waffle iron.

Hubby: And when was the last time you made waffles?

Me: O-M-G. Have you tried to make waffles? Do you know how difficult it is? If you don’t pour in enough batter, then the waffles come out too small and the edges burn.  If you pour in too much batter, then the waffles are huge and undercooked. Making waffles is a total pain in the ass, whereas buying Eggos in the frozen section, is not.

Hubby: What’s this? (He points to a bright pink tall contraption)

Me: An ice cream maker.

Hubby: And when was the last time you made ice cream?

Me: It had to be Easter 2005. Remember? I made custard and accidentally cooked the eggs and our ice cream came out with egg bits. It was nasty.

Hubby: Was that the time we had to give our dinner guests Oreo cookies for dessert?

Me: Actually I tried to make sherbet too. O-M-G that was an even bigger pain in the ass than the ice cream, because the sherbet froze up like a giant ice cube, so I couldn’t scoop it out until I softened it, and then it accidentally melted and came out like a fruit soup instead.  

Hubby:  What’s this? (I can’t even describe the next thing he holds up, suffice to say it looks like it could be used as a torture device for fingers.)

Me: A gnocchi machine? I really can’t use it, on account that I lost the directions. Maybe you can help me figure it out, you’re so handy.

Hubby: And what about this?

Me: You know damn well that’s a juicer.

Hubby: When’s the last time you juiced anything?

Me: O-M-G. Do you know what a total pain in the ass it is to juice anything? It takes like, 50 oranges to make a stupid glass of juice and then I have to pick out the seeds and pulp. Plus I now find regular orange juice to be too acidic, so I’ve been buying Minute Maid low acid, which I find much more enjoyable.

Hubby: Uh-huh. And what……

Me: FINE! I won’t buy the stupid omelet pan, alright?  Sheesh, I am just trying to enhance our at home dining experiences and now you are sucking the life right out of me.  And since you are being such a Negative Ned, know this: I won’t be watching any more infomercials, so you can kiss away any other life improving products Mister!

Hence my late-night-can’t-sleep-but-can-watch-infomercials situation. 

But sneaky me, I have a new plan to rectify my braggadocio induced infomercial restrictions.  Last week after consuming a particularly large pizza dinner, I found myself unable to fall into a peaceful slumber.   Within minutes of turning on the TV, I found a life altering item: The Ultimate Edge by Anthony Robbins.  This three part system is configured to help me to recapture my passion, playfulness, curiosity, and inner strength, which will then enable me to change absolutely anything I WANT in life.  Meaning, as soon as I buy and use it, I will be equipped to explain to my Hubby why I need to start watching infomercials again, without inducing his guffaws and ridicule.

Then, I might be able to finally get that omelet pan….