It was a glorious Friday morning. For the first time that whole week, we were actually early getting out the door for school. I decided to throw my hat in the ring for Mom of the Year, and steered the Volv-Ro right into the Hardee's drive through. Hadley ordered hash browns. Layton ordered the same. Ella really wanted something with cinnamon, so I ordered her the cinnamon raisin biscuits. She had never had them before, but I felt like the icing might trick her into loving them. We pulled forward, and I paid.
"If you'll pull forward, we'll bring it out to you when it's ready. The cinnamon biscuits are cooking."
Don't you love it when that happens? I wasn't too concerned though; we still had plenty of time to get to school. We waited. And waited. And waited. Layton farted, and we had to roll all the windows down. We waited some more. I wasn't concerned though; we would still make it to school before first bell.
Finally, the food came out. I passed the biscuits and taters all around the car and pulled out of the parking lot. Ella took two bites of cinnamon, raisin biscuit and said...
"These aren't good. I like the icing though."
As she was handing the box to me, Layton busted out, "Anything less than the best is a felony." I replied, "If you got a problem, yo, I'll solve it." That's right. My six year old quotes Vanilla Ice at random. We all laughed for a good bit about my smack talking, rapping, hip hop dancing, curly headed, dimpled, gluten free little cherub called Layton.
I was driving and laughing and not paying much attention to the flow of traffic. It was only after I peed myself (only a little) from laughing at Layton's Vanilla Ice moment that I realized what had happened. I had been victimized by the Grampy Patrol. Wait, you don't know what the Grampy Patrol is? Passshhhawww. Of course you do. It's a secret circle of elderly drivers whose one mission is to slow down the young, wild cats like me. They go slow, leave blinkers on, change lanes without looking, park across two spaces and drive cars longer than the first house I live in. You know, the Grampy Patrol.
In front of my car and to the right of my car were two members of the elite, inner circle of the Grampy Patrol. Complete with bow ties, snap front hats, and Cadillacs. I can only assume they were leaving Cracker Barrel (that's where all the elite members eat breakfast) when the chance to enforce the Grampy Patrol creed pulled out in a green Volvo. The inner circle members tend to work together like that. They box you in at 20 mph in a 55 mph zone...in their Cadillacs and Lincolns.
I assume my grandfather was a member of the Grampy Patrol. Outer circle though. He wore a mesh hat, coveralls, and drove a truck. You know the coveralls to which I refer. The one piece kind with 45 feet of snaps up the front. The outer circle members tend to eat breakfast at Hardee's or McDonald's (in groups) and drive trucks or sometimes Empalas. It's the middle circle Grampy Patrol members you really have to worry about. I once got behind one who left his left turn signal blinking for every bit of an hour and a half while going no more than 15 mph on the highway...in his Buick. Buicks are classic middle circle Grampy Patrol. They are the dangerous kind that will put it in drive instead of reverse. Come to think of it. My triple Great Aunt Edith once drove through the front of a jewelry store with a Drive/Reverse error...and I think she had a Buick. Maybe I am a legacy to the Grampy Patrol. Do you think I'll get a letter in the mail once I reach a certain age inviting me to the breakfast circle/strategy meeting? Where was I? Oh, that's right. We were trying to make it to school.
We did not make it to school on time. We missed first bell. And second bell. And had to check in. All because I wanted to buy some damn biscuits and was spotted by Gramps.
Excuse me for a while. I must look at Buicks on the Interwebs.
