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Another Big Bite

Another Big Bite

Category Archives: Bitchfest

The Cake that Almost Wasn’t

14 Wednesday May 2014

Posted by anotherbigbite in Bitchfest, I'm a Crafty Mo' Fo', Party Hearty

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

birthday cake, elsa, Elsa Cake, frozen, Frozen Cake, party

Another Big Bite - Elsa Frozen Cake

Thanks to Heidi over at Sassy Crumpet for taking a WAY better pic than I did. 🙂

“Don’t spend that much on an Elsa cake!  I will totally make one for you.”

Ah, ha.  Famous last words.  Why is it that whenever I expect things to go smoothly, I end up with chunky peanut butter?

One of Finny’s preschool friends was turning five, and like just about every girl under the age of fourteen, she is a major fan of Frozen.  Surely you have heard of this small, independant film?  You know the one; made by Disney, starring not one but TWO sparkly princesses…  The same one that people are spending hundreds of dollars on merchandise on Ebay…  The movie whose soundtrack I have managed to tune out much like a seasoned mother tunes out the tantrums of her two-year-old…

alice bday1

In December, I made Alice and Ariel cake and I thought I would tackle this one in much the same manner.  A plain, round cake with a VERY basic princess on top.  Nothing too fancy, and “not Ace of Cakes or anything, so don’t get too excited.”  The internet is chock full of Elsa cakes.  I’d find a little inspiration, get to try my hand at marshmallow fondant (to get rid of the marshmallows taunting me from the pantry) and maybe even get super fancy with sugar “ice.”  Hell yeah.

Hell no.

My first batch of sugar ice never got any harder than maple syrup.  Many YouTube videos and and two hours later, I was proudly admiring my second batch of perfect blue sugar glass.  And I was ready to tackle a fondant Elsa as soon as the kids went to bed.

Fondant Elsa had other plans.  Turns out marshmallow fondant isn’t quite as stiff as regular fondant.  Just as I was working on her head, I noticed her slowly slumping to one side.  I went to cut another toothpick to hold her up and as I turned around, I watched the skewer holding her up poke through her shoulder.  I gave up and waited for her to dry out a bit before I kept going.

She dried up enough to stand on her own by the next morning.  The cakes were baked, frosting was made, and the following evening I got to assembling everything.  Purple and blue marbled cakes got a coat of teal frosting and marshmallow fondant snow.  I made a fondant Olaf which turned out much better than expected.  The blue and purple sugar ice was set to go on the next morning before the party.

photo 3

photo 4

Just as I was finished putting the sugar ice on, I stopped to snap a picture of my handiwork.  It turned out pretty cute and just as I was patting myself on the back, Alice decided she would take a taste.  She gouged out a hunk of fondant and cake from the top of the cake and I completely lost it.  I started crying and yelling; it was as ugly as the time Finn knocked over the Christmas tree and smashed half of my childhood ornaments.  A few minutes later I realized I was being an idiot.  I smooshed in a few more shards of sugar ice and packed everything up in the car.  I may or may not have sung “Let it Go” to move past my drama.

photo 5

It was hot that day.  We stopped to get lunch at McDonalds on the way to the party.  Just like every Saturday afternoon, the place was packed, but the kids were so excited to get to the party that they didn’t ask once to go in the playplace.  We headed over to the gymnastics gym.  And we were the only ones there for Ava’s party.  Because I was an entire day too early.

photo 1 (2)

On the way home, I noticed that the whole cake was slumping…  It was too hot, and all the movement in the car was making all the frosting slide down around the cake’s ankles.  By the time I got home, I was crying again.  (Might I mention I was more than a little hormonal?)  I did the only thing I could think of; I pulled Elsa and Olaf off and we ate the cake.  I drug the kids to the grocery store and gathered all the supplies to make a whole new cake.

“The cake never bothered me anyway….”

photo 2 (2)

As I was putting it all together the next morning, Finn was more than a little confused.

“Didn’t we eat that cake yesterday?”  Yes we did, son.  Yes we did.

Cake 2.0 made it to the party relatively unscathed and the birthday girl loved it.  Which made it all worth it in the end.

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An Unpopular Opinion, Especially this close to Mother’s Day

06 Tuesday May 2014

Posted by anotherbigbite in Being a Grownup, Bitchfest, The "Joy" of Parenting

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

mothers day, parenting, sahm, stay-at-home-mom, unpopular opinion

I’ve spent the last three weeks deleting emails from Flowers.com, Shutterfly and Shari’s Berries that indirectly proclaim that I am a terrible daughter if I don’t drop forty bucks on something meaningful or consumable or dipped in chocolate…  Something that will arrive on my mom’s doorstop this Sunday.  Something that will show my mom just how much I love her.  Because nothing says “thanks for squeezing me through your birth canal” like a vase of wilted flowers.

But then this American Greetings video was blowing up my Facebook feed; a beautifully crafted piece of propaganda that proclaims that being a mother is the hardest (and probably most thankless) employment on the planet.

49443473

So I’m just going to come out and say what has been eating at me since I watched it.  Dude, being a mom is NOT THAT HARD.

Specifically, being a stay-at-home mom (SAHM to those of us who live in this category) is not that hard.

As with anything else, there are obviously caveats to this (slightly obnoxious) blanket statement.  Moms of special needs kids, moms of multiples, new moms and Michelle Duggar; they have it rough.  But us regular, run-of-the-mill SAHMs with our regular, run-of-the-mill kids have a pretty sweet gig going.  Not that most of us want to admit it.

Let the public flogging begin.  Bah-ring it on.

I try to compare what I do now with my “career” days before my little people came along, and I could not be more baffled at all the ladies who stay at home and proclaim that being a SAHM is nothing short of slave labor.  Maybe those girls never had “real” jobs.  Maybe they just like to have something to bitch about.  Maybe they are feeling under appreciated.  Maybe it is all of the above.

You’ve heard the old adage about doing what you love will make you happy.  Try as I might, I can’t think of a single thing that I love more than my children (taking a nap is a close second), and I count myself lucky that I am afforded the privilege of being able to stay at home with my kids.  So that is my job; being a mom.  I don’t need to tack on the “housekeeper, chef, personal assistant, blah, blah” blurb on to make myself feel validated.  I don’t need to calculate what wage I would earn if being a mom was a “real job.”  I don’t need some fucking American Greetings video to make my “job” seem important.  It is important.  Every mother’s job is.  It just isn’t particularly HARD.

You know what is hard?  Trying to make sense of three years of unreconciled expense reports while Janice from Accounting keeps yammering on about her divorce.  Trying to motivate a class of fifteen-year-old assholes into reading the classics.  Trying to wrap your brain around the death of an employee and getting their family the right information about their life insurance payout.  That shit is hard.

You know what isn’t hard?  Mopping the kitchen floor.  Making breakfast for little people even though you desperately need your morning coffee.  Picking lollipops out of the carpet.  Those things AREN’T FUN.  Getting a kid to sit still while trying in vain to get him to work on his handwriting; that is a little hard.  But if you neglect to do any of those things in a timely manner, you aren’t going to get fired.  It would take a criminal act to get fired from being a mom.

Being a SAHM isn’t always fun, I’ll give you that.  But it does have its own benefits package.  There isn’t available health insurance coverage, but I do get to wear sweatpants all day.  I don’t get the adult conversations that I did when I worked outside the home, but when the shit hits the fan I have executive power to abandon puzzle time in favor of Happy Meals and a trip to the playground.  I guess I do miss my coworkers allowing my privacy when I needed to pee, but I’ll gladly trade eating a Lean Cuisine alone at my desk for a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich with Finn and Alice any day.  Simply and literally, I LOVE the people I work for.  Actual, literal LOVE.  Not many other occupations can boast that.  The people I work for are fucking infuriating; even more so than Janice from Accounting.  But I would actually jump in front of a bus for them.  I want to spend my vacations doing my job.  When my husband bitches about his coworkers, he gets to leave them behind when he leaves work.  Call me crazy, but I miss my kids when I’m given a break from them.

On my hardest day; I desperately can’t get my minions to bend to my will.  I think in the business world, they call that “management.”

After I sat down and tried to work out the cost-benefit analysis of being a mom, I’m willing to bet it is one of the easier jobs out there.  Long hours, sure.  But no matter the work I put in, I am raising the future.  Yeah, that sounds over-dramatic and pretentious, but it is every bit as true as it is obnoxious.  A little hard work being a mom makes one hell of a difference in the end.

You know what job I think is hard?  Really hard?  Being a working mom.  Though my days of straddling that fence were brief (only about six months), it was tough.  For me, I could be a great mom or a great employee.  Everything I missed about working; the wardrobe, the friends, the social interaction; it took away energy from being a good mom.  The moms that hold the torch in both arenas; that is HARD.  And I tip my hat to them, for they are better and more patient women than I.

But somewhere along the line, this notion of staying home with your kids is toughest job EVER came into our collective social consciousness…  I want to dispel that idea.  And you can think me a pretentious prick; so be it. It is hard, simply because being a human being is hard.  But it is fun.  And there isn’t a dress code.  My kids are far from perfectly behaved angels.  They are terrors just like any other kids.  And yet; as an adult, I find it a stretch to describe what I do all day as difficult.

So now that I’ve pissed off 29% of the moms out there, I’ll leave you with this…  Although it might not be the most difficult job ever, it is one of the most important.  I dread the day when I have to put my two weeks in for staying at home with Finn and Alice.  Although that American Greetings video got my kickers in a twist a few weeks ago, they did get one thing right.  Appreciate your mom.  She did a lot for you.  It might not be rocket science teaching a kid how to poop in the potty, but it is important.  Let’s get our semantics right, shall we?

And even if you do spend an exorbitant amount of money on chocolate-dipped fruit for your mom this year (spoiler; I didn’t), pick up the phone and tell her how important she is to you.

I love you, Mom.

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Childhood Milestone: The “Littlest A-Hole” Stage

21 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by anotherbigbite in Bitchfest, My Two Cents, The "Joy" of Parenting

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

alice, children, parenting, terrible twos, two year old

Don't let that cute, whipped cream covered face fool you.

Don’t let that cute, whipped cream covered face fool you.

Before I go on, the blogging community requires that I mention this disclaimer:

DISCLAIMER:  I love my children (probably more than you love yours) and think the world of them.

But…

My daughter has turned into a monster.  She has her moments of pure innocence and gentleness, sure.  But most of the time, she acts like a complete asshole.

We went through this stage with Finn when he was about this age, and it wasn’t until Alice started her round that we realized Finny’s had ended quite some time ago. For the most part, Finn has developed into a very nice young man.  He is rambunctious, doesn’t always listen and has the (slightly more than) occasional tantrum, but he is generally nice to people and doesn’t act like a little fucker simply for the sake of acting like a little fucker anymore.

Oh, lord…  She is saying these things about her children!  Calling them horrible names; cuss words, even!  How could a woman ever think such things about the  cherubs that burst their way from her very own uterus, causing sleep deprivation, memory loss, pain, saggy boobs, memory loss and lack of cultural awareness?

Most sane individuals would call this “the terrible twos.”  I choose to call it what it is.  And while your children probably were never assholes (and eat only a gluten-free, free range, organic diet 100% of the time and have never laid eyes on a McNugget, battery operated toy or a television screen), mine certainly have been in their short lives.  I’ve read my fair share of compassionate parenting blogs and no one seems to want to admit that children are being complete pricks for no other reason than they can.

“Mommy.  Peee-you.  You farted.  Ewww.”  She gives me a look of disgust that would make Gary Busey run for cover.

Seriously?  Now she is blaming me for her flatulence?  Where did she pick this up?  I can be immature at times, but it isn’t like I’m gonna get into a school yard brawl about who farted.  I have better, more adult things to do than fight over whose stench permeates her delicate nostrils.

“I most certainly did not!  Don’t blame me for that!  I wasn’t the one who broke into the pantry and ate three fistfuls of dried apricots!”

Well, most of the time I have more adult things to do.

My sweet little angel, what have you become?  One minute you are a little peanut, snuggled in my arms as I rocked you to sleep…  The next moment you are trying to flog the dog with your princess wand (which I’ve learned is really nothing more than a sword for girls) and pull Finn’s hair because his feet touched yours.  Heaven forbid anyone in this house would want to take a shower without your brow-knitted scowl demanding that you also be included.  If we refuse, you lapse into a foot-stomping, teeth-gnashing flail fest.  Punching the iPad?  Shoving your plate on the floor because the strawberries are cut up?

Lady, I am damn particular about my food as well, but I do not negotiate with terrorists.

I get it, I get it.  She is testing her boundaries…  Trying to find her place in our little family unit.  Yes, that is great.  But blaming me when she farts?  Really?

After Nathan tucked her in the other night, she gave him a kiss.  “I love you, little lady,” he tells her.

“I love you, too, Daddy.”  Cue the heart-melting…  “Now go.”  She rolls over, sticks her thumb in her mouth and asks for me.

See?  Asshole, I tell you.

But, at the end of the day, she’s our little asshole.  And truth be told, she is very much her mother’s daughter.  If it means we come to blows over strawberries diced into manageably sized pieces, so be it.  From one a-hole to another, I love you, Al.

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Martha, Martha, Martha!!

22 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by anotherbigbite in Bitchfest

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

blogger blunder, comments, martha stewart, martha stewart blogger, martha stewart blogger comments

A few days ago, Martha Stewart made a face-plam inducing remark on Bloomburg TV, mostly aimed at food bloggers, but generally at the community of us maker/bloggers in general.

The fact that she has had the very same haircut for the last twenty-five years makes me feel a little better that I’ve gone a decade without a major overhaul to the old coiffure.-via

Here’s the quote, and if you are curious enough to watch the few minutes of video for context, you’ll realize that she delivers it with every bit of dismissive, entitled bitchyness that you’d expect from Ms. Martha.

“Who are these bloggers? They’re not trained editors at Vogue magazine. There are bloggers writing recipes that aren’t tested that aren’t necessarily very good, or are copies of what really good editors have created and done. Bloggers create a kind of a popularity but they are not the experts. We have to understand that.”
 

And all of a sudden, a quarter of the female creative blogging community got all up in arms about Martha’s insensitive remarks.

But you know what?  That is just fine.  It doesn’t matter what Martha thinks of me, or any of the rest of us bloggers out there.  Most likely, she doesn’t have any idea who I am, and if she did, it would mean I’m running a pretty successful popsicle stand over here.

I’m not particularly bothered by her comments… It is almost like being surprised when Kayne West makes an ass of himself of George Bush says “nuke-ya-ler” instead of “nuclear.”  In essence, Martha is just being Martha.  Am I shocked?  Not one bit.

More than anything, her comments make me shake my head, put my hands over my eyes and think “Oh, Martha, Martha….  C’mon, gurrl… You are totally alienating your core demographic. ”  Lots of us non-“expert” bloggers are out there snarfing up her line of craft supplies or buying her magazines or cooking her recipes.  You know that Martha has an army of people “expert”-ing for her… It isn’t like she is out there toiling away in her test kitchen or wielding a hot glue gun in a room designated only for wrapping gifts in one of her many New England estates.  She’s got someone to do all that for her.  And she has for some time.  Who knows if Martha is still personally at the top of her creative game.  Maybe she can’t even craft her way out of a paper bag; she might be a little out of practice at this point.

What she is a master at (or has a team of masters for) is marketing.  Are her paints better than anyone elses?  Are her line of specialty scissors sharper than any others?  What about her sheets at Macy’s?  Are they the softest sheets in the market?  Probably not.  But they are pretty.  And come in beautiful packaging.  They are marketed better than most, that’s for sure.

Martha Stewart has always seemed to be at odds with herself.  It’s as though there is the person who Martha really is; the highfalutin’, snobby, ex-model, connoisseur-of-all-things-wonderfully-representative-of-high-new-england-society, very successful ex-con who has made her share of unsavory life decisions (insider trading; I’m looking at you), and then there is the Martha she wants you to think she is; genuine, funny and down to earth.  When that Martha comes out, it results are awkward and tense…  But when she is being herself – like the time she made mashed potatoes with Snoop Dog, it is actually pretty entertaining.  (Making brownies with him was exceptionally hysterical.)  But when she tries to present herself as one us regular folks… Yeah, I’m not buying it.

But one thing we all have in common; every one us human beings, is that we all struggle with (in varying degrees) is reconciling who we really are, and who we want everyone to think we are.  Martha is the same way.

The only part about Martha’s remarks that gets my goat is how she writes us all off; none of us are “experts” and therefore we shouldn’t be taken seriously.  But what is an expert, really?  Someone who has a degree in their field?  Someone who is naturally talented?  Someone who spent 10,000 hours honing their craft?

I can’t help feeling that Martha thinks if it isn’t perfect – just absolutely perfect – it isn’t worth putting out into the world.  I understand that feeling; I deal with it every time I hit “publish” on a post.  So far, no matter how imperfect a project is, or how many typos I missed, I’ve never regretted doing any of it.  I learn from my mistakes (there have been oh, so, so, SO many).  So, should I stop doing what I love to do, just because Martha Stewart doesn’t think much of it?  Hell no, and none of you should, either.  Or be upset if some cranky lady thinks less of something she’s never seen, tasted or touched?  Nope.

Take Martha’s comments for what they are; her opinion.  She’s very successful, has discerning style for sure, but also isn’t the only person who dictates what good taste is.  Good taste is subjective; I certainly didn’t care for her recipe for curry chicken, but I don’t write her off completely because of it.  While lots of her stuff is fantastic, even she and her team of experts can’t hit it out of the park every time.  (Like all that head-to-toe denim she used to wear in the early 90s).

The sentiment of all the bloggers in a huff about her remarks is that she owes us all an apology.  I certainly don’t feel like I need one.  It is her opinion, and I don’t feel the need to do an about-face and apologize for my views every time they don’t coincide with popular opinion.  Sometimes I do need to apologize for opening my big mouth and vocalizing that opinion, though.  In the end, maybe her views will be her ultimate undoing – if you can’t connect with your audience, you’re doomed.  

Maybe Martha’s team of experts will help her out of this mess.  Or not.  I’m not going to rethink purchasing those cool fringe scissors just because I think the lady whose picture’s on the packaging is a bitch.  She’s entitled to her own opinion, and as long as she isn’t hurting anyone, it really doesn’t bother me.  If Martha thinks that my forays in the kitchen are sub-par; fine.  I think they are pretty stellar, and that’s all that really matters.

What is ironic (to me, anyway), is that if Martha Stewart was around my age, you bet your sweet pippy she’d have a blog and be one of those popular non-experts, too.  Everyone has to start somewhere.  For most of us, this is just a hobby.  For a select few, it is a modest living.  Why does someone super-successful feel the need to shit on other people’s livelihood?  Could it be we’re stealing some of her thunder?  Martha is a big fish, but she isn’t the only one in the Pinterest Sea.  The market she had cornered a decade ago isn’t what it used to be.  The game has changed.

And if Martha were my age, there would be some other bitchy, old lady complaining about her blog and lack of experience, too.  It is the nature of things.

It is true that most of us bloggers and crafty folks have Martha Stewart’s driven, take-no-prisoners, perfectionist drive to thank for easy access to the perfect shade of micro glitter.  We might not be able to afford pillow shams in the perfect shade of robin’s egg blue without her (now available at Macy’s, people!!).  But I’m not going to let her lack of compassion for us little people make me feel invalidated as a blogger.  The blogging community doesn’t need her seal of approval to be successful.  For pure argument’s sake, even if she was the seed of everything creative in the world (she’s not), the blogosphere goes right along ticking with or without her.  When I start Another Big Bite Omnimedia, maybe I’ll take heed to MS’s words of wisdom.

I do have this one tidbit of advice for Ms. Stewart, though.  We are totally okay with you being a complete snob, Martha!  Just embrace yourself!    But try not to drag anyone else down while you are doing it, even if they are encroaching on your slice of the pie.

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Death of The Dad Shirt

03 Wednesday Jul 2013

Posted by anotherbigbite in Being a Grownup, Bitchfest, My Two Cents, The Good Ole Days

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

backpacking shirt, being a dad, button down shirt, fashion, getting older, growing up, the dad shirt

Yes, I get it. We are getting older. And yes, I realize that I am not half as stylish that I once was. But really, was this a good look for me?

If I'm going to embarrass myself, I'm bringing the whole fam down with me.  Awwe, yeah... Fanny packs all around.  Disney World hasn't seen a bunch of gangstas like this since 1988.

If I’m going to embarrass myself, I’m bringing the whole fam down with me. Awwe, yeah… Fanny packs all around. Disney World hasn’t seen a bunch of gangstas like this since 1988.

Getting older isn’t all puppies and butterflies; in fact, it sucks. This should come to the surprise of NOBODY EVER, except those who are under the age of twenty-four and still live under the delusion that they will forever be limber and perky with boobs that will never sag or knees that will never ache from sitting in the same spot on the floor for too long. I get it. I felt that way, too, my young dears. But all of a sudden, at about twenty-eight, you look at a picture of yourself in high school and realize that you don’t have the same skin you used to and that was an effing decade ago. Like, for real.

Blows goats, I tell you. Goats.

But still, at twenty-eight, I felt like I had a decent handle on what was en vogue, and though I realized I was too old to wear the most up and coming fashion, I could appreciate it for what it was. Now – I look at these kids and think “Holy Christ, child! Do you honestly think the side ponytail is making a comeback? Those high-waisted, acid-washed jeans are look just as hideous as they did when I rocked them in 1989 with a New Kids on the Block t-shirt and a pair of LA Gears (two sets of laces, ladies and gents; was the shit).”

I don’t WANT to be yesterday’s news. Please, oh please tell me that my time has not come – that moment in a person’s life where they forever stick to exactly the same style until the end of their days is here… My dad (I love him dearly, really, I do) would buy the same pair of plain, white Reeboks time and time again… For, like, twenty years. Finally, they stopped making them, or his girlfriend was instrumental in getting that man into the new millenium; either, or, or both – THANK GOD. It was time for a change.

My brother even bought an identical pair of Reeboks when he dressed up as my dad for Halloween.  Though you can't see his shoes in the first pic of us in the 80's - I assure you, they are the exact same style as he is wearing here.

My brother even bought an identical pair of Reeboks when he dressed up as my dad for Halloween (2003, maybe?). Though you can’t see his shoes in the first pic of us in the 80’s – I assure you, they are the exact same style as he is wearing here.

It is much easier for guys, though. Styles seem to change less for them. Besides the teeny-boppers (like Justin Bieber – who seriously thinks THIS is fashionable), not much changes over the course of a decade. Nathan is lucky. He still has a few shirts he rocked in high school; they look even better with age (like George Clooney), and though the fit of jeans has changed a few times over the past ten years, if the rest of his clothes didn’t wear out, it’s quite possible he could make it to 2023 without stepping foot in a Banana Republic.

With one exception.

The DAD SHIRT.

Well, one REALLY simular to this one. via REI

A few years ago, he bought this shirt at REI, thinking it was awesome – and I marginally agreed. I certainly didn’t disagree; in fact I bought him another one for Father’s Day last year. I suppose I have my little, own self to blame. The Dad Shirt was fine for a while, but it started to eat at me.

The Dad Shirt in all its glory.

The Dad Shirt in all its glory.

When we hiked The Manitou Incline, he wore The Dad Shirt. A couple of his work buddies razed him about it; “Dude, who wears a button-down to hike The Incline??” Nathan protested that it was super breathable, it’s meant for backpacking, yada, yada, but when he glanced back at me, he caught me mouthing the words: I know, right??

Oh, god. He brought it to Disney World. I begged him; “Please, oh please, babe… Not The Dad Shirt… Please?”

He thought I was being ridiculous. I am most of the time, so it is only natural for him to think so about The Shirt.

A few days ago, he wore it again. CURSE YOU, DAD SHIRT!! We headed to Mickey-D’s for lunch in a sketchy part of town. The girl taking our order – bless her heart, it must have been her first day – was hopelessly dorky. In the spirit of full disclosure, I am a humongous dork myself – a HUGE dweeb as evidenced by that first photo. But this girl, she was the type that you might catch talking and giggling to herself over her unicorn/bubbly heart Trapper Keeper with her head-gear on. You know what? Look back at that first photo of me. She was that, only college-age. She was super sweet, don’t get me wrong, but even in her McDonald’s uniform, you could tell she would never be able to find her way around the clearance rack at The Gap.

The process of her taking our order was an agonizing five minutes. The lady behind us asked another employee (very rudely) if someone else could help the poor girl. Oh, my heart just ached for her, but we did our best to be patient with our would-you-please-take-the-picture-already,-Mom? smiles plastered to our faces. Finally we were done. I took the kids to find a booth and as soon as Nae walked over with our food, wouldn’tyaknow, we were missing french fries and he headed back to the counter.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, about that, sir!” I could hear her apologize. “Let me bring fresh ones to the table as soon as they are up. I’m so sorry. I apologize… I’m sorry.”

“Really, that’s fine. It’s okay. Not a big deal. It’s just french fries,” Nathan said in his ‘dad voice.’

“Oh, thanks,” she sighed. “And sir?”

“Um-hum?”

“That’s a really nice shirt.”

I about choked on a McNugget. I thought to myself; I know, right??

Nae walked back to the table where I was unsuccessfully trying to hide my smug little smile.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yep.”

He hasn’t worn it since.

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