Kellan flew out bright and early for another business trip yesterday morning. A couple of hours passed, and then my phone rang. The following conversation ensued:
Kellan: You’re going to kill me.
Me: [Calmly.] I’m sure that’s true. What’s going on?
Kellan: Guess where I’m standing right now?
Me: Tahiti. I don’t even blame you. We’re halfway through July and we don’t even have TANS yet. Does summer come to New York?
Kellan: …I’m in front of a Chickfila.
This from the man that understands that I spend the better part of my days attempting to figure out how I can lure Truett Cathy into the trunk of my car, [Hey Truett Cathy, can I interest you in a piece of candy?], lock him in my closet and force him into indentured servitude so that he can fry me up some waffle fries whenever I get a craving. Which, incidentally, happens to be every morning at breakfast time. FRY, TRUETT CATHY, FRRRYYYY!!!
I’m a simple girl with simple wants.
And right now, I simply want to hit my husband in the face—right after he installs the deep fryer in our closet. I died one hundred thousand deaths thinking about Kellan eating an original chicken sandwich [PICKLES. My kingdom for one of those pickles!] while I angrily munched on leftovers. And in the unforgiving light of wistful Chickfila daydreams, everything you put into your mouth that is NOT an original chicken sandwich tastes like refrigeration and surrender. Disappointment: it’s what’s for dinner. If someone had showed up at my door holding a number one combo with Dr. Pepper, I’m pretty sure that I would have committed actual murder to make it mine.
Kellan is gone until Wednesday night, and for the life of me I can’t come up with a good reason NOT to make the three hour drive to the closest Chickfila. Anybody? Bueller?
Y’all. THIS is why New Yorkers are so angry all the time! No waffle fries? What kind of sorry excuse for a life is that?! I’m not going to lie, I’m getting angry too. I may even honk at someone on the road today. Waffle fries are a crutch. An unhealthy, psychological crutch. And they’re better than lithium!
Truett Cathy, if you see this, I just love you to pieces. You remind me of Santa, if Santa were to wander the streets passing out nuggets and chocolate chip cookies instead of toys. And while I would just LOVE to “Eat Mor Chikn”, you have made that utterly impossible. Please bring Chickfila to New York so I don’t have to commit a felony—I’m not even positive that you would FIT into the trunk of my VW bug. [And I think you and I both know that for a number one combo, I would find a way to get that sucker closed. Which could end up being unpleasant for both of us.] My apartment manager mumbled something about the fire marshal when we asked if we could put a grill on our balcony, so I’m almost positive that he would frown on a vat of boiling oil hiding out in my closet. Plus, the aforementioned closet is already full because I’m sharing with a boy [I know. I know.] , and given that I can’t even keep a plant alive, your prospects don’t look spectacular if you end up living there.
But for waffle fries, I am willing to take that chance.