We were driving back to Fairyland from visiting family in Atlanta and we needed a little break. We exited the highway and were pleased to see a Chick-fil-A with a playground. I’ve blogged before about strange experiences at Chick-fil-A and this day did not disappoint (though, by far still a much better fast food choice than most out there).
There were a couple of large charter buses in the parking lot, but, undaunted, we found a spot and muscled our way in the restaurant. Fortunately the charter-people were just finishing up. Unfortunately, the remaining members, a teenage boy and a middle-aged man, were sitting at a table next to ours. The man was talking on his cell phone.
“Well, Troy is sick.”
Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
“He’s running a fever and –Troy, can I get you a bag in case it happens again?”
I’m filling in the blanks here as I had mostly tuned out any conversation not directly involving keeping my children seated and eating.
“Yes, we’re at the Chick-fil-A at exit 144”
Actually, it was 149, but what do a few miles matter when your kid is puking in a Chick-fil-A in middle of nowhere Georgia?
At this point the manager enters the scene.
“Troy, I’m the manager here, why don’t you come with me and I’ll get you some sprite and crackers and find you a place to wait for your parents.”
Perfect, as a parent, I’m comforted to know that the puking kid is no longer sitting next to my child as we’re about to get back underway on our road trip. As a parent, I’m also a bit concerned about the idea of a chaperone leaving a sick child in the middle of nowhere in the care of a fast food restaurant manger. Shouldn’t an adult from charter bus land stay with him?
Well, my kids finish up, play for a bit, then, we head back out to the car. Matt motions toward the bed of the pick-up truck now parked next to us. Ladies and Gentlemen, there was a deer lying gracefully dead in the open bed of the truck.
But, as Matt pointed out, they had at least covered its head with a camouflage jacket. Well, that makes it all okay then. (Where’d the head go? I dunno, all I see are a bunch of leaves.)
As a parent, I was much less disturbed by the deer carcass then by the pair of rifles lying beside the beast in the open bed of the truck, next to the children’s play area at the local Chick-fil-A. Matt likes to point out that the guns were in cases. Yes, they were in rifle shaped cases. Welcome to the South.
We left Chick-fil-A and stopped briefly by the neighboring outlet mall. I bought a pair of camouflage pants. I can’t say I’ve ever owned anything camouflage before, but my reasons at this moment were plentiful:
1) I live in the woods—you never know when you might want to blend in.
2) I live in the South—I just my take up hunting—or not. It seems to be the standard of dress around here, regardless of whether you’re intending to shoot something in the immediate future—besides, you never know when you might get a hankering to shoot something.
3) They cost twelve dollars.
4) My husband said they make my butt disappear. (Camouflage, my a--!!)
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