Wicked Little Wednesday

It is our custom to order out on Wednesday nights.  This little tradition was initiated by my mother who  also runs the chuck wagon in our little rodeo show.  You know we live at a frantic pace when she is exhausted by Wednesday and in need of a break.  Although I can't for the life of me think why...

Of course, nothing in our lives is as simple as it seems, including Wednesday nights.  It's far too easy to call the local pizza joint for a delivery.  Oh,no, not for us.  Where's the challenge in that?  I think we are now so used to everything being difficult that we don't feel comfortable with a situation when it isn't.  It's like we're cheating.  Therefore we have determined that the pizza joints that do deliver are not good enough and that the places that don't are far better. They are also not located anywhere near where we live.  This means my weekly trek for our dinner is the take out equivalent of tackling the Oregon Trail sans oxen or my trusty rifle.

My journey is also not limited to one establishment.  Surprisingly, the R.A. does not eat anything from any of the take out places ergo I am mandated to hit the McD drive thru.  Complicating matters is that the McD near our house has closed for renovation and will not re-open until some time this summer (insert agonizing shriek here.)  This development has greatly gummed up the works of many family plans including Take Out Night because after I pick up our food I then have to traverse to the nearest McD which is nowhere near my house or most of the take out shops we frequent.

But if we aren't going to eat in a restaurant, why do we need to go to McD's?  That is a good question. Unfortunately it is the type of  question that a foolish Earthling would ask.  That's the type of question that's going to get you vaporized once the Invasion comes.

I have to go to McD because the R.A. expects it. (No duh?)  In the past I did make the imbecilic mistake of returning to the house from the take out place sans french fries, ketchup, and nuggets.  As soon as the R.A. heard the kitchen door open he bounded into the room,  skidding to a stop in front of me.  He then proceeded to jump up and down in front of me, hands flapping wildly while demanding, "Feh fies!  Feh fies!"  When I informed the R.A. that I didn't have any, he abruptly stopped moving and became eerily still.  Again he demanded the "feh fies."  Again I indicated I didn't have any.  With an incredulous look, the R.A. then walked around me, looking me up and down as if I were hiding the food on my person.  Just to be sure, he even frisked me.  Once the R.A. determined that I did not possess fries or nuggets he conveyed his extreme disappointment in my wanton lack of judgement.  Let me just say that I never made that mistake again.

Most nights I embark on the take out journey solo, my mother minding the children.  Occasionally, when the R.A. is "on eleven" he accompanies me.  My little companion is not pleased at being along for the ride and caterwauls his vexation before we even leave the house.

By the time we pull up in front of the take out joint, neither of us is in fine form.  The R.A. demonstrates this by his refusal to get out of the car.  I demonstrate it by my nervous tics.

After I wrestle the R.A. out of the car, he stomps into the shop, yowling in wretched indignation at having been manhandled.  As neither the counter person or myself can converse over the shrieky caterwauling, I finally bark at the R.A. to sit at one of the few tables in the room.  Sulking and spitting forth whiny yowls, he does.  As he sits, he glowers at the counter person who I admire because she doesn't try to jolly along the R.A.  I hate it when people do that.  The R.A. will be in the midst of a full blown conniption and some twit, all hale and hearty-like will boom, "Come on, Big Guy.  It's not that bad!" This only contributes to the R.A.'s ire as he is not one to be condescended to.  This is an intergalactic war lord for Kitchen God's sake!  You know he's only mentally adding that person to his vaporization list.

The counter person does not make this mistake.  Instead she glowers back at the R.A., not in an "What a brat!" way but more like, "Yeah, buddy?  Right back at you!"  You know what?  I think he grudgingly respects her because the last time the R.A. escorted me to the shop, we entered the building, he yowled and then promptly sat himself in a nearby chair without being told to.  Sure, the R.A. shot her withering looks but they were respectful.  I even bet she's been tagged for enslavement, he likes her so much.