The day I walked into McDonalds looking like a treasure troll, AND how you can tell the size of a man’s package by checking out his cell phone
I didn’t mean to do it. I really didn’t. I had met my husband three times before for lunch and I had worn a sexy little mini dress and sandals. I had brushed my teeth and everything.
But I was having … well … the only way to explain is that I was in the writers’ zone. My thoughts were racing faster than I could type and it was coming out like word vomit. I was having a bowel movement of the book that couldn’t be stopped.
I never should have even left the house like that. But I suddenly realized that I hadn’t eaten in 24 hours and my stomach was grumbling in protest. I really didn’t worry too much since I had NEVER seen my husband’s coworkers go to lunch with him. Every time I’d ever met with him he was all alone sitting there by himself.
And so I walked into McDonald’s looking like a treasure troll. Actually, I looked like a cross between Woody Allen and a treasure troll because I have these dark brown nerd glasses that are too small for my face. They were designed for children, but they were on sale for ten bucks. Furthermore, I hadn’t combed my hair and it was mangled up in dreadlocks.
It gets worse, though.
I was wearing grey baggy sweat pants. My FAVORITE ones. The ones he threatened to burn if I ever wore them again. He said they made my ass look long and from the back it looked like I was 82. I had on a gigantic 3X T-shirt. (Don’t you just love the ones that are so big it’s like wearing a night gown?) Yes, the T-shirt was hot pink, which I thought added a little splash of sexy. Ahhhh … but quickly counteracting the bold color was the fact that I was wearing a gray sweatshirt covered in stains over the T-shirt.
It was Summer time. It was hot. But I didn’t care because I had been writing since 3 a.m. in the morning when I jumped out of bed like a jack in the box and started typing away like a madwoman. It was cold then, and that was the last thing I remembered. I had dressed accordingly for bedtime.
Now, here I was at McDonald’s, and I assumed there should be some sort of forgiveness policy for when your girl looks bad. Unfortunately, NO. Not this day. This day his coworkers and his boss all walked in together laughing and joking … well … at least they were. His face grew pale, like a prisoner who was about to be lethally injected.
I arrived first. Therefore I couldn’t have known that it would have all went down like that. I was busily typing away on my computer, excited to have WiFi. Afterall , the reason my husband and I decided we were soul mates in the first place was because we were the two thriftiest people on earth. I hide behind a tree in the neighbor’s yard to get internet. He uses generic ketchup (Ugh!) and generic detergent. I re-use tea bags (which, according to him, is ‘what they did during the Great Depression’). He ate a ham sandwich every day for lunch for three years straight. When we met, we both immediately realized that our cell phone chargers were interchangeable. That was because we both had the same cheap-ass gigantic square cell phone from 1998. He joked around saying we were “cell phone charger soul mates.” And for you single ladies out there, I highly recommend that you stop trying to analyze the size of his feet and check out his cell phone. It worked on this one. Big cell phone .. big .. anyway…
Back to my drama. There he came through the door, looking all handsome and chiseled and just as out-of-my-league as the day I met him. And by the look on his face, he was finally realizing that, too.
But I didn’t even care. Writers can be narcissistic at times, all wrapped up in their own little crazy world of writer madness. That was me that day.
He approached with great trepidation, and I could tell that he didn’t want to claim me. He looked a little scared, knowing that he had no choice. His friends looked puzzled, wondering where the hot chick was who he had claimed he was married, too. And wondering why he was leading them all to the table of someone who was obviously a dope dealer.
Horrified, he took the walk of shame up to my table. His coworkers sat down, expecting him to introduce me as his sister, his cousin … the mother of a homeless family he’d sponsored for Christmas.
“This is … uh … my wife…”
I wasn’t the girl who was so hot, he married me despite the fact that I had a super scary and rather disturbing case of bipolar disorder … The girl that was so sexy, he married me despite the unsettling fact that I wrote slutty books for a living.
Nope. I was a treasure troll. A fat, little, squatty treasure troll, wearing pants that made my ass look as long as foot ball field and as square as SpongeBob Square Pants. I was SpongeBob Grey Squarepants.
He put his arm around me carefully, but not letting his forearm touch me. I hadn’t showered or brushed my teeth, and I was so hungry I couldn’t help but to have a face full of cheeseburger by the time he got there.
He gave me a little pat. I call it a church lady hug. It’s like when you go to white-people church and they manage to give you this big bear hug without even touching you at all.
He sat down. Nervous. I nodded but didn’t look up from my screen. I could almost hear the thoughts racing telepathically across the table.
How the hell am I gonna explain this to the guys? I told them my wife was hot. Geez … Are those dreadlocks? She wore that to sleep last night. How hard is to put on a pair of jeans? Really? Is it that difficult? Just a pair of friggin’ jeans, and take off the weird glasses for cryin’ out loud.. That’s all I ask. It’s not like she needs to see to eat a cheeseburger … She practically opened her mouth and inhaled it. Oh my God. Please don’t burp. If you burp I will die.
Those McDonald’s colas are so carbonated. It’s not humanly possible to chug one without some sort of regurgitation. I continued to heartily chug my cola.
I thought he was going to kill me from across the table.
He ate sitting straight up and on the edge of his seat. His friends looked around nervously, trying to make small talk.
Although the thirty minutes whizzed by for me, it must have felt like forever for him.
Finally, after the torture was over, he texted me evil, evil things my entire drive home.
“I can’t believe you. Did you do this on purpose? Do you hate me?”
“I’m sorry. Show them the picture of my slutty Halloween costume that you took on your big square phone. That’ll teach ‘em.”
“No, nothing can counteract the event that just took place.”
“Oh, whatever … How was I supposed to know it was Happy Meal Day at the grind?”
“You’re gonna pay for this…”
“What are gonna do? Divorce me for having a bad hair day?
“Is that what you call that? A bad hair day? If I hear one more Yo Wife So Ugly Joke … Geez … when I walked up to you the guys thought I was giving money to a homeless lady. Then Joe said I never told him I had a pet Iguana. Larry calls you “the dope dealer” now.
“You’ll get over it. But let me let you go for now. You know I’m busy working on my book.”
“Yeah, you just wait. I’m never helping you with the dishes again … And I’m wearing a Metallica shirt with a kilt to that stupid black tie gala you want me to go to …”
My husband looks like an underwear model. If he wore that to the gala, every man in the place would probably be sporting that look the next week.
“I don’t care if you wear a pair of white nylons … you look sexy in anything.”
“Used to think the same thing about you. Thx for proving me wrong today.”
I let out a big heartfelt belch. I wish there were some way to text a belch. I considered recording it and sending it, but I was driving.
I sipped the cola, and admired the sparkly ring on my finger.
Marriage –what a wonderful thing.