“My Kentucky Fried Tale” or “KFC, WTF?”

There are many gastronomic staples in the food chain that jar my taste buds right  back to my childhood in beautiful Lyons, Illinois…or to be more specific, “chain” of franchises. As a Midwest gal at heart, I know the sheer bliss of my father walking in with sacks of White Castle Hamburgers…Mother was supremely fertile and sometimes it takes sacks to feed industrial-sized families. Some occasions just scream  “Fancy” and those sacks represented fine dining to our economically challenged cult, I mean, family. And “slyders” were consistent in their quality, texture, and price point (back then). And those five little holes stamped in the center of each and every White Castle Hamburger—pure genius. These were, in fact,  the earliest known form of “branding” in history—and a precursor to those crowd-pleasin’ “bugles” corn chips–which we donned as nail extensions, long before the “Lee” group ever conceived Press-On Nails. With the way MY mind works, one would think I would parlay those  chip-tips into becoming a manicuring mogul, but I really missed the boat on THAT particular opportunity for fame and finger fortune. But I digress…

Whenever I speak to someone from the ‘hood, you just mention “sliders” and a certain look of bemusement appears in the lip area and they go into a dream sequence. And long before the whole “Harold and Kumar” saga, White Castle was associated with a certain element of “citizens” that enjoy imbibing of a particular herb…as I learned in those angst-filled “Wonder Years” of my youth. Heck, my younger sis manages the area White Castle near the town that I grew up and often finds her stepping over a former classmate of mine just to get out of the door and head for home in the wee hours after her shift. But by-golly-gee, White Castle slyders are as sacred as the cow they are composed of from my standpoint. However, I can’t help but wonder what did they DO with the leavins’ from all those holes being punched in their burgers? And whose job description was it to perform this function? And, did they put them back in the next burger? I guess it wouldn’t exactly be easy to market “Burger Holes” like Dunkin’ Donuts did with “Donut Holes”, would it? That would be silly and not a very filling sidekick to coffee—being that they would, in essence, be little dots of meat. Which, somehow, magically segways me into my tale of another franchise-offering of my dysfunctional youth…the artist formerly known as “Kentucky Fried Chicken”.  And  here is where my Kentucky Fried tale begins….

I’m not a connoisseur of chicken nor am I an affectionado of fowl, but I DO know how I like my KFC…spicy (Original Recipe…duh!), greasy, void of any recognizable nutritional value and served with a pock-marked smile, dammit. And with these high standards in mind, I visited the local KFC during my recent triumphant return to the Chicago area .

As many of my reader’s already are aware, I am currently touring the Midwest. Well, not exactly touring, so to speak, but visiting my brother’s home in Aurora , Illinois (Wayne’s World, Wayne’s World–Party Time…Excellent!) with my bro’s casa serving as my base of operations for “Krava by Kiki”. Yes, it is pathetic but I’m building an empire and that shit costs money. So here I am with my mother the parrot (yes, I’ve also brought “Gladys” the GPS) and our motley crew has a hankering for some KFC.

We are in a celebratory mood as my nephew is making his First Communion this Sunday. So we decide to have a little Pre-Communicant soiree and invite the “Colonel”. My nephew’s First Communion Rehearsal was at 7:00 p.m.—so, what better way to prepare to receive the Lord than with a belly full of fowl? So the parrot and I hop in the rental car and point it (with Gladys’s help) towards our local KFC on Reflection Drive in Naperville.

We roll into the parking lot and enter the familiar red and white building and the aroma of “11 herbs and spices” permeate our proboscises. I momentarily closed my eyes and inhaled deeply…not unlike when the mosquito sprayer truck would roll through the streets on warm summer nights and my posse would run behind and let the pesticides settle snugly in our developing lungs. Yes, that was pleasant enough…but THIS was better! And justlikethat…I’m back in Lyons, Illinois lickin’ my fingers and revelling in the austerity of it all—with a red and white bucket as an attractive centerpiece…for we reek of class! But I was not to remain lost in the moment for long–for I was lulled into a false sense of security…you betcha! And here’s why…

Let me preface this by saying and acknowledging that it was the dinner hour and to state that there were more than a few other chicken-cravers in the establishment would be an under-estimation on my part. But we soldiered on and took our place patiently in the rapidly-growing line that soon reached out the door…great hunter-gatherers that we were.

And heading up our KFC experience, was an army of ONE (1), who manned the register like he had recently been the recipient of a frontal lobotomy. Ah…another member in the “I Don’t Give a Damn About You” club of ever-growing franchisee clerks. He was expressionless, rarely blinked, and I believe was in fact, as expired as he chicken that was about to assault our pallets. OK, not everyone is as sunny and delightful as moi, so I pressed on.

After much discussion between the parrot and I, our despondent cashier was asked the question “How much chicken do we need to feed a family of 7?”. He looked at me like I had sprouted a third breast and shrugged. So we now established that he was still of this world and that one of those genetically-altered headless chickens they are growing in the back hadn’t turned him into a zombie. We muddled through this big life-altering decision, made our selections of Original Recipe, Extra Crispy, Grilled, and Boneless Chicken (poultry pimps that we are), Macaroni and Cheese, Potato Wedges, Cole Slaw, Sweet Corn, Biscuits and the VERY important two sides of Mashed Potatoes and Gravy (the kids’ fave and ONLY request). We also stipulated only white meat…not a social commentary but a better nutritional choice, we felt, in our 10,000 calorie meal (to accompany the Diet Coke at home). And then we had a serious lapse in judgement in presenting A COUPON…horrors!!!

Instantly, brain-dead man sprang to life to argue that our coupon for a free piece (ONE) of boneless chicken was verboten as it was to be used in conjunction with an 8-piece meal and we had voided this option by ordering MUCH MORE THAN THAT.

Seriously? I can’t make this shit up, people. I write about what I encounter in my everyday life and I’m NEVER out of subject matter…the pickins are sooooo ripe between Sparky the “Shushing” Waiter at Alta Mesa Country Club, Cox Cable (who now watch me through my cable box as they have marked me as a dissident), Hobby Lobby’s Homeland Security Detail of Herbie the Elf, and now, I am facing the insipid spawn of Harland Sanders…who shall be forever known to me for reference purposes in future ramblings of mine…as Foghorn Deadhorn.

We didn’t want to stare directly into those dead eyes that now were energized into a pinwheel state at the mere SUGGESTION that we might utilize a valid coupon on HIS WATCH (even though we had just laid out $60…silly US–we had ordered MORE THAN 8 PIECES!). We backed away slowly and sat down at a table to await our summons to retrieve our feast that was sure to be well worth the tongue lashing we had received at the wings of Foghorn.

The Parrot first had to brush away dead chicken crumbs off her chair and the palms of my hands glued themselves to the table top on contact. Holy Mother of God…my worst attack of OCD kicked in and I threw up in my mouth a little bit. This was a level of nasty befitting a chicken coop. But I was momentarily distracted by the eagle-eyed findings of the Parrot, that our receipt stated that we would, in fact, be receiving DARK MEAT!  I swallowed the bile that had risen while mother rose to do battle…shielding her little chick from the crossfire of the zombie eyes of Deadhorn.

I knew this wasn’t going to be pretty. But as my father used to say, sometimes the right thing to do isn’t the easy thing to do. And so it was, the parrot marched into battle with receipt in hand as if Atlanta itself was burning behind her–for as God is her witness, and as long as there was breath in her body, she would NEVER have dark meat again!

The Parrot pushed forward to alert brain-dead man of his error in ringing up our order as requesting dark meat. There was a “sniff” and a loud exhale of air (from his mouth) and he had a word with the “cook” (and I use that term loosely) . Then he scowled at us and returned to his next victims…I mean, customers. What is that OTHER sound I hear? Oh yes, the Colonel doing flip-flops in his grave.

Finally, our order was ready and although I wanted to check our “bounty” for errors (I had a bad feeling about this) the fear that the leavins’ on the tables in the “restaurant” would eat through the cardboard containers stopped this urge. So we continued toward home—and, as suspected, our time in the chicken concentration camp had caused us to miss our guest of honor, my nephew, before his departure for First Communion rehearsal.

All the fun and festivities were only heightened when, it was discovered after a quick forage through our plastic red and white bags, that THERE WERE NO MASHED POTATOES IN SIGHT. Shocking.

The fam sat down to eat—minus the little man of the hour and soon discovered that the food really sucked “the big one”…with the CHICKEN being the suckiest. Oh the humanity of it all…all the mashed memories of a greasy, more succulent time where chicken was done, dare I say…RIGHT?

I understand that to some of you this may seem trivial and perhaps it is…but I promise you, it gets better. So my next move is what my readers would expect…I make THE CALL to the KFC on Reflection Drive to alert them to their lapse in servicing our complete chicken needs.  And this is the conversation that followed:

Me: Ring, ring

KFC: (unintelligible)

Me: “Hello?”

KFC: “Yes?”

Me: “May I speak to your manager?”

KFC: “There isn’t one”

Me: “Well, there must be someone in charge—I’ve had a problem with my food order and need to speak to someone that is acting as a supervisor.”

KFC: “Hold on”

What followed next was 7 entire minutes of hearing headless genetically-altered chicken being prepared. So I hung up and redialed…only to learn that my number was BLOCKED!

Soooooo—I called from my brother’s cell phone…for over an hour, and the phone just rang and rang.

I then contacted corporate and told them of my experience and they said they would follow up with me.

I did actually get a hold of the store manager the next day–who took a very dismissive and passive-aggressive attitude and offered me a bucket more of crappy chicken…no thanks. She also agreed to “investigate” (translation…”fuck off”) and get back to me. This was as sincere as the many men in my dating career that said “I’ll call you” or the many men I married that said “The check is in the mail” after I called them.

And so I write…and Foghorn Deadhorn joins the ranks of the others…the slack-jawed Herbie the Elf at Hobby Lobby, Sparky the Shushing, Jazz-Handed Waiter, and the cult that is Cox Cable.

And I close, a little sad in the knowledge that another oil-soaked memory of my youth had been defiled–the dream dashed and deep-fried into oblivion.

“Public Service Announcement For Men…How to Post a Pic on a Dating Site and Increase the Probability of Actually Getting Laid”

I will freely admit that I have dipped a toe in the cesspool that is online dating. And it has been a wonderful voyage to the bottom of the sea of the male human psyche. I can’t speak for the female offerings on said sites for I don’t swim in the lady pond, but in the interest of fairness, I will acknowledge that the gals, I’m sure, are serving up their own heapin’ helpin’ of crazy. Now back to the man-bashing…

Fellas, I’d like to do a public service announcement for you guys who just can’t seem to “connect” on any of those “high-brow” sites like OK Cupid, Date HookUp, or that wonderful source of intellectuals, Plenty of Fish—GET A WOMAN TO TAKE YOUR PICTURE. Who better can objectively produce a panty-dropping photo? This is the answer to ACTUALLY getting laid and not just viewing our pictures, wacking-off, and retiring to a rancid sofa for an evening of “Flipper” reruns with a Bud Lite. And speaking of “Flipper”…

In your profile pics, we don’t want to see your fish. And that is not a euphemism for anything resembling a body part. For the life of me, I can’t understand the thought process here. Maybe to another GUY, a whole line-up of the “catch of the day” will cause a “stirring”…but for us? Not so much. I can assure you we don’t think “Hmmm, he has no job, reads comic books in his spare time, and lives with his mama…but hey—he can sure rustle up some bass! What time should I be ready?”

Additionally, we also understand the necessity of a car and can appreciate the work you put in on your particular beast. But we don’t need to see 25 different angles of your bucket of bolts. We “get” it…btw…does it actually RUN or are you like the last 5 guys that hit us up, who’s car is in the shop and want us to drive? Oh, and we HATE Corvettes. They scream that you are over-compensating for something…probably in your penis region.

And now, to the actual photo shoot that includes YOU and not dead fish or an inanimate object that is probably inanimate…get your WHOLE HEAD in the shot…not just an eye, or half of a face, or from the forehead down in an effort to cover up your baldness.  As a side note, some women LOVE bald and I am one of them–and have a sexy “bald as a newborn babe” man in my life that gets laid regularly. A bald head is quite phallic and reminds us of your wiener. Just sayin’…

And please don’t “smolder” in your picture…you look stupid and like a fucktard. Resist that urge for it will be misinterpreted for constipation or neurological damage.

And, FYI, we also realize that a woman has been cut out of your picture. Our eagle-eyes spot the manicured hand with the wedding ring curling around your waist…and we know that someday, we TOO can be on your cutting-room floor. Or even worse yet, that she is, in fact, your current wife and you are a big, fat, cheating loser who should die. This will not get you a date either, just so you know.

And I will never understand the phenomenon that you feel that if you don’t like what you see, you must drop everything to immediately contact us to tell us how unworthy we are of your “good thang” and write an essay on why we should feel shame for occupying the same planet and breathing your air. For some reason, you think it’s a Smorgasbord of ladies who are “ripe for your pluckin” and feel it great sport to pick apart body parts in women’s pics and that it’s appropriate to actually alert us regarding our already fragile body images. One Silver-tongued devil actually said to me…”You are pretty, but you would be a knockout if you lost 20 pounds.” Be assured that comments like that will not get you laid. And yet, YOU obviously haven’t looked in the mirror lately. You are a 50 year old dude with a beer gut who hasn’t shaved in 6 months that thinks he deserves a supermodel. Just because we are there in a picture doesn’t mean you can have “that”. While you might not want to bed us, date us, or marry us, it’s like TV…simply change the channel. We’ll get over our loss. This is not to be confused with the comments that I am making today which are meant as constructive and to inspire and teach. I would never DREAM of actually contacting a man and telling him how ridic his photo is. I have better things to do…like call my girlfriends and look him up and have a great chuckle together, without purposefully scarring his male ego. My mother raised me right–to not hurt people’s feelings to their face. Instead talk about them behind their backs so they don’t know how you feel and are ignorant to your opinion…everybody wins. But I digress…

And finally, I loved it when you take that proverbial pic in the bathroom with the cell phone nekked from the waist up. Not pretty. We really don’t want to meet you after that image. I guess men think that if they flash their torso we’ll be whipped into a frenzy of lust and have to “get us some of that”…and they would be WRONG. And then there are the 20 year olds that like to hit us up…usually saying that wonderful ice-breaker “sup?” They are also usually shirtless with aforementioned cell phone in hand in their pics as well. I told them “Stand up straight, put a shirt on, go wash your hands and get a job…son.” That comment usually douses the flames of desire in their only slightly post pubescent loins and the visions of Sugar Mamas that dance in their heads.

And there you have it…REMINDING you that this is from a woman’s perspective and to be utilized as a teaching tool for success in your “hook up” dreams. Now you menfolk, I do know what you are thinking–”Oh yeah, sure, but what about the things you ladies do!” As previously stated, I don’t play on that team so of course, I don’t know…but can only imagine. I write about my life, as I see it, no holes are barred, and I take no prisoners. You’ll never have to guess what I am thinking, for sure. However, this is not the case where most women are concerned. I’ll give you an example. An often heard conversational interlude between man and woman goes something like this…

Man: “What did I do to make you angry?”

Woman: “Oh, YOU know!”

Ladies, they DON’T know unless you are specific. Their brains are filled with sex, fish, and automobiles and they are VERY busy. Tell them that you didn’t appreciate them leaving the toilet seat up and then banging your sister.

Men, do you walk away feeling any more enlightened after this convo? Absofuckinlutely not! You have no clue. I am of the school of thought to just hit you over the head with a heavy object, get it over with, and move on to the ER. Wouldn’t you appreciate that more? Sometimes a concussion is less painful than trying to figure out what women are thinking.

And now you know from a woman’s perspective WHAT WE ARE THINKING when we see your pic on your dating profile. So go ahead–call your closest lady-friend whose bones you don’t want to jump (or wait until AFTER the photo session…never during…we don’t want to see that either) and have HER take your pic to optimize your chances with the mingling singles.

And in closing, I’d like to say “Thank you, Mr. Nobel, for awarding me this Peace Prize in the category of The War Between Men and Women, subcategory, The Eradication of Douchie-ness in the Promotion of Photo Excellence for all of Mankind.”

My pageant-mates will be soooo proud of me—a beauty queen that actually knows something about World Peace!

“Martha Stewart Move Over — I Can Whip Up Rice Pilaf While Tap Dancing and Dodging a Flying Brassiere”

It’s been “Hell Week” for me, trying to leave town to head for my old stomping grounds in the Chicago area. Everything seemed crammed into this last week and pushed me to my breaking point. Well, I DID break a nail, so give me some cred there. But my hair held up beautifully if I do say so myself. There were Press Releases to format and send for Mesa Encore Theatre, as just this past week I was offered the position of Director of Public Relations and a seat on the Board of Directors. These fine folks are turning me loose on the media…imagine that? I’m brimming with excitement at the possibilities and trying to formulate sentences omitting the “F” word as an adjective, noun, or verb. So yes, there ARE challenges to meet! And speaking of challenges, the dinner party My Mother the Parrot (I call her “The Parrot” due to her unique ability to mimic the GPS commands then overrule them) decided to throw — with me commandeering chef duties — was not without incident.

As my friends know, I am a perfectionist and detail-oriented. I was so slammed this past week but still had to squeeze in the dinner with Mom’s posse. I love these ladies and always enjoy their company — such a hoot!

I had carefully planned the menu for this little soiree. My gastronomic offering consisted of Baked Mahi Mahi Alaskan, Green Beans Almondine, Rice Pilaf and a Pistachio Parfait for dessert. And copious amounts of vino, natch. Well, I had prepared the rice and also the topping for the Mahi Mahi and both were out in separate bowls on the counter. Well, I’m TRYING to have a few minutes to myself for a quick “fluff ‘n buff” when my Mother the Parrot inquires as to what I put in the rice pilaf? I asked, “Why?”. She said she didn’t like it at all — NOT AT ALL!

She was all “up in my grill” and got a little Chef Ramsay on my azz.Horrors…guests were arriving in an hour. I was so pissed. I stomped into the kitchen, exhaling loudly, muttering expletives about “being a freakin’ Cinderella” and grabbed a box of sodium-rich Rice-a-Roni to create something for the parrot’s obviously more refined palate.

The Parrot strolls in and her eyes get real wide as I’m schlepping at the stove with a shiny “t” zone, frantic over the damned pilaf situation. And in a very nonchalant manner, she announces that she had mixed up the fish topping with the rice pilaf! No wonder the “rice” was “tangy”!

Anyway…crisis averted.

But I was committed now and said that we would be pushing the rice pilaf tonight as an appetizer, main course, and dessert. We now had enough rice pilaf to feed a Third World country.

Dinner was faboo regardless and me and my oily “t” zone were apparently also the floor”show as it was requested that I also entertain my guests. Shit, I was now like one of those kids with the bottle caps on the bottom of their shoes that tap dance for tourists in the French Quarter — but they actually make money so that makes me REAL pathetic. I tried to strike a deal, always going for the close, suggesting that “Liberace the Parrot” tickle the ivories a bit first and THEN I would “rock” out. No go…

Taking a quick inventory of the atheists in the crowd, I decided to perform “One of Us” by Joan Osborne. The posse was well lubricated (that sounds bad) from consumption of the grape and I think someone threw their bra at me. OMG…I hope it WASN’T my mother! That translates to years on a psychiatrist’s couch for moi!. Some even offered to be my groupies.

I autographed a breast and The Parrot’s peeps rolled out as I cleaned and douched the entire house — to the sounds of my mother jamming out on the piano like she was the headliner on “Diva’s Live.” Go figure.

Well, I’m going to serve dinner and plan my wardrobe for my trip to the Windy City tomorrow.  I don’t know what it will be just yet, but chances are we’re serving Rice Pilaf.

 

 

“Sometimes, the Best Things In Life Are Free…Just Like the Clinic in My Old ‘Hood”

I guess you can draw a correlation between anything if you think about it…random thoughts, and I believe, bursts of brilliance from my warped but well-meaning brain…

You may have a hard head, but it could be that way because you are wearing a motorcycle helmet. Take that stupid thing off (except when actually in operation of a bike)…you don’t look tough or cool and it causes serious “hat head”.

And sometimes, happiness seems out of our reach, but so are the “stars” but if you stalk them in an effort to get timely pics of their newborn children, you will go to jail, unless you are the paparazzi…then they are fair game and it’s ok.

And never forget that although putting one foot in front of the other sometimes seems a difficult task, you can always switch to a cute “kitten” heel and your balance will be better. Nevertheless…there will be times you still make an ass out of yourself no matter how many preventative measures are in place. You will look totally stupid and like a spazz at the most inopportune time…like when you are really trying hard to look all elegant and shit and next thing you know, you are splattered on the ground…legs in the air like a water beetle in distress–never a good look for me. But in the right setting, you can meet new people this way that think you are pretty awesome.

And then, there is always that standard bit of advice imparted on me by my maternal unit, my mother the parrot…”always wear attractive matching undergarments in case you get hit by a car”. This has served me well, but starts my day off a little stressful with a vision of the carnage that will probably ensue. Sometimes advice is golden or it’s just a big old goose egg that haunts you and causes you to need pharmaceuticals.

“Life is Not Skittles and Rainbows…”

I remember one day, looking out my patio doors and seeing a cute little baby robin hopping about in my backyard. The mother hovered on a low hanging tree limb calling out to her offspring and maternally watching over her baby. It was picture-perfect…a light breeze blowing and the sun twinkling through the leaves of the trees as they softly swayed just beyond the backyard bushes. And I sighed, with a slight smile on my lips as I surveyed God’s beauty–so caught up in the moment and the feelings of renewal and hope that the season of Spring brings…and then, a mangy tomcat sprang from those bushes and snatched the fledgling up in his foaming jaws and yanked it into the bushes and devoured it savagely while the mother screamed…life sucks that way sometimes.

“April is Autism Awareness Month”

Here is a story written by the man in my life. In it, JB shares his experience as a father who was single-handedly home-schooling and raising his son with autism after Jarred’s “mother” walked out on both of them to pursue “greener pastures” . In my opinion, J.B. symbolizes what a “real” man stands for (and who he stands WITH, for that matter). Please take some time to read this article. Whether autism touches your life or not, chances are, you know a family that is dealing with the challenges that this condition presents.

So today, I am sharing JB’s story–I am blessed to have this man and his wonderful children–all of them–in my life. He is an exemplary father that knows when to be firm and when to pull back and give his brood a safe place to fall–loving them all, but rising to their very different needs in their own personal pathways.

And if you are a parent of a “normal” child, hug them a little closer and remember “There but for the grace of God, go I” and count your blessings–JB and I are  counting this sweet, talented, wonderful, funny young man as one of ours.

I heard once that “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is called ‘the present’, for it is a gift. On April 5th, JB and I will celebrate our birthday gift–and his name is Jarred.

And here’s what my JB wrote:

“The funny quirks of living with someone with autism..

Just a few words today since April is Autism Awareness Month. Having a son that has Autism is sometimes a challenge. He really struggled in school with “social skills”. He would freak out if someone sat too close to him or touched him and would cry over things that others around him may not even notice. It was devastating to him if he didn’t know the answers to questions asked by his teachers. He was a loner and wouldn’t join in when the class was having class discussions and would sit apart from the rest of his classmates.

Kids are brutally honest sometimes and quite often that honesty can turn cruel. He got teased a lot and picked on quite a bit. It was heartbreaking every time, because what appeared to be weakness was in reality a love and compassion for everyone. When you like people, it’s hard to be mean back to them, even when they are the aggressors.

When he was small, I would give him his allowance of various coins and a few bills. And almost every time we went somewhere that had a donation box on the counter, such as McDonalds, he would empty his pockets of coins and bills into the donation box with the simple explanation, “They need it more Dad”. CHECKMATE! Taught by a six year old.

A few of his “quirks” are funny and quite challenging. He won’t eat hot dogs unless the ends are cut off. He tears the edges off of his bread. He won’t eat anything unless he reads the ingredients on the package. He hates change and would wear the same clothes everyday if I let him. He loves scotch tape and uses it on everything. He has a routine and hates to deviate from it.

But it also comes with some amazing things also. He can draw and paint with an uncanny talent. He can hear a song once and remember almost all of the lyrics. He can tell you about battles during WW2, the major people involved and the types of weapons they used, that intrigue even veterans that fought that war. His sense of humor is unforgettable. 

The thing I find most amazing is that, with his 18th birthday looming, he still often comes up to me–he as tall as I am–and puts his arms around my neck, gives me big hug, and says “I love you dad. You are the best father in the world”. I wouldn’t change that for a “normal” kid in a million years.”