Jeopardy!

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.