If you haven’t figured it out yet, I am a weirdo.

Don’t get me wrong…I embrace my weirdness with reckless abandon. It is my calling card, my brand. My freak flag flaps in the wind, to the point of shredding as I hold it out the window while my dad barrels down the highway at 85 mph and peeling a banana.

(True story minus the freak flag — I don’t actually own a freak flag. Either way I maybe definitely could have probably almost died!!)

Anyway. When my time on this mortal coil is through, hopefully not an untimely death by the hands of a father that loves to unwrap food while going forty over the speed limit, I hope to leave behind a solid body of lore — tales and legends to be shared around descendental fires in the centuries to come.

It is a growing mythos, which I suppose I should begin to actually document at some point — possibly here?

I know it’s a good story when my husband — who is graduating this year with his M.Div from Concordia Seminary — uses one of them in his sermon. Today I would like to share with you the one he most recently used in one of his sermon-writing classes (in a sermon about the Fifth Commandment), which was subsequently used by one of his fellow peers in the same sermon-writing class (in a sermon about the Seventh Commandment). #ded

I call this one The FBMD™.

This story took place while I was still working at the LCMS International Center, still having to drag my butt out of bed because I had to be at work in an hour and ordering breakfast from the McDonald’s drive-thru since sometimes I dragged my butt out of bed because I had to be at work in 23 minutes.

Anyway. You remember when the McDonald’s drive-thru used to have only one lane? Wasn’t that nice? Honestly, restaurants with a two-lane drive-thru are doing a serious disservice to those of us with chronic anxiety and/or poor visual depth perception. Americans have seemed to evolve with the times in acclimating to the extra drive-thru lane, generally, but may I remind everyone that these second lanes just started cropping up without any warning? No warning, no guidance, no etiquette manual. It’s just every man for himself out here.

On this particular day where our story takes place, I stopped by McDonald’s on the way to work for a sausage and egg mcmuff and large Diet Coke (IYKYK).

I’m just not good with the two-lane drive-thru, you guys. Like…self-awareness is really important to get by in life and this is just one of those realities I struggle with accepting.

I mean. What do you do if you finish ordering seconds before the person in the lane next to you but technically it’s “their turn” if we’ve all agreed to use the alternating lanes method of proceeding? What if the car in front of you is a truck with an unnecessarily long-ass bed? How do I know if you’re paying attention or texting your mom while you’re in line, head-down? And for the love of all that’s good in this world, can ya please pull up the extra six feet so I can see the menu when I’m ordering? I don’t like ordering as though the cashier is on the other side of the Grand Canyon, ok?

I’m telling you. Anxiety. Stress and anxiety. A little agitation. And you’re a sociopath if you don’t feel anything in a two-lane drive-thru.

Each time I find myself in this situation of “who goes first,” eventually I just have to use my best judgment to determine whether I or the person next to me proceeds.

On this day, I guess my best judgment was fair to middling at best. I proceeded before the driver in the lane next to me.

The litany of cuss words that proceeded from the mouth of the driver I went before (she’d probably say I cut in front of her) would have been impressive, had I not believed she would shank me given the chance. My car windows were down — though it’s not like it would have made a difference.

She ended her rant after calling me a f***ing b***h.

I don’t think I’ve ever been called that unironically in all 36 years of my life, so achievement unlocked, I guess.

Honestly, there was really only one way to respond.

I pulled up to the first window.

I paid for my breakfast.

And then I paid for hers — because that’s what weirdos do.

(And let’s face it; she probably needed a hug but I was the last person she’d want a hug from.)

Thus, the colloquially-known FBMD™ (Effin Bee Meal Deal) was born.

Anyway. I am always happy to provide sermon fodder. But all you readers out there are prohibited from verbally assaulting me for a free meal. I don’t care how impressive your disguise is. Only authentic haters can take advantage of this secret discount.