Some things ought to be too shameful to blog about. But as I have proven dozens of times, I have no shame so here is the ugly truth of it:

I have the hots for the boy at the McDonald’s drive-thru.

If an age difference of four decades and change isn’t enough to give me cougar status I don’t know what is. Let me explain:

I am addicted to fast food fountain Diet Coke. Love the swill. When my attraction to the McDonald’s drive thru boy (MDTB) first began, I could have switched over to Burger King if the joint hadn’t gone belly-up. Fine dining like that is way too upscale for Dog Patch. So I am forced, I tell you, forced to traffic at Mickey D’s.

The kid’s a knock-out, a hunka hunka, a move-over-Clive-Owen. His eyes sparkle at me. His smile lifts my heart. I want to sing Some Enchanted Evening.

I am sure he pines for me on those days I don’t appear at his window onto the world.

And speaking of windows, I’d give a shiny new dime to the engineer who’d figure out how I could wedge my full-figured-gal form through the window of my RAV so I could pounce on MDTB through his drive-thru window. I could go inside to examine him more closely, but I am afraid my knees would knock or worse, I’d shake like a bowlful of jelly.

This morning his manager actually cautioned him to move along as he handed me my medium with straw. Our fingers met for the briefest of touches and then the moment was gone.

For the love of God, I’m begging you: I need an intervention. Send me to Jack in the Box. Or better yet, send me Clive Owen. I’ll make do here on the back nine.

PS. That lovely piece of art up there is called Snow King by Nancy Glazier. If you have about $500 smackers, you could send one to me. I’m sure it would help me lick my wounds just as well as Clive could.