You Can't Always Get What You Want

“What would you like to order?” Anna asks me, proffering an alarmingly-colored cheeseburger made of modeling clay.

Eric got the clay for Christmas, and the only reason we still have any is because our house isn’t carpeted. It’s not easy to grind modeling clay into a hardwood floor. Don’t think my kids haven’t tried.

“Mmm-hmm,” I murmur, because I’m sort of engrossed in a computer game. But she’s insistent. “How many plops of mustard do you want on your hot dog?”

“Um. Two,” I tell her, distractedly, because the Snoods are about to turn into a bunch of skulls and crush me.

“I think I’ll give you three,” she says. “Here you go!” She hands me a mottled yellow, vaguely hot-dog-shaped object. I miss my shot and lose my game. “What would you like to order now?” she asks.

“Honestly, Anna!” I exclaim. “I’d just like to be left alone.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m sorry,” she says politely. “We don’t offer that here.”