Okay, I did not really find my mom's antics funny yesterday. I picked her up to ride along on my end-of-the-month trip to pay my house bill. Mom loves to go for a ride, and she loves to eat some Rally's. Though disappointed that her yearned-for Big Daddy was no longer available, Mom settled for a chicken sandwich and fries. And a Diet Coke, of course.
Mom at first insisted she didn't want the fries. But I knew she did. In fact, I strong-armed her into having some. She said she was going to give them to me, but I thought not. Little did I know what a problem those fries were about to become. That's foreshadowing. Try to keep up.
In T-Hoe's cup holders sat my 44 oz. refill cup, all tall and foamy and majestic. In the other hole, I put my Rally's Diet Coke. Mom always holds her soda. She sips intermittently. I offered to give up the holder, but she declined. "Okay...then put my fry container in that refill cup, and I can eat them before they get cold, and they won't slide all around every time I make a turn." Not that I'm reckless or anything. The cardboard fry container slipped down a little below the rim of the refill cup. A 44 oz. cup is really rather spacious.
Mom looked into the open bag and declared that she was going to give me her fries. I did not want them. "Take a bite, Mom. I know you love them. Last time that's all you wanted. Go ahead. While they're hot." Mom noshed on those seasoned taters off and on. When we were almost back to her Blazer rendezvous, Mom decided that she was giving me the fries that were left.
"Here. I'll put them in with yours."
I thought she meant that she'd drop a couple into my fry container that was inside my refill cup. That's what she did. At first. Then she took a handful and dumped them in. Then she upended her fry container over my refill cup, and shook it. Here now! That is not what I expected.
"Whoa! It's not a garbage bin. I don't want my refill cup filled with fries!"
When I pulled over beside Mom's Blazer, I picked up my refill cup. Just as I thought. Several of Mom's cast-off fries were down deep in the bottom. I tried to corral them in my fry container. The static of the foam cup made crumbs of greasy batter and seasoning stick to the sides like hair to my just-Chapsticked lips on a windy day.
Today I wanted a 44 oz. Diet Coke. As Mom might say, "I like to never got those crumbs out of my cup." I lamented to The Pony that I wished Grandma had not been so generous with her unwanted fries.
"Huh. Why don't you just leave them in there and drink them. You'll never know."
Turns out The Pony is really some kind of genius.