Basketball season is in full-swing. This means that our evenings are no longer our own. On practice nights, we'll leave school, dash home, change, grab something from the fridge and head right back out to the gym.
Last week, however, The Dad was working late, so The Daughters and I stopped at Subway to grab a healthy, fresh dinner... as opposed to the tired, limp quesidilla I was bound to fix if we had gone all the way home before practice.
Daughter 1 orders first because she always knows exactly what she wants. This is because she always orders exactly the same thing every single time. Toasted. The end. Nothing more. Nothing less. And - heaven forbid! - don't even pretend to put anything "fresh" on it!!
Daughter 2 orders next. She a little more fickle than Daughter 1. Ham? Turkey? Ham and Turkey? Lettuce? Pickles? Lettuce & Pickles? Toasted? Soft? Mustard? Mayo? She questions every possibility and always orders the exact same thing anyway.
On this particular night, it was no different. The little teenage boy behind the counter - looking like a before picture for Pro-Active - couldn't seem to understand that Daughter 1 wanted her sandwich plain. Just the meat and just the cheese. Toasted. He insisted on asking whether she wanted tomatoes? No; plain, please. Pickles? No, just plain. Lettuce? No!!! Plain!!! Right before Daughter 1 started to climb over the counter and grab her virtually naked sandwich, he wrapped it up for her and returned to take Daughter 2's order.
He finally offered every possible addition to her sandwich and eventually got her sandwich wrapped when he returned yet again to the beginning of the sandwich line to take my order.
"Chicken breast on wheat, please." As he's heating the chicken breast, I glance down at The Daughters waiting patiently at the register for me. Daughter 2's face is distorted as her mouth is wide open and snarled, her eyes are bugged and her nose is wrinkled.
"Momma? Did you just say breast to that boy?"
"Yes, honey. I said 'chicken breast' for my order."
"My gosh, Momma. That's embarrassing. Why did you say breast to him?"
Then it was my turn: my mouth is wide open and snarled, my eyes bugged and my nose wrinkled. What in the world was she talking about?
"Sissy, did you hear Momma? She said breast to that boy. How embarrassing. Aren't you embarrassed that momma said breast?"
Daughter 1, she's always been my favorite, she came to my rescue: "It's OK. Chicken breast is a kind of food. See, chickens do have boobs and we can eat them. We eat them in those lame, flimsy quesidillas momma makes."
"BOOBS? You mean to tell me that I eat chicken boobs? I didn't even know. Are you lying?"
Daughter 1, who prides herself on being right even when she's wrong, became defensive and dragged me back into the conversation, "Momma! Don't we eat chicken boobs?"
I try my best to redeem myself as momma of the year in front of the entire Subway store and the little 16 year old who just wants to pay for unlimited texting with his little part-time job, "Actually, it's called chicken breast. And it's like a chicken's chest." Then, to give them a visual, I actually grab my boobs, I mean, breasts... no, my chest!
I glance at the sandwich artist and he's shoving one of those long, skinny sandwich bags over his head. "Toasted," I say.
Daughter 1, who still prides herself on being ALL THE WAY right even when she's wrong corrects me. "Momma: Boys have chests. Girls have breasts. You ordered chicken breast. Chickens are girls. Roosters are boys. You are eating chicken boobs." Then she glances at Daughter 2, "Boobs."
Daughter 2 resumes her distorted face. "Oh my gosh, momma! I can't believe you said 'boobs' to that boy!"
"I didn't," I argue back.
"Are you going to tell Daddy that you said 'boobs' or is this a secret?" she taunts.
I resume my distorted face look, "I didn't say 'boobs'! I said 'breast'!" At this point, I'm so exhausted and embarrassed by the boobs or breast argument that I drag the sandwich artist into the discussion. "Didn't I say 'breast'?"
He stammers, "Uhhhh---" and then begins digging around for what I'm assuming is a pen so he can scribble his resignation on one of the bajillion napkins they have stashed everywhere.
Eventually, the worker is able to finish making my sandwich, we pay and take our seats. Daughter 2 is very quiet and still. She finally speaks as I'm just about to shove a huge bite of breast into my mouth.
"Momma?" she asks very apprehensively. "Can I see the boob?"
"Honey," I sigh through my tears. "It's breast!"
"Whatever -- Can I see it?"
Oh for heaven's sake. I open up my sandwich, feeling just slightly weird at exposing ... a pasty white chicken breast!
"Momma." Daughter 2 looks at me with a slight little smile on her face, as if she's completely humored at something I've done wrong. "That's not a breast OR a boob. It's C H I C K E N. Next time, just order CHICKEN. You don't need to say boob!"
I heave a very audible sigh. "Honey. I did NOT say boob. But don't worry. There will NOT be a next time. I'm a little bit embarrassed and we probably won't be back..."
Finally, the bright-red, sweat-soaked sandwich artist spoke: "Thank You!"
