Why I Always Have, and Always Will, ‘Eat Mor Chikin’

“Dude. Chick Fil-a. What do you think?”
“Awww, man! You were the first person I thought of when this whole thing went down. I know how you like to get down on some Chick Fil-a!”
“Dude; you know it! I’m down for Chick Fil-a 24/7/365 and 366 on a leap year!”
“It’s all bull sh*t. They need to stop politicizin’ and religiousizin’ my chicken and gimme my damned sandwich.”

With that final statement my brother my brother looked at the screen on his phone and said he had to get back to work. Our Skype conversation ended as abruptly as it began. Succinct as it was – and probably completely nonsensical to you – it made more sense than all the punditry and commentary I’ve seen and heard in the media to date. Here’s why: When I walk into a Chick Fil-a and ask for a number one with a Coke and no ice and four 4-count kids meals at the counter, I have never had the following conversation:

“Hey, nigger? Are you a nigger?”

“Why, yes ma’am. Yes I am.”

“Well, niggers need to stand in this line over here,” the cashier informs me. “Also, we only serve niggers ‘nigger chicken’. You know, feet, beaks n’ such.”

“Err…okay. But I’d really much just have a regular number one…” I begin to protest before the cashier cuts me off.

“Don’t take too much offense, hun,” the cashier states somberly. “We only feed the gays ‘gay chicken’. You know, queer ones that only mate with the same kind. ‘Course, ain’t too many of them. I mean, how’s a girl chick gonna impregnate another girl chick?”

The buck-toothed cashier slides me my tray with a laugh, tickled by the idea of two hens trying to mate with one another.

“Thank you,” I mumble, taking my tray to the front of the restaurant.

“No, no!” the cashier gasps. “You’re a nigger. You have to sit in the back, with all the rest of the niggers and socially unacceptable types. There you go. Straight back. Yep. Right there on that rotting crate is good.”


That. DOESN’T. Happen. Let me tell you something about Chick Fil-a (CFA). I started eating CFA 12 years ago when I moved to Atlanta in 2000. Chick Fil-a got me through some tough times.  If ever I want great service and professionalism in the fast food industry, I go to Chick Fil-a. If I want quality food and REAL meat, I go to Chick Fil-a. If I want a relaxing atmosphere while I grab a quick bite to eat, where do I go: you already know it. They have never discriminated at the counter and have never asked me about my race, background or sexual orientation.

When I got pregnant out of wedlock and didn’t have a thing to eat in my refrigerator, I ate Chick Fil-a virtually every day. The portions were large enough to divvy over the course of the day into 2 meals if I needed to.  Wendy’s made me ill, McDonald’s meat is disgusting from feed lot to fryer, and Burger Kig is well…ugh… Flame Burnt almost every time.

A funny thing happened while I was the CFA counter and drive-thru week after week. Though the company is founded on Christian principles, no one behind the counter ever took a look at my swelling belly and ringless finger and offered me rebuke. No one ever called me a “whore” or a “trollop” or attempted to pin a scarlet letter “A” to my chest for bearing a child outside of the bonds of holy matrimony. Every time I have visited a Chick Fil-a, countless in the last 12 years, I have always been greeted with a smile and been told it was a pleasure to have been served today. More often than a manager will see me struggling with my tray and 4 pairs of hands and will offer to take my tray and drinks to my table for me. I love Chick Fil-a. My kids’ love for Chick Fil-a has developed since they were in utero. And that’s just the way it is.

 I just mentioned the term “holy matrimony”, and it is for this reason that my most cherished CFA has come under fire in recent days. Every company that was ever built in the history of the world has been built on a frame of principles. From pyramid and Ponzi schemes intended to defraud an unsuspecting populace to for-profit enterprises, there is a foundation which these companies stand. Truth, fairness, wickedness or deceit, the substance of that company will be made known in the end. Truett Cathy built his company of his faith, which happens to be Christian principles. All franchises are closed on Sundays. CFA gives money to organizations that support at-risk youth. They also sponsor groups that work toward strengthening marriages in this country, where marriage is defined as between a man and woman…or as the God of the Christian faith defines it.

Now comes this preposterous brouhaha in the wake of Dan Cathy’s (current COO) confirmation that Chick Fil-a is “guilty as charged” on the question of if they define marriage as between a man and a woman. Suddenly he’s a bigot and a homophobe. Suddenly churches and Christian organizations are preaching hate. Man please.

Allow me to explain something: If I, and most serious Christians, have to make a choice on what’s true and fact and just, we’re going to choose what the Bible and Jesus say. Not what the government says, and certainly not what a group of people on the fringe and their band of merry supporters say. That doesn’t mean we “hate” you, it means we have a difference of opinion, based on a difference set of standards. Our standard is Christ, and yours is the whims of your desires, whatever they may be today.

When you drill it all the down, the fact is that Biblephobes and Christ-haters (see how I can call names too?) have always had a problem with Chick Fil-a. They’ve never been able to abide the notion that they would shutter their doors on Sundays to honor the Lord and guarantee a day of rest for their workers. They can’t stand their business model which is based on law and success. And now they are baying for blood and expect the nation to join in because a man spoke honestly about his beliefs. So what now? Are we going to gather all the Hindus together and force them to eat beef even though it is contrary to their beliefs? I thought this was AMERICA. We have freedom of religion, not freedom from it.

Back off Chick Fil-a and end your futile attempts to have me and others of like mind condemn the company. It’s just that – a futile attempt. Dan Cathy has a right to his faith, and to express that faith, and you have a right to eat there or not. I choose to dine with Jesus, thank you very much. If you have a problem with it, ask God about it in the Great Day, and if there is no Great Day, you have nothing to worry about. Either way, I’m straight.

 What are your reasons for loving Chick Fil-a? List them here. In the interim, I’ll see you in line for National Chick Fil-a Appreciation day on August 1st!

If Drugs Are So Bad, Why Do They Make Them So Darn Good??

This is one of those blogs that the lucid part of me is wondering what the negative repercussions will be following the moment I hit “post”. However, because the lucid part of me is overwhelmingly overshadowed by the ‘drugged up’ me, I don’t even have enough a command of my faculties to fathom or anticipate what those repercussions might be!

Drugs :1   Common Sense: 0

Yesterday I went to the dentist to have my last wisdom tooth pulled. The other three were taken out when I was pregnant with Stone, but the fourth remained because the root was hooked. No dentist would touch it, not even to repair the gaping hole that I could proudly put a tooth pick through in order to fish out days old victuals, like almonds and shrimp. Finally, after I’d have enough with the headaches that this rotting molar was causing, I grew some balls and scheduled to have an oral surgeon eject it.

I was left bitterly disappointed afterward, and that disappointment stemed from the fact that I have no other wisdom teeth to take out. Oh, MOM Squad. What a glorious experience!

I am about to share something with you that Mom Five Times and I have discovered over the last 8 months of so. You see, somewhere inside me – and not so deep inside mind you – is a drug addict waiting to manifest. There is a reason abuse of prescription drugs is that fastest growing segment in society, and it’s simply because they make you feel so good. I mean really gooood. You know what I mean? We have both come to the conclusion that you cannot judge drug addicts so quickly. It’s so easy to get hooked. Fortunately, I have the grace of God and a husband who would badger me back to salvation to keep me from going that rout. I hate the sound of Marshall’s badgering.

So yesterday, as I think I already said, I had my tooth taken out. The dental assistant placed a mask over my nose and told me it was for the laughing gas. I heard and felt a slow stream of gas filter in through the nozzle and into my nostrils.

“Have you had laughing gas before?” she asked me.

“No,” I replied.

“Do you drink?”

“Only when the occasion calls for it…like on Tuesdays and when there is a forecast of sunshine.”

She laughed.

“Well, laughing gas has the same affect. It’s just used to calm you down so we can put in an IV.”

“Oh! My daughter had laughing gas when I took her to the dentist,” I informed her. “Apparently it had her talking about princesses and crayons. She’s five.”

I recalled the loopy grin Aya had on her face, and remember being slightly concerned.

“Well, she doesn’t know what it’s like to be drunk, so that won’t be a frame of reference for her.”

We both chuckled, and I waited. Nothing was happening.

“I don’t know what the big deal is about laughing gas,” I scoffed. “It’s not doing anything and I feel no different.”

“Oh you don’t, huh!” said a new female voice.

A quirky blonde with horned-rimmed glasses walked in with a tray and a sassy attitude. She introduced herself as Jessica.

“Well lemme just crank it up fer ya!”

She pumped her foot against a pedal three times – poof, poof, poof. Suddenly, there was an increase is flow to the nozzle and I felt my eyes and chest get heavy. I melted into the chair. Everyone should start their day with laughing gas – which is not so much as ‘laughing gas’, as it is ‘smiling gas.’ That’s all I could muster in my intoxicated state.

“Gosh,” I said dreamily. “I hope I remember this for the blog.

“You have a blog?” said Jessica.


“In that case my name is NOT Jessica.”

I giggled girlishly.

Not Jessica turned my arm over and began to poke for veins. She asked me tomake a fist. Failing to locate one, she looked at me quizzically.

“Dang girl, do you even have any veins??”

“Uh huh, yes I do,” I said sweetly. “There’s a vein right next to my mole. See it? Every time I get a c-section, that’s where they put it.”

“I don’t see what you’re talking about, but I’m gonna stick ya anyway.”

She found it on the first try. I hardly felt the needle go in my arm. I have a high threshold for pain, and I could have taken the IV without the laughing gas, but why ruin the experience? I took the assistants’ advice and rode the waves of calming, cloudy ecstasy for as long as I could, for suddenly, just as quickly as Not Jessica had taken me up, she brought me right back down.

“You must have turned off the juice,” I said forlornly.

“You’re a smart woman,” she said brightly. “I’ll get the doc and be right back.”

Eventually the doctor came in, mumbling into his iPhone. I imaged he must have been sorting out some mini-crises with his wife (or secret boyfriend) so I forgave him. He didn’t greet or acknowledge me as he began putting stuff into my IV. In a flurry of activity, 2 other assistants joined him in the room. One put a big plastic block in my mouth.

“This is just to keep your mouth open as we perform the surgery,” she said.

“Ukah,” I nodded.

And that was the last thing I remember.

When I woke up, Marshall was hitting me on the leg. A dark haired (and very unattractive) dental hygienist was shaking me on the shoulder. Her hard face startled me into conscious. Ugh.


“It’s time to get up, hun,” she said gruffly.

I stared at her, waiting for the fog to clear. When it did, I wished it hadn’t. She was NOT cute.

“We had to call your husband in to wake you up,” she informed me. “You told me you ‘don’t like the way I wake people up’.”

I laughed in her face.
“No I didn’t!”

Then I realized I probably had. Oh this bush girl that lives inside me! Why must she disgrace me?! It’s so hard to control her when I’m semi-conscious.

I stumbled to the car with Marshall guiding me to the passenger seat.

“How do you feel?” he asked with concern.

“I feel great babe. I feel so, so, so great!”

I reclined my seat and let a drugged smile play about my lips. Everything was so amazing; so wonderful. There was so much LOVE everywhere. You know what I mean?

The love fest continued when my husband filled my prescription for hydrocodone…which I discovered should not be taken while seated in a moving vehicle – particularly if you are operating said vehicle. I had no choice. I had promised a friend I would come and visit her after my surgery was complete. I was so full of LOVE, you see.

Here’s the thing: If the government wants us to stop abusing drugs, they have to work with big pharma to include some sort of deterrent. Jail and fines just aren’t enough. Perhaps genital contortion and growing a fourth nipple as a consequence might suffice. However so long as the side effects of Vicodin and hydrocodone-acetaminophn continue to cause feelings of elation, insatiable sexual desire (leaning on promiscuity), marked drowsiness and general peace with the world and all who dwell within, what’s a poor soul – such as myself – to do? Take another pill, I suppose.

Drugs: 2   Common Sense: 0