I was in Madison, Wis. this morning because Larry Potter had a doctor's appointment. I had to bring Mini-Me, because, well, the county frowns upon her being left alone for long periods of time. It was a long appointment. The kind that you meet with the doc, do some stuff, go back to the waiting room, and then go back into the exam room. We've had to do this every year since LP was 18 months old. Luckily, it gets easier as he gets older. And they keep a constant stream of Disney and Pixar films on a mounted television.
So, by the time we were done, we were done. Hungry, cranky, you name it. I asked the kids if they wanted to hit Trader Joe's since we were down the street, and the answer was yes.
(I love me some Trader Joe's. I like getting in touch with my inner hipster-wannabe hippie.)
(And while I'm at it, I love Madison. It's truly hippie-dippie and I wouldn't have it any other way. Someday when I'm old, I'm going to move to an eco-condo there and wear long skirts and puffy down vests I get from a dumpster. For real. I LOVE it there.)
My kids love that I have total wallet non-dependency in there. If you want it, throw it in. After all, it's Trader Joe's. There was some Mochi involved. And it didn't make it home.
We get in the store and head to the ready-made food fridge. It's a little crowded, but thins out enough so I can grab what I want. The kids find a turkey and cheese sandwich on a pretzel roll, so we throw two of those in the cart. I like sushi, and seeing as I live in landlocked Wisconsin, I don't get it very often. I start reading labels because I'm also trying to lose weight.
I pick up a wrap, just to see what the calorie count is. Well...460 calories. Servings per container: 2. I gasp out loud.
And then...I met her.
"What's wrong?" The blond stranger asks me.
I tell her about the calorie count and serving size.
"Oh that doesn't phase me a bit, because I burn so many calories, I need all that I can get!"
Still trying to be polite, I don't sock her in the face.
"I'm a masseuse and I specialize in deep tissue. I get quite a workout."
Code: you're the size of my Prius and obviously, you don't burn any calories.
"Oh wow. Those sandwiches in your cart for your kids are $4.99."
This is where I tried to appeal to her mom-side. (She had a 4 year old in her cart, next to the patchouli.)
|Mommy? What's McDonald's? And why is that lady rolling her eyes at you?|
"Yeah, but if you think about it, it would be the same for a happy meal," I explain.
"Oh, my kids have never had McDonalds," she tells me. In a whisper, no less, as to not shame me.
I may have explained that I don't live in hippy-dippy town and quickly walked away.
I'm sure her tale back at the commune was how she met some high-fructose whale at Trader Joe's.
Now, not to give you all the wrong idea about my family, we're not exactly fast food people. There are two times I will buy fast food:
1.) When we're on the road and need to grab something and eat it in the car. (Both my family and Disgruntled Husband's family live out of state. And God knows they don't know how to visit us.)
2.) Every other Thursday, I buy it for MM and bring it to my manicure place. (I have priorities and I'm not about to give up my noon-time standing appointment.)
And I'd like to point out that everytime my kids ask for or talk about a "Happy Meal," I make them say that true happiness does not come from a Happy Meal. And it's all about the toy for them anyway...none of my kids likes fries, I buy them the milk, and the only one that will actually eat a whole cheeseburger is Hoover.
(What? A little sensitive about this? Not me.)
But you know, I bet I could buy off that kid in the cart for my kids' uneaten fries.