Drive-Thru Dilemma

It’s just about time for my family’s summer road trip, and I’m remembering last year’s minivan migration that turned out to be less Kerouac but certainly more calorie-laden than I’d envisioned.

We began late, naturally, loaded to within an inch of our axles. I’d planned meticulously, packed for every possible contingency. Determined to save time and keep down costs, and having just seen myself in a new bathing suit (when, oh when, will the burqa-as-bathing-suit fad begin??), I’d brought a cooler full of healthy food and drinks to prevent any errant drive-thru excursions. We were going to eat up the miles, baby, and ward off any additional weight gain.

That resolution lasted about five minutes, until I realized I'd have to hit a drive-thru for coffee, that wonderful elixir of life for mothers and road warriors alike. As we pulled back onto the road with a heavenly smelling bag of grease disguised as breakfast, I warned my family in the strictest terms that we absolutely would not be doing another drive-thru on this trip.

That resolution lasted a full three hours, I'm proud to say, until we discovered that someone (OK, it was me) had forgotten to add ice to the cooler, and all my carefully prepared provisions had assumed a tepid room temperature. As we pulled back onto the road with a heavenly smelling bag of grease disguised now as lunch, I again warned my crew, in a slightly abashed but still firm tone, that we definitely would not be doing this again.

That resolution lasted an awe-inspiring two hours, I'd like to point out. Then, despite the silence-inducing wonders of DVDs and IPODS, the first dreaded Are-We-There-Yet was launched, followed shortly thereafter by several high-pitched volleys of He’s-Touching-Me and an equal number of the obligatory Am-Not. At that, my children girded themselves for war, gathering discarded french fries to use as weapons and spitball-delivering straws. In a desperate attempt to preserve the peace, I resorted to bribery. As we pulled back onto the road with a heavenly smelling bag of grease cleverly camouflaged as a snack, I assured my brood that we would probably not be doing this again.

That resolution lasted an amazing three hours, until the inevitable accusations of secretly unleashed flatulence began to swirl through the charged atmosphere. Grievances were aired in violent fashion, and chaos descended. Snarling from stress, I commanded my husband to pull into the nearest drive-thru and order everything on the menu. As we got back on the road, weighed down with bag after bag of openly acknowledged grease, I said nothing, just stuffed every wonderful morsel into my mouth.

We finally reached our destination, bought bathing suits in larger sizes and ditched the cooler. This year, I’ve conceded to reality, marked the map with every drive-thru along the way and packed a brightly-colored burqa. We’re going to have a grand old time.

Reading Airing My Dirty Laundry, by award-winning writer Jackie Papandrew, is like diving into a hamper full of hilarity. Jackie airs out her rather soiled sense of humor about everything under the sun – from the comfort of granny panties to the agony of aging gums and sagging, er, gams. She tickles the funny bone with tales of troublesome teenagers, the trials of testosterone and using Formula 409 as foreplay.

Jackie's writing has won awards from the Florida Magazine Association, the American Association of Business Press, and the Florida Freelance Writers Association, among others. Her humor columns have appeared in a variety of publications, including the Chicken Soup for the Soul series and the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

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