The Junk Drawer

So I mentioned to my husband Dave that I entered a sweepstakes drawing for a $500 gift certificate for Cabela’s.

I was all excited because wouldn’t it be nice to have a huge gift card for delicious dinners at an Italian restaurant? Yeah, it would.

Except.

Dave: Where did you say you entered?

Me: Cabela’s.

Dave: That’s not a restaurant.

Me: Yes it is. It’s Italian.

Dave: No it’s not. You buy guns and ammo there. It’s for sportsmen. You know, tackle boxes and camping equipment.

Me: Oh. I guess I thought it was Carrabba’s.

Dave: Ya think?

So, if I win this thing, anyone need a kayak? Cuz apparently I’m not getting any food there.

God bless the 80-year-old cashier workin’ the front line at the McDonald’s I frequent.

I’ve seen her before, always during the morning shift, when McD’s turns into a pickup joint for the over 75 set. It’s full of joking, laughing, and blissfully curmudgeony people.

The cashier is a social butterfly, knows all the regulars’ names, asks about their grandkids and probably loves what she does.

Except what she does is this sort of thing:

Me: Two medium coffees with 10 creamers on the side.
 
Her: (cutting me off): One medium coffee?

She puts the coffee in the carrier and asks "Cream and sugar?"

I mentally drill laser beams through her sweet little head, then say a prayer for her and all the people behind me, because you just know nobody’s gettin’ what they want today.

And then I smile because I firmly believe that the management keeps her on because she loves to see people and people love to see her.

Sometimes familiar faces in friendly places are enough.

That, and checking your order before you leave.

I’m on a roll. Apparently this is the week where I throw food and drink at people.

So today I went to visit my Mom at her nursing home. When I go, I always bring coffee for both of us.

When I parked and got out of my car, I saw a shiny new penny lying on the ground and grabbed it.

You know the saying?

See a penny, pick it up. And then all day you’ll have good luck!

No, not you, Kathy. Just put it back where you found it. Good luck pennies are only for other people.

Because when I prepared my mom’s coffee with creamer and put the lid back on, I bumped the table the coffee was sitting on into her bed and the cup went flying, end over end, and coffee spurted out the drink hole like Old Faithful.

Coffee.

All.

Over.

My.

Mother’s.

Bed.

With her still in it.

I didn’t stop apologizing for an hour, even though my mother said “That’s OK. It’s my fault. If I’d gotten out of bed earlier, this never would have happened.”

Oh, Mom. Stop making excuses for your numbskull klutz of a daughter.

Of course, you could make an argument that the penny did actually bring me good luck.

The lid stayed on securely and ohmyGod, thank you McDonalds for making tight-fitting lids because a half-soaked mom is better than a full-soaked one, if you’re keeping score.

I fear Christmas dinner tomorrow. There will be a whole table full of things I can dump in people’s laps, catapult into their faces and all manner of silverware that I can accidentally stab them with.

If all anyone at dinner wants for Christmas is their two front teeth, I’m not sure they’ll be leaving with them.

So I get an email from a friend today. She’s asking me when and where I’ll be available tomorrow for her to drop something off for me.

Because it’s probably a Christmas gift and I want to return the favor, I decide to head to the store to buy some Toll House Cookie Dough and make her a cookie gift bag.

I grab a two-dozen package and head to the checkout. Pay for the dough and then because I’m wearing soft gloves, when I quickly pick up the slippery plastic package, it goes flying right out of my hand and into a lady bagging her groceries in the next aisle.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I don’t normally throw food at people!”

I continue, “You know why I’m buying these? Because I just know someone’s going to gift me tomorrow and I didn’t have anything for her and you know how awkward it is when someone gives you something and you don’t have anything to give in return? This is why Christmas stresses me out! Really, I’m sooooo sorry!!!!”

She stood there, smiling pitifully at me, as I scoop up my cookie dough from the floor at her ankles.

All she could muster at the sight of my mortified self was “I hope you have a Merry Christmas anyway.”

God bless you, stranger lady who I threw food at. I’m so happy you had pity on me and weren’t some Scrooge person who would sue me for cookie dough assault and battery.

I hope you have a Merry Christmas, too.

Tonight I found myself comfortably welded to the couch, surrounded by all my creature comforts: remote controls, laptop, blankies and two cats, when an overwhelming desire for donuts washed over me.

I had a gift card for Dunkin’ Donuts and they have a drive-thru. I haven’t showered in two days, I wouldn’t have to be seen by humans for very long and all I had to do was put on pants.

But I still asked myself whether I had the energy to go. Was it worth detaching myself from the couch, putting on pants, and going out in the cold?

Whenever I have a pressing question, I go to Facebook and ask all my friends what I should do.

The consensus was that, yes, I should go upstairs and put on pants and drive a short distance to Dunkin’ Donuts and partake in a donut feast.

One friend said the closest one to her was two hours away; in fact, Cuba was closer, and I should go on behalf of all the people in the world who don’t have a Dunkin’ Donuts within a 10 minute drive.

And so I went. For humanity.

Now, I had some fears about ordering donuts at the drive-thru. Normally, when you order a dozen donuts, one requests a mixture of flavors and one is typically standing inside at the counter, pointing at them so the cashier knows what you want.

In my case, because I’m not actually near the donuts, and also because I didn’t want to get into a screaming match over the intercom selecting some crazy mixture of donuts, I decided I would keep it simple and order this:

Half dozen Boston Cream.

Half dozen Glazed.

Simple.

But no.

Immediately I’m told that they only have three glazed. OK, no problem. I order the three glazed, plus three powdered, plus the six Boston Cream.

I pull around to the pick-up window, where I am told they were wrong about the powdered. They have none of those.

Sigh.

I am speechless because I don’t know how to describe any of the other pretty little donuts they have inside that I can’t see.

I put my palm to forehead and think, think, think.

The cashier says “Ma’am, are you OK?”

I can’t look this guy in the eyes because I’m so embarrassed that he thinks I think this is the worst thing that could ever happen to a person, but that’s not what I’m thinking.

I’m thinking that I’m sitting at a donut place, a place that makes almost nothing but donuts, and they have hardly any donuts in a donut place that sells donuts.

Wait a minute – maybe this is the worst thing that could happen to a person.

“I don’t know what to order now,” I sigh.

“Well, what else do you like?” he asks.

I tell him “How about those glazed ones with the chocolate icing on them?”

He reports that they have some and I hear him shout to the back “Three iced chocolate glazed!”

I wait an eternity for my donuts to be handed to me.

When they are, the cashier says “Ma’am, I hope you like your donuts.”

Again, I can’t look this guy in the face because I’m kind of mortified that he is sure I’m going to pull away with my not-what-I-really-came-for donuts and cry my eyes out.

I fled.

I got home.

And I ate three of these immediately.

And I wondered where the iced chocolate glazed ones were. Didn’t I specify iced chocolate glazed?

Oh, hell. Does it really matter?

No, it does not.

I am full of donuts and life is good. All for the price of putting pants on.

For the win!