Would you like fries with that?

I admit, I suffer from a very mild case of road rage.  Mine usually consists of a frustrated "People! People!" in traffic, or even a highly agitated "DUDE!" when cut off at an intersection.  In fact, my son can mimic me perfectly and loves to chant, "People, People....." when we are stuck in traffic.  I have never, however, understood how anyone could be moved to violence by an idiot on the highway.

New Year's day, my little family of four was headed out of town to spend the weekend with loved ones in Arkansas. We stopped by the golden arches for a quick lunch on the go.  This particular drive-thru had two lines for your service pleasure, so I pulled up to the outside lane and waited for the attendant to take my order. Nothing complicated, mind you...Happy Meals, Cheeseburgers, Apple Dippers....all without condiments of course, since I detest the taste, smell and mess of anything that is applied with a plastic squirt bottle. I mean, ew. Really.  It took a good while for the attendant to ever answer the speaker, and when she did, it was a little bit of a tragedy trying to communicate. We were, after all, in the northern part of the city, and they do speak a variation of our dialect up there. 

In the several minute lag between me completing my order and her responding with my total, I hear honking coming from the hulking SUV behind me.  When I turned me head to see what the commotion was, I saw a middle aged woman gesticulating wildly, thrashing about in the front seat. I couldn't tell if she was in the middle of an attack of St. Vitus' dance, or if she was for some unknown reason becoming enraged at ME, but the repetitive arching of her long, curved red-painted, acrylic-tipped middle finger made me suspect the latter.  

In utter confusion, I leaned my head out of the car window and said, "What on earth is wrong with you?"  She responded with an explosion of profanity so foul I cannot sully my blog with even a recap.  Suffice it to say, she was, um, wondering what I was doing.  To which I hollered back, "I'm just placing my order." and I once again asked what on earth was wrong with her.  By this time, my honor had been challenged and my name defiled with a slew of awful words coming out of her filthy mouth, so of course, Sir Galahad riding shotgun jumped out of the car.

What the heck did he think he was going to do?  I mean, really?  Trounce the woman in the Micky D's parking lot?  Reason with her? Yeah right.  He did, however, in his best high-school-punk fashion give her a good dose of "bring it on...." complete with the puffed up chest and all.

Now, it's at this point in the story that I feel compelled to point out that in addition to the box of gaily wrapped packages, four suitcases, three bags of snacks, two restless children, and a partridge in a pear tree, we were also traveling with our Chinese Crested dog.  If you have never seen one of these dogs in person, well, I'm sorry. You have surely missed out on a truly delightful freak of canine nature. Josie is a little thing, weighing in at about 10 pounds. She has huge bat ears that stand straight up and are fringed with white flowing hair that also sprouts up on her head.  Aside from that, she's pretty much skin, as the Chinese Crested is a hairless breed.  During the winter she wears head-to-paw polar fleece pajamas...for obvious reasons.   So, suffice it to say, she's a lap dog extraordinaire and the pajamas give her a real "awwww" factor.

During the time dearest husband is inciting crazy woman into a full blown fistfight, I go ahead and look back, thinking I can at least reason with him. It's at this point that I realize he is defending my honor with his loud mouth and macho self...with a prissy chinese crested dog in pink pajamas tucked under his arm!  I would have howled with laughter right then and there, but, as these things tend to do, a lot happened in a split second, and evidently, Madame Road Rage was packing heat in her purple patent pleather purse, and had been threatening my husband (and the dog, I guess) with "some of this..." 

 

At this point, the manager, who happened to be in the parking lot, asked us if we wanted her to call the police. Since we had just been threatened with a gun, not 4 blocks from CCC, we decided that would be a good thing to do.  As the manager stepped away to make the call, psycho pulled up next to us, and brandished the cheap handbag again, making shooting motions and saying, "Want some of this? You want some of this?"  Over and over again.  Sheesh. All of 36 inches from my children!

We did manage to jot down her license plate as she sped away.  I always like to make words and phrases out of license plates.  For example, my husband's first three letters are JFA...and I have always thought it spelled out a secret little slogan that extols the merits of his handsome backside for all the world to see.  GGC?  Good Grief, Charlie....or Get Going, Creep.  You get the idea.

Well, does it surprise you that her license plate said OGR?  Happy New Year, to you, too...Ma'am.