The Old Testament makes it exceptionally clear that when you make a vow, you should keep it. Hem hawing about is not only offensive but it’s also dangerous if you’ve vowed your vow to the Almighty.
Keeping that in mind, I’m vowing to never eat breakfast at McDonald’s again.
As of yesterday morning, I hadn’t had fast food breakfast in a while and because I was running late and hungry as pie I decided to swing by the Golden Arches and grab a hot, delicious biscuit to enjoy on my morning commute. Remembering that a biscuit wasn’t the healthiest choice possible, I wisely asked to have water with my breakfast instead of Dr. Pepper, which certainly does give a Down the Throat Morning Burn when necessary.
But one sip of the water assured me that they must have ran to the bathroom and filled the cup up with tap water because it taste of metal, chemicals, and God knows what else. I spit the water back in the cup and casually flung it out the window. I still had high hopes for the biscuit.
While going through my morning routine at work, I found a few minutes to begin nibbling on the biscuit. My first clue that the breakfast was going to be memorable was the amount of grease sitting around the bread. I literally thought I was going to gag when I saw the sausage. But my stomach was growling loudly and I was afraid my sugar would drop too low. So I delved into it.
But as I slowly consumed the biscuit, I could feel my body revolting against me. With all the strength I could muster I managed to keep my food down. But that was the Most Disgusting Breakfast I have ever had.
Let me assure you. This woman will not be eating McDonald’s breakfast again. EVER.
Although my experience with breakfast turned rather sour, my lunch was absolutely riveting.
I’ll ignore the fact that the Subway Girl forgot to add chicken to my salad (small fuss) and just focus on the great fun I had at the local gas station.
My gas tank had passed the red zone, skimmed down near the Thick Line That Represents Sudden Stoppage, and was hovering near Death Itself when I finally pulled into a gas station. Honestly, I don’t intentionally wait until the last minute to fill up- it’s simply that I’ve had to run around on the Travel Team a lot during the past two weeks and I keep forgetting to check my gauge. Yeah, I know. Stupid reason.
It took me two attempts at parking my car beside the tank for me to realize which side my tank was on. I’m still getting used to this car. Goodness, my Camry was so easy. The tank was always on THAT side and I just had to reach down and press the button, and I was set. Now, I have to go through the is it on that side or this side for a few minutes, fumble in the floor for the button and then realize drat! this car doesn’t have a button.
I’m not complaining. I adore my new car. But I just wanted to explain the state of mind I had reached when I began pumping gas.
I’m standing there, pumping gas like a pro, hair blowing in the wind, when Mr. Born and Raised in Piedmont pulls up. His small S-10 truck looked like it was on its last leg. He opened the door, waved widely and shouted, “Hey little lady!”
A smile, a wave, and a quick hello were all I offered. But it wasn’t enough. He swaggered over and said, “I know a little lady like you can afford to pay for my gas too.”
I didn’t know whether to slap my knee in laughter or run. But as he talked I discovered he was just a jovial old man who liked to gossip.
You know Peter who lives on the corner over there? His house caught on fire last night. And the cops were chasing two young hoodlums by Ronnie’s house last night. Ronnie swears they were drunk as skunks. The gas prices sure have went up, haven’t they? There was a time when you could buy gas for $5 and you didn’t have to tell the missus what you did with the other $5. And cigarettes sure have went up in price haven’t they? Cigars might just be the next choice. They smell better, anyway.
And after a day like that, you would think that supper couldn’t be any more interesting.
You’re right. It was rather droll. A tomato, green beans, and a few pieces of salmon. And for those of you (ahem, ahem) who are unsure of the pronunciation of “salmon” let me assure you that it is SAL-mon.