Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's addictions are escalating! Just when she thought she'd cast that gas station chicken monkey off her back, she had to go and buy some last week. And Sunday she was back for more! Not the economical 8-piece box to portion out over a few days and share with Farmer H, but a meal only for herself. A breast and a thigh! Yum, yum, gotta get you some! Also, a small cole slaw. Gotta have the slaw! It's in my DNA. Of course I only took about a third of that small slaw for my serving. You know, because that will certainly cut calories compared to eating a fried chicken breast and thigh!
Anyhoo...I stopped by the gas station chicken store on Sunday, because Farmer H had plans for the afternoon. And the morning. Too bad, so sad, no chicken for you! Though I doubt he mourned the missed opportunity of feasting on miniature legs and wings.
The chicken gal was frazzled. In fact, she asked me for a massage. I thought that was a bit untoward and off-putting, but I wanted my chicken, by cracky, so I told her I was not board-certified as a masseuse. She took it well. She said they had way too many orders to get ready for pickup by 11:30, and they'd been frying without letup. The owner was working in the kitchen with her. The man owner. Not the woman. Not-heaven NO! But I'll bet the man owner has dropped many a breast in his day. That's insider lingo. That's what they call it when they put a batch of chicken in the fryer. Dropping the chicken.
The first order they needed consisted of FIVE 20-piece boxes! That's 12.5 chickens!
I felt so bad for her that I did not ask for a bag. She put my breast and thigh and the little tub of slaw in an 8-piece box. Usually, they will put the two pieces of chicken in their own little foil pouch, and then put them and the slaw in a white paper sack. Even with a regular 8-piece order, they put the box in a sack with the slaw beside it. I didn't want to give her any extra work, so I juggled my box and 44 oz Diet Coke while I tried to use my key clicker to undo T-Hoe's locks. They're just awkward, that big soda and a rectangular chicken box. I used to only have that predicament when they were training new employees.
I've thought about taking a Devil's Playground plastic bag in there in my pocket, to pull out after paying and put my stuff in. Loop it over the arm, and my hand is free to grip my 44 oz Diet Coke. Even with a white paper sack, I can flatten the top and hold it between my fingers while using thumb and forefinger to hold the soda.
Yes, I've thought about taking in my own plastic bag. I stop short of that solution, because I don't want them to think I'm a...weirdo.
5 comments:
Recycling those problematic plastic bags wouldn't make you weird, it would make you green.
Embrace the bag lady in you!
We recycle Walmart bags here ...... to pick up dog poop!!
Sioux,
But it's not easy being green! We use them for wastebasket liners. I use them to carry my two bubba cups of ice and my 44 oz Diet Coke down to my dark basement lair. Not sure if I'm ready to be THAT WEIRDO who whips one out at the convenience store counter.
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Kathy,
Around here, we let the dog poop lay where it falls. Which is mainly out in the woods around the sinkholes that run between the yard and the BARn field. Unless it's on the porch, of course, and then we shovel it off the side when it dries. And by WE, I mean Farmer H, who has taken over that duty from The Pony. Sweet, Sweet Juno would never do such a thing. But as you might imagine, half-dachshund Jack has a mind of his own and a will of steel. And apparently, a sudden urge to poop.
You've seen weirdos "whip it out"?
Wow! The country folk are quite the exhibitionists, aren't they!
Sioux,
Only down by the creek. Not in the gas station chicken store. Even Hillmomba exhibitionists have their limits.
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