Surviving McDonald’s. Or Not…

…one of the last true guilty pleasures is the McDonald’s road-trip meal. It just doesn’t have that “Oh my god I’m eating dinner at McDonald’s” aftertaste to it.

So the family and I are cruising along in our rental car, taking a long weekend when just ahead on Interstate “Where The Hell Are We?”, the golden arches beckon.

In fact they glow. And they send out wave-lengths of French Fry goodness that bypass your normal synapse function with one overriding command, eerily Jedi-Knight in its directness: Go. There. Now.

So we pull in to the parking lot, jump out and my three-year-old daughter Ella leads the charge inside.

And hits paydirt.

Right there, in all its shiny, multicolored glory is a My Little Pony display. Comes in a happy meal. I’ve never ordered a happy meal. I am about to. Daughter and wife head off to find our own personal slab-of-molded-plastic family seating unit.

I stand in line innocently unaware of just how much suburban street-savvy it takes to successfully place an order at McD’s.

It goes something like this. A young-man in official uniform greets me with a worn, forced smile. He is slightly taller then an oversized fry. ‘Bout the weight of a nugget. He speaks in rapid-fire McDonaldese, and as this is suburbia, I am slightly unfamiliar with the dialect.

"WelcometoMcDonald’sSirmayItakeyourorder?"

"Um…let me have an ice coffee, and uh small French fries and oh, a happy meal".

I reach for my money, not knowing my close encounter has just begun.

"Burger or Nuggets sir?"

I look around, thinking he’s talking to someone else. Then, with all the seasoned calm of a hostage negotiator he again:

"With your happy meal sir, would you like a hamburger or Chicken McNuggets?"

He’s almost mouthing the words, like he’s dealing with Rain Man.

"Oh, um…Nuggets?"

I suddenly feel very self-aware and lapse in to giving answers inflected as questions like this three foot kid is my shrink and my task is to repeat back what I hear so I can give the impression of somehow being in control of my own life.

"Four or six piece sir?"

More questions. I feel my forehead moisten with a single, dead-giveaway bead of uncertainty.

I have no idea what he’s asking. I feel like I’m in a quiz-show on a different planet and the alien host is asking me “ARHII:” AAERR((!!”””GGZZZ!!??”.

I come up with the only thing I can muster resembling an answer.

"For the ponies?"

Nugget-boy shakes his head sadly, like the hostage just made a grab for his captor and detonated the bomb.

I am so fcuked.

"No, not the ponies sir. Ponies come in a single package. The Nuggets sir. Would you like a four-piece or a six-piece?"

This I can answer, and I feel a rush of confidence surge through me. But I play it cool, make sure and not rush the answer. I feel like I’ve been in line for five years.

"The four piece".

Behind me, a single line of very large, pale anxious people for whom McDonald’s means neither guilty nor pleasure, has formed. For them, there is only intense, ravenous hunger with a side of contempt for City slicker who doesn’t know his Nuggets from a Quarter Pounder.

One of them snorts. A few fidget. They are a herd about to panic and stampede. I must get my now “Less Than Happy” Meal and get out. How long can it take to jam some basically, uncooked fully processed food and a plastic toy in to a bag?

"Ranch, Zesty or Sweet&Sour?"

I know the answer isn’t “Ponies”, but fear has created some kind of survival by free association response in me. I heard once that ponies live on ranches. It’s not much to go on, but it’s all I have.

"I’ll have the Ranch".

I phrase it in first person to take some ownership of the situation. And I throw in the definate article because honestly, I have no idea what the three choices represent so just in case I am getting an actual working ranch I won’t look like a total idiot when they hand me an actual working ranch.

I have now lost complete track of time and like Rip Van Winkle may return to find my three year old is now at Vassar and no longer requires a My Little Pony.

Speaking of which…

"…and which color pony sir?:

Oh god.

"Oh, uh, they have colors?"

"Yes sir."

And sure enough, he tosses three small heat-sealed clear baggies on the counter.

Small heat-sealed baggies. I have a quick flashback. That’s another blog entry.

The baggies are small, and there’s so much print on them I can’t actually see inside to determine what the colors are. I’m staring at the baggies, mouthing air like a fish out of water.

…and before the herd can trample me, he comes to the rescue.

"…purple, blue or pink?".

"Pink!"

I accidentally shout this out. Its like I now have some kind of corporate-pressure induced Tourettes.

"That’s an iced coffee, small French fries, happy meal with four-piece nuggets, ranch dipping sauce and a pink pony.

"Anything else sir"?

Ranch~its a dipping sauce. I am relieved to find that out. It means I will not have to explain to my wife how I went to order a happy meal and ended up with 400 acres in Texas. My tongue feels very large in my mouth and I wonder if it might spill out if I try and answer.

"You’re going to call me “sir” even though I just ordered a pink pony?"

"Yes sir".

And as I walked back to my table, happy to see my daughter had not yet gone away to an all-girl’s college to have a tumultuous affair with her Women’s Study professor, but was in fact still a darling, pig-tailed three year old jumping up and down at the sight of her daddy returning with a happy meal, it hit me.

That’s why McDonald’s can systematically eradicate the bovine population, super-size us to the point of extinction, coat us in enough ranch sauce to drown a grown man and we still go back.

Because no matter who you are~crack mom, Jeffery Dahmer, Citicorp VP, or dad on a happy-meal-mission, once you have your pink pony in hand~they still call you sir.

Niiiice.