Yesterday I attempted to have a peaceful lunch at Baja Fresh with my 2 year-old and my 86 year-old father. I can hear you chuckling now. Peaceful it was not. Since my father made a clean getaway from his most recent hospitalization, I have been caring for him on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This gives my mom a chance to attempt to gather any ounce of sanity that she once had by talking to crazy people in Canoga Park. I picked my dad up, and wait, never mind calling him my dad anymore. I might as well let you all in on yet another secret. He is affectionately been given the title Poozer, since I was in junior high. The name Poozer is a take on my mom's once endearing name for him, Poo Bear. Disgusting, I know. Now back to what I was saying. I picked Poozer up promptly at 10:45am, so as not to be even one minute past the 11 o'clock hour. Mind you, if we are not #1 on the receipt, there is a chance that Poozer's entire lunch may be ruined. I am not sure if he believes that the food will no longer be fresh or that too many people may get the chance to sneeze in his salsa, but we must be first.
So there I went speeding down McBean Parkway, toddler and senior by my side, when I noticed a squirrel to my left. I am sure you can all imagine what happened next, out into traffic he darted. I am still unsure if it was my tire or the red Honda Civic next to me that made the final assault. I looked in my rear view mirror to confirm the tragedy, and sure enough there he was in the street twitching. With that imprint now on my mind forever, I pressed forth to feed my Poozer his lunch.
Due to the quick braking action that I made in an attempt to avoid the suicidal squirrel, we arrived at Baja Fresh late. With three people in line now in front of us, Poozer began pacing and my toddler began chanting, "down." Down she went from my arms and I directed both of them to have a seat. I am usually in charge of ordering, paying, although never with my own money, gathering the plastic forks, drinks, straws, and salsa. I approached the counter grateful that the wait was coming to an end. Poozer was still undecided at this point as to what gourmet delight he would be partaking in. "No beans," he ranted. "I only eat recycled beans." Would you like guacamole? He stated, "Okay, but no sour cream, and no vegetables." I pleaded with the cashier to give us the best deal for the money.
As the line continued to grow, I heard a large crash, then a thud, and then nothing. I looked over, and poor little Olivia lay on the floor, face beet red, ready to let out the scream of all screams. Please don't pass out child, I thought. I quickly ran over to scoop her up from the corner of the black and white tiled floor. Of course, leaving my purse and a wad of cash on the counter for any of the 3-4 customers behind me.
Shortly there after, Olivia let out her overdone and very dramatic screech in my ear. I went back to the counter to continue the order, as Poozer restated, "remember, no vegetables in that burrito. What happened to the kid?" With Olivia screaming and the line now growing longer, I struggled to hear the final total. $19.14 please. I paid. We ate. Then we headed out to the bookstore.
I realize that this story is not unusual in anyway for me, and I realize that it may lack the usual luster that my blogs once possessed. While my private practice now occupies, not one but two days of my week, I wanted to let you all know that I still make time for burritos.
