Drive-Thru Etiquette

I’m sitting with my feet up, listening to Brent’s Spotify station of Christian music, waiting for our groceries to be delivered. (Also, I’m officially now a Hornbacher’s customer for life, because they out-stock and out-perform the “other store” in every capacity. Thank you, Hornbacher’s, for catering to little ol’ me.)

Brent is downstairs being productive, and I had my burst of productivity earlier today, so I’m resting now. My hands and feet are the slightest, tiniest bit puffy, and given my history I’m just taking a break. Not doing anything. Including not worrying about a little pregnancy puffiness.

My Dad is a great story teller. He’s lived through like – 28 lives – and remembers each adventure in detail. When he tells a story of something that happened to him in days gone by, not only is it incredibly entertaining and captivating, but you can just imagine it as he tells it. It’s like you’re there experiencing his near-death, but funny experience, right alongside him. I always wanted to tell stories like my Dad.

My Mom is also a great story teller, but in a completely different fashion. She tells stories by embellishing every detail, making something seem as it was far more dramatic than it actually happened, uses huge gestures with her arms and hands, and usually ends up telling 30% of the story in a very high-pitched, excitable voice most dogs can’t even hear. It’s always entertaining – unless, dear gracious – unless she tells a story when she’s driving and she has to slow down to 20 mph and forgets where she’s going because she’s trying to tell this story that doesn’t make any sense because she starts throwing in street names and names of businesses she’s passing. *sigh*. What was I talking about?

So guess who I tell stories like? Guess and keep quiet, because I don’t even want to hear it. Also, most of my stories have to do with bathrooms and/or bodily functions. I’m not sure how that became part of my most-shared material, or why I’m so comfortable in sharing those stories to whoever is nearby. It probably has something to do with my maiden name being “Butts”, but…t that’s purely speculation.

Today’s a two-for-one story day, though. Only because the stories are so similar they might as well be the same.

A few days months ago, (let’s pretend for my doctor’s and husband’s sake, that I rarely eat out.) I drove through Arby’s because all I wanted was a classic roast beef sandwich. I ordered, was given my total, got the exact change ready (is anyone else OCD like I am about exact change?), and drove to the window.

“Number 4 with a Jamocha shake?” asked the window attendant.
“No, I just ordered a roast beef sandwich.”
…pause…turns to look at the next bag. “Beef and cheddar with fries?”
“No. Just a classic sandwich.”
“…well I don’t have that on my screen! What the – she’s screwing up the drive through orders again, Mac! (turns back to me) You just want a classic roast beef?”
“$3.21” (as I hand her the exact change.)

I thought this was odd. But, sometimes fast food places just have off-days, or off-occurrences, or what-have-you. So it should be no surprise that I was more than willing to go back this past Thursday year, as I wanted to treat myself to a roast beef sandwich and maybe even a molten lava cake. I pulled up to make my order.

“I’d like a number one, with a –“
(interrupting speaker starts interrupting) “–with what to drink?” (1. rude to interrupt as I’m still talking.)
“Well, I was ordering a Sprite.”
“What size?”
“Whatever size it usually comes with? That’s what I want.” (I was confused, because I don’t think I’ve ever specified…in the few times I’ve ever been there.)
“(sigh) That would be a small. $7.19 is your total, thanks.” (2. rude to not ask if I want anything else, and to sigh at me for ordering whatever I usually order.)
“Wait, I’m not done ordering yet.”
(awkward silence) (3. rude to not acknowledge you heard me say I wasn’t done ordering yet.)
“Hello?” I asked, to see if she heard me.
“Just. A. Minute.”
Oh no she didn’t! She just “just-a-minute”ed me! FOUR STRIKES!!
I drove off. I didn’t pick eating there because I wanted to be treated like a criminal. So I drove off.

I was telling my husband this story and he chuckled to himself and said, “Well, it wasn’t the first time!” I laughed – isn’t it funny how you can laugh about things later that such a big deal at the time you’re experiencing them?

It was earlier in our marriage – maybe 2004 or 2005, so several years ago. It was a Saturday, and I can’t remember exactly, but I want to say we were cleaning our apartment – and when I say cleaning, I mean going through and throwing stuff away. Still to this day, every time we do that, an argument ensues. This day in particular, though, whatever we were doing, it ended up in a full-blown fight, during the middle of which, we became hungry. (This is making me laugh now just re-telling the ridiculousness.) We hopped in the car, piping mad at each other and continuing our argument, and drove to Burger King, so we could drive-through and take it home and not have to actually eat together.

I ordered his food, I ordered mine, and I ordered a cherry slurpee. This was way back in the day when fast food establishments still took checks. (Remember those days?!) I was given my total, wrote the check as we waited behind the car in front of us, and then pulled up to the window.

The little teeny-bopper attendant told me in between gum-smacks that the slurpee machine was broken, so I couldn’t have my drink. Truly, it must have been the one thing I wanted most, because I was really upset by this. I said I didn’t want a substitute, so just take it off my order. I started to rip up the check I had written to write a new one when she spouted, “I could have given you the difference, but whatever.”

She totally said, “but whatever” to me!! In the middle of me fighting with my husband, and them being out of the one thing I wanted!

I looked at her, my mouth open in shock, turned my head (mouth still open), looked out my windshield, and drove off. I drove. Off.

Brent was absolutely humiliated and we got in an even bigger fight, because he really wanted whatever it was he had ordered, and because apparently I had just made a big deal out of nothing. To him it was nothing, but to me, she was a snot and I was already being berated by a snot on one side, I didn’t need to be surrounded by them, let alone pay to be exploited by one.

I have no idea what we ended up doing for lunch that day, or even still what it was exactly we were fighting about. I do remember though, I was wearing a florescent orange tank top. How weird is that? Not weird that I remember that, but that I was actually wearing a florescent orange tank top?

What was I saying?

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