Today I dropped N off at a play date and took B and O to the play area at McDonald's. I was a little anxious about this, given our last experience there...and the one before that...and possibly the one before that. But it was windy and cold and not really an outside play kind of day, given that we had two hours to kill, so I bit the bullet and went.
We stood in line to order their what's-so-happy-about-more-made-in-China-pieces-of-crap-to-clutter- up-my-house-meals, and eventually we were helped by a cashier named Ricco. Or maybe it was Nicco. Who can read a name tag while you're trying to hold onto a squirming toddler while also trying to keep your wandering three-year-old within eyesight. I asked for apples with their meals, thinking that might cancel out the toxins in the cheeseburgers. Ricco/Nicco looked at me and said, "Both".
Is he telling me it comes with both? Or is he asking me if I want both?Why do I always end up confused in this place?
I say "Just apples" and Ricco/Nicco repeats, "Both". I contemplate telling Ricco/Nicco that I really don't want the fries, but from the look on his face, it appears that I will be getting both. Wow, what great marketing. Making parents happy by including apples, while also ensuring that another generation will grow up addicted to large quantities of fat and salt masquerading as potatoes.
I order a grilled chicken sandwich and am looking for my money as I realize that Ricco/Nicco is asking me something. I really look at him for the first time, and I can't focus on his question, because I realize, wow, Ricco/Nicco really does a great job with his make-up. Way better than I ever do. Of course, he is wearing way more of it than I ever do. Or more than I ever have. In my life.
Oh, he is, of course, asking me what kind of grilled chicken I want.
Why, oh why must this be so difficult.
I tell him just a plain grilled chicken.
He is not happy with this.
I must order by number.
I have flashbacks to the last time I was here.
Ricco says "Five, six, or seven?
Not this again.
Ricco is staring at me, irritated.
I don't want the one with bacon and cheese. I want the plain one. I am looking at the menu, trying to see which one that is. Ricco/Nicco is still staring at me, diva like. He is obviously channeling his inner JLo.
The pressure. I feel like a Jeopardy contestant. I hear the music.
Uh, a freakin plain grilled chicken sandwich for five hundred?
Ricco/Nicco is clearly amazed at the idiot before him, who doesn't even know what number she wants. I'm pretty sure he is also thinking that I have alot of nerve going out of the house without lipstick. I briefly wonder what kind he is wearing. It's a nice shade. I think it's too dark for me, though. Then I remember that it doesn't matter anyway, since the only place my lipstick ends up lately is on the bathroom walls and on my children. I bet Ricco/Nicco doesn't have to share his lipstick. I bet it doesn't end up on the bathroom walls. I bet his lipstick still has its perfect lipstick shape, and isn't worn down to a nub due to repeatedly being used as a crayon. I bet Ricco/Nicco even knows where the cap to his lipstick is.
Feeling pressured with a longer line growing behind us and two increasingly restless boys, and sensing that my time is almost up, I throw some number out at him. I silently hope I got it right.
Dammit! It's the one with bacon and cheese after all.
I should have picked a different category. Next time jeopardy calls me, I'm picking Obnoxious Lipstick Wearing McDonald's Cashiers for a thousand.
Showing posts with label play area. Show all posts
Showing posts with label play area. Show all posts
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Beware of Simple Questions...
Sometimes a question is so simple, it leads you to believe that the task in question will also be simple.
So when Jimmy asked this morning if I could pick up our taxes from the accountant, I thought, of course I can pick up the taxes. Run in, grab the taxes, leave. I would have B and O with me, but no big deal. Our accountant has a home office, so it's not even like we would need to walk through a busy parking lot or walk far from the car to get there. Much simpler than, say, a trip to K-Mart for a coffee maker, or taking all three to N's dance class, or taking B and O to the play area at McDonald's.
What I hadn't foreseen was that the accountant himself would be with a client, his assistant would be busy, and the office would be filled with other people. So we waited a few minutes for the assistant to get our paperwork together, and as she attempted to explain things to me, B and O discovered the book shelf, and decided that the books would look better on the floor. I also hadn't foreseen that, unlike in past years before Jimmy had started his business, this was not a simple "Here's your tax return. Sign it and mail it". This was business taxes, and personal taxes, and state taxes, and federal taxes, and tax paperwork for the business for 2012, and oh, by the way, write a check for this rather large sum right here and send it off by April 15th, thank you very much.
I kept looking at that sum, thinking, wow, that is a lot of money. And, no, this does not mean we made a lot of money. Trust me on this. You might think that's the case, but I am certain that is not the case, so as I stared at the rather large sum, I started to feel somewhat overwhelmed. And as I stared at that sum, the assistant started telling me about another sum-fortunately much smaller--that needed to be mailed to the state, and about checks that needed to be written later in the year, and forms that needed to be signed and returned to them, versus the forms that needed to be returned with the checks. I started thinking there was no way I was going to keep all of this straight.
At that moment, of course, B and O pulled more books off the shelf. O brought one to me that was titled something to the effect of "Holistic Remedies Your Doctor Won't Tell You". I briefly wondered if this was required reading for CPAs, and then decided it was probably useful for when their clients pass out in shock after seeing the numbers on their tax forms.
The assistant is talking about this check, and that check, and in a few months this other check, and this one goes in this envelope, and this other one goes in that envelope, all while B and O are pulling books off the shelf, and running around the office, and starting to scream. Oh no, not the screaming. And I think, wait, I have three children...aren't they supposed to be good tax deductions? It also occurs to me that it's really unfair that everyone gets the same deduction per child. I mean, has the IRS met my children? Then I think, well, actually Uncle Pete (finally! someone in this family with a normal name!) works for the IRS, and he knows my children very well. Maybe he could explain to the powers that be that they are each worth at least a double deduction. I mean, what about all the necessary expenses directly relating to their care? Like wine. And tequila. And, eventually, xanax.
I see the rather large sum again and I think I am going to pass out. Good thing the accountant has that holistic remedy book. I think maybe I should talk to Jimmy about having anotherdeduction child. I quickly realize that what we save from an additional deduction we would end up spending on Jimmy's mental health care and/or beer. Probably not worth it. I think of joining the Tea Party. Or the Libertarian party. Or maybe I'll start my own tent city with a sign that says "We are the 99% who pay too much in taxes while the 1% sits around and whines". I decide this is probably the best option, since we might need a tent to live in once we pay this rather large sum to the IRS.
The assistant is still talking. I am putting books back, and chasing O, and telling B to stop screaming, and I am totally confused about who is supposed to get which check when and which form goes to the state, and which goes to the feds, and which comes back to the accountant. O is now also screaming, happily, but very loudly. I am starting to sweat as I realize that I am going to mess this up and they are going to take Jimmy to jail, all because my children were out of control in the accountants office and I, brain dead and with no attention span even in the best of circumstances, got it confused. I think of the prison show I saw recently that gave me nightmares, and then I realize, wait--this would be federal prison. Don't people say that's like a country club? It occurs to me that part of our taxes are going to fund country club prisons for other people who don't pay their taxes. Then it occurs to me that maybe they intended to pay their taxes, but just got it all confused, because their children were screaming and throwing books in the accountant's office.
B and O have disappeared into a back office, with the accountant's books. I am trying to round them up, while putting back books, attempting to make them be quiet, and listening to the assistant, who clearly just wants me to leave. Now. The accountant comes out of his office and appears to be, well, scared. New people come into the office and take all of this in with looks of fear and/or apprehension. The accountant asks if I have everything, and tells me to make sure I take the children with me. I think of Jimmy going to the country club prison, and I think no, it doesn't have to be this way. I will write a letter to the IRS. I will tell them to talk to Uncle Pete--surely he will tell them that my children are worth a double deduction. And then I will beg, plead if I have to, No! Don't take Jimmy to the country club prison!
Take me instead.
Please.
So when Jimmy asked this morning if I could pick up our taxes from the accountant, I thought, of course I can pick up the taxes. Run in, grab the taxes, leave. I would have B and O with me, but no big deal. Our accountant has a home office, so it's not even like we would need to walk through a busy parking lot or walk far from the car to get there. Much simpler than, say, a trip to K-Mart for a coffee maker, or taking all three to N's dance class, or taking B and O to the play area at McDonald's.
What I hadn't foreseen was that the accountant himself would be with a client, his assistant would be busy, and the office would be filled with other people. So we waited a few minutes for the assistant to get our paperwork together, and as she attempted to explain things to me, B and O discovered the book shelf, and decided that the books would look better on the floor. I also hadn't foreseen that, unlike in past years before Jimmy had started his business, this was not a simple "Here's your tax return. Sign it and mail it". This was business taxes, and personal taxes, and state taxes, and federal taxes, and tax paperwork for the business for 2012, and oh, by the way, write a check for this rather large sum right here and send it off by April 15th, thank you very much.
I kept looking at that sum, thinking, wow, that is a lot of money. And, no, this does not mean we made a lot of money. Trust me on this. You might think that's the case, but I am certain that is not the case, so as I stared at the rather large sum, I started to feel somewhat overwhelmed. And as I stared at that sum, the assistant started telling me about another sum-fortunately much smaller--that needed to be mailed to the state, and about checks that needed to be written later in the year, and forms that needed to be signed and returned to them, versus the forms that needed to be returned with the checks. I started thinking there was no way I was going to keep all of this straight.
At that moment, of course, B and O pulled more books off the shelf. O brought one to me that was titled something to the effect of "Holistic Remedies Your Doctor Won't Tell You". I briefly wondered if this was required reading for CPAs, and then decided it was probably useful for when their clients pass out in shock after seeing the numbers on their tax forms.
The assistant is talking about this check, and that check, and in a few months this other check, and this one goes in this envelope, and this other one goes in that envelope, all while B and O are pulling books off the shelf, and running around the office, and starting to scream. Oh no, not the screaming. And I think, wait, I have three children...aren't they supposed to be good tax deductions? It also occurs to me that it's really unfair that everyone gets the same deduction per child. I mean, has the IRS met my children? Then I think, well, actually Uncle Pete (finally! someone in this family with a normal name!) works for the IRS, and he knows my children very well. Maybe he could explain to the powers that be that they are each worth at least a double deduction. I mean, what about all the necessary expenses directly relating to their care? Like wine. And tequila. And, eventually, xanax.
I see the rather large sum again and I think I am going to pass out. Good thing the accountant has that holistic remedy book. I think maybe I should talk to Jimmy about having another
The assistant is still talking. I am putting books back, and chasing O, and telling B to stop screaming, and I am totally confused about who is supposed to get which check when and which form goes to the state, and which goes to the feds, and which comes back to the accountant. O is now also screaming, happily, but very loudly. I am starting to sweat as I realize that I am going to mess this up and they are going to take Jimmy to jail, all because my children were out of control in the accountants office and I, brain dead and with no attention span even in the best of circumstances, got it confused. I think of the prison show I saw recently that gave me nightmares, and then I realize, wait--this would be federal prison. Don't people say that's like a country club? It occurs to me that part of our taxes are going to fund country club prisons for other people who don't pay their taxes. Then it occurs to me that maybe they intended to pay their taxes, but just got it all confused, because their children were screaming and throwing books in the accountant's office.
B and O have disappeared into a back office, with the accountant's books. I am trying to round them up, while putting back books, attempting to make them be quiet, and listening to the assistant, who clearly just wants me to leave. Now. The accountant comes out of his office and appears to be, well, scared. New people come into the office and take all of this in with looks of fear and/or apprehension. The accountant asks if I have everything, and tells me to make sure I take the children with me. I think of Jimmy going to the country club prison, and I think no, it doesn't have to be this way. I will write a letter to the IRS. I will tell them to talk to Uncle Pete--surely he will tell them that my children are worth a double deduction. And then I will beg, plead if I have to, No! Don't take Jimmy to the country club prison!
Take me instead.
Please.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Monkeys
Today I took B and O to McDonald's play area. This is a painful subject for me, as I'm pretty sure I have PTSD from a previous trip to the play area with NBO. In fact, I wasn't sure I'd be able to even go into another play area, as I was afraid it would lead to flashbacks and panic attacks. But, in a moment of weakness, I bribed B with a trip to the "inside" McDonald's (see, I've trained them not to even SAY "play area", as it causes me to break out in a cold sweat) if he got his flu shot this morning (which, much to my amazement, he did!).
I should have known in the parking lot that this was not a good idea. I told B to stay right at the back of our car as I got O out of his carseat. The problem is, B is three, and sometimes he listens quite well. And, other times, well he just doesn'tgive a rat's @$$ listen all that well to what I say. As I'm getting O out, I sense that B is wandering and give him my standard "Parking lot! Stay here!" reminder. This time, he listened, and decided to glue himself to my um, side, as I'm getting O out of the car, with the door still open, and our rather large car parked in the very narrow space very closely to the car next to us. (Disclaimer: yes, our car is way too big, but it holds three kids and all their crap necessary items, so I'm not complaining). While I'm glad B has listened, I am now using both arms to hold an increasingly heavy, and squirmy, toddler, I have a preschooler glued to my um, side, a parked car right next to me, and a car door open immediately in front of me.
"B, you need to move, bud", which is way nicer than what I am thinking, especially as my PTSD is beginning to kick in.
"No mom! It's a PARKING LOT! I have to STAY WITH YOU!"
What a great listener this child is. I try to be thankful for that as I explain that I still need to be able to walk, or even move, which I am currently unable to do. Eventually, painfully, we make our way inside.
After I ordered two what's-so-happy-about-more-made-in-China-pieces-of-junk-to-clutter-up-my-house-meals, I ordered myself a grilled chicken. Good for me, right? Like I'd really admit it if I ordered a big mac. But this time, I really did order grilled chicken, because I was thinking that maybe if I ate more grilled chicken, I would be less likely to repeat the parking lot episode we just experienced. O is now completely done being held and is running around, and B is trying to catch him, which generally has not so great results.
I'm waiting to give the lady my money when I realize she is staring at me. "What kind do you want?" she asks.
"What kind of what?" I ask her. I gave her my order 15 seconds ago. My mind has moved on. I have no idea what she's talking about.
"What kind of grilled chicken?"
Um, I don't know. Grilled? On a bun? I hear B scream somewhere next to me, and look around to see O narrowly avoid running into an elderly person with a hot cup of coffee in their hands (I know it's hot, cause it says so in a special warning on the cups. Besides, it's coffee. Everyone knows its hot, don't they?).
The lady is still staring at me "Do you want a five? With bacon? Or a six? The club". I briefly consider telling her than I'll take whichever one is tequila infused, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a sense of humor. I decide to make tequila infused grilled chicken a menu recommendation on a comment card before we leave, which I'm hoping will be very, very soon.
I settle for a club, because that's the only one I remember, and which is also probably the most unhealthy of the "healthy" grilled chicken options. I tell myself that it's still likely to decrease my chances of having to call the fire dept to use the jaws of life and/or crisco to extricate me from between two parked cars on our next visit (ha! like there's gonna be a next visit!). FYI...if you are trying to watch what you eat, this is actually a very helpful visual.
We make it to the play area, where I am happy to see that we are the only ones. B and O eat and go play, and I realize that McDonald's has completely re-modeled this play area since the last time we were here. I think maybe the new surroundings will be good for my PTSD. There is now a wall of glass between the play area and the rest of McDonald's. An older couple sits on the other side of the glass, drinking coffee (careful--it's hot) and watching B and O play. They are smiling. I smugly note that they clearly think my children are adorable. The husband says something to the wife and even with my less than stellar lip reading skills, I know he's said "how cute!". She smiles and nods in agreement. I wonder if this new design was intentional, like maybe the McDonald's people thought people would come in for breakfast but decide to stay for lunch if they have something cute to watch in the play area. Kind of like watching monkeys in the zoo.
B and O start to get a little restless. B wants to climb to the top ( hearing the words "the top" triggers my PTSD) but only if O goes, too. O wants nothing to do with climbing (thank you God) but instead wants to play "How close can I get to the exit before mommy catches me?". We play several times. I am sweating, and no longer know if it's from the PTSD. B announces that he is going to go find a place to poop and disappears into the play area. For once I am happy he still wears diapers. I feel the older couple still watching. I notice they are still smiling. They clearly think this is all very entertaining.Yeah, I think, I'm sure it's adorable from your side of the glass. Try living on this side, pal. I think of the poor monkeys in the zoo.
As I look to see where B is, O makes it past me into the regular part of McDonald's. I chase him. B chases me. The older couple seems surprised that we are now on their side of the glass. They point and laugh. I take B and O back into the play areas and attempt to get their shoes on. As I get B's shoes on, O takes off again, and we all once again go into the other side, though this time, B almost runs into someone carrying (hot) coffee. The older couple only half smiles this time.
As I get O's shoes on, B is now completely out of control, and I decide I don't care, as he is at least staying in the play area. He runs in circles, he runs back and forth in the play area, and eventually, he runs right into the emergency door, which sets off the alarm, which causes everyone in the restaurant to turn and stare. None of them are smiling. I look at the older couple. Surely, they will sympathize. They think we're cute--like monkeys! They are not sympathizing. They are not even smiling. He says something to his wife, and she nods in agreement. I tried to read his lips, and I'm pretty sure it included the words "Birth Control".
I should have known in the parking lot that this was not a good idea. I told B to stay right at the back of our car as I got O out of his carseat. The problem is, B is three, and sometimes he listens quite well. And, other times, well he just doesn't
"B, you need to move, bud", which is way nicer than what I am thinking, especially as my PTSD is beginning to kick in.
"No mom! It's a PARKING LOT! I have to STAY WITH YOU!"
What a great listener this child is. I try to be thankful for that as I explain that I still need to be able to walk, or even move, which I am currently unable to do. Eventually, painfully, we make our way inside.
After I ordered two what's-so-happy-about-more-made-in-China-pieces-of-junk-to-clutter-up-my-house-meals, I ordered myself a grilled chicken. Good for me, right? Like I'd really admit it if I ordered a big mac. But this time, I really did order grilled chicken, because I was thinking that maybe if I ate more grilled chicken, I would be less likely to repeat the parking lot episode we just experienced. O is now completely done being held and is running around, and B is trying to catch him, which generally has not so great results.
I'm waiting to give the lady my money when I realize she is staring at me. "What kind do you want?" she asks.
"What kind of what?" I ask her. I gave her my order 15 seconds ago. My mind has moved on. I have no idea what she's talking about.
"What kind of grilled chicken?"
Um, I don't know. Grilled? On a bun? I hear B scream somewhere next to me, and look around to see O narrowly avoid running into an elderly person with a hot cup of coffee in their hands (I know it's hot, cause it says so in a special warning on the cups. Besides, it's coffee. Everyone knows its hot, don't they?).
The lady is still staring at me "Do you want a five? With bacon? Or a six? The club". I briefly consider telling her than I'll take whichever one is tequila infused, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a sense of humor. I decide to make tequila infused grilled chicken a menu recommendation on a comment card before we leave, which I'm hoping will be very, very soon.
I settle for a club, because that's the only one I remember, and which is also probably the most unhealthy of the "healthy" grilled chicken options. I tell myself that it's still likely to decrease my chances of having to call the fire dept to use the jaws of life and/or crisco to extricate me from between two parked cars on our next visit (ha! like there's gonna be a next visit!). FYI...if you are trying to watch what you eat, this is actually a very helpful visual.
We make it to the play area, where I am happy to see that we are the only ones. B and O eat and go play, and I realize that McDonald's has completely re-modeled this play area since the last time we were here. I think maybe the new surroundings will be good for my PTSD. There is now a wall of glass between the play area and the rest of McDonald's. An older couple sits on the other side of the glass, drinking coffee (careful--it's hot) and watching B and O play. They are smiling. I smugly note that they clearly think my children are adorable. The husband says something to the wife and even with my less than stellar lip reading skills, I know he's said "how cute!". She smiles and nods in agreement. I wonder if this new design was intentional, like maybe the McDonald's people thought people would come in for breakfast but decide to stay for lunch if they have something cute to watch in the play area. Kind of like watching monkeys in the zoo.
B and O start to get a little restless. B wants to climb to the top ( hearing the words "the top" triggers my PTSD) but only if O goes, too. O wants nothing to do with climbing (thank you God) but instead wants to play "How close can I get to the exit before mommy catches me?". We play several times. I am sweating, and no longer know if it's from the PTSD. B announces that he is going to go find a place to poop and disappears into the play area. For once I am happy he still wears diapers. I feel the older couple still watching. I notice they are still smiling. They clearly think this is all very entertaining.Yeah, I think, I'm sure it's adorable from your side of the glass. Try living on this side, pal. I think of the poor monkeys in the zoo.
As I look to see where B is, O makes it past me into the regular part of McDonald's. I chase him. B chases me. The older couple seems surprised that we are now on their side of the glass. They point and laugh. I take B and O back into the play areas and attempt to get their shoes on. As I get B's shoes on, O takes off again, and we all once again go into the other side, though this time, B almost runs into someone carrying (hot) coffee. The older couple only half smiles this time.
As I get O's shoes on, B is now completely out of control, and I decide I don't care, as he is at least staying in the play area. He runs in circles, he runs back and forth in the play area, and eventually, he runs right into the emergency door, which sets off the alarm, which causes everyone in the restaurant to turn and stare. None of them are smiling. I look at the older couple. Surely, they will sympathize. They think we're cute--like monkeys! They are not sympathizing. They are not even smiling. He says something to his wife, and she nods in agreement. I tried to read his lips, and I'm pretty sure it included the words "Birth Control".
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