For Bagels, Burgers--and Some Peace of Mind--Order Here
Oh, how I used to scoff at the drive-thru queue, at the motorists stuck sucking exhaust in the limbo between Order and Pickup. It made no sense to me. Why, I was out and in and served and back again before that line moved one car’s length. I thought those people had taken the Angeleno driving ethos way too far. I thought they were just too lazy to get out of the car.
Which just goes to show you how far my best thinking will get me--second Passat Wagon past the Order Here sign, thanks.
Because now I have children. And not just any children, High Maintenance With Opposing Needs children: a not-quite-3-year-old who months ago abandoned toddling for zipping, zooming and climbing over, and a 9-month-old who thinks car seats are for suckers and is not interested in any activity that does not involve her standing and falling down a lot.
All of which is fine when my husband or another able-bodied adult is available. The secret of surviving as a parent, I have found, is keeping the adult-to-child ratio as high as possible. One-to-one is critical, four-to-one ideal. Unfortunately, I often find myself in a one-to-two situation. And so those tasks I used to do on the way to and from work--dropping off the dry cleaning, picking up a few groceries and some Scotch tape--are no longer little errands but Nearly Impossible Endeavors. Think difficulty level somewhere between tidying up the Aegeus Stables and voting for Al Gore in Florida.
Just getting the children out of the car is a feat worthy of an Olympic event. Is it easier to chase after Danny Mac while carrying the baby or with the knowledge that she is now alone in an open car? If I let him get out of his seat but ask him to stay in the car while I wrestle with her straps and writhing self, will he content himself with turning on the windshield wipers and emergency lights or will he feed the nickels he has found under the seat into the tape player again?
Of all the boons that motherhood dispels--the unbroken eight hours of sleep, the spontaneous acts of passion, the ability to wear silk shirts--the one I miss most is simply getting in and out of my car.
Once we have entered the lucky place of business, Fiona begins her standing game, confines of cart or my arms be damned. Danny, lately a man torn between two identities, vacillates between his Big Boy role of helpmate, and Mac the Black, terror of the seven aisles. At times, he manages to channel both; just the other day, as I turned away to pick up a container of cottage cheese, he pushed the grocery cart, and baby sister, halfway across the store at speeds approaching 50 miles an hour. Or so it seemed as I sprinted to catch them.
The dairy-to-fresh-produce sprint. Was this a skill I honed when childless? It was not.
You can see where this is leading, can’t you? Right to the drive-thru line. Where now my only complaint is there aren’t enough of them. Oh sure, you can buy all the fast food in the world, but where is the drive-thru hardware store? Or video store? Or drugstore? I have eaten more bagels in the past year than I did during my entire tenure in New York because the Goldstein’s nearest me has a drive-thru window. One friend tells me there’s a drive-thru dry cleaner in her neighborhood, and I am seriously considering pulling up stakes. Hey, people move for good schools, don’t they?
Yes, many stores and restaurants deliver, but there are financial and pre-planning issues to consider. If I had any gumption, not to mention wherewithal, I would open the Mommy Store, a drive-thru establishment that would provide everything from that iconic gallon of milk to sandpaper to lingerie. (Try taking a 2 1/2-year-old among the bra racks, I double-dare you.) And any restaurant that does not sell salads in a cup or consider ketchup a vegetable, would double, triple, its profits if it just knocked a window in one side.
Now, if they’d only bring back the drive-in movies. . . .
