Don’t torture a hungry and overworked woman. That should go without saying, but apparently the lady at KFC tonight didn’t get it. The lack of substantive posts here lately has been due to a crazy amount of work. It’s not a bad thing–I chose to become a lawyer, and a lawyer I am. I am a lawyer with a lot of work these past few weeks (and for the forseeable future). It’s a good thing, actually.
But at 9:00 p.m. on a Tuesday when I haven’t eaten anything in at least five hours and no real meal since this morning, do not test me. DO. NOT. TEST. ME.
I pull up to KFC, dying for something fried. I felt bad enough doing it as Rocky was waiting at home, I’m sure, with his legs crossed. I pull up…
“Do you want to try one of our new bowls of [whatever they’re selling in a bowl this week]?” the box says.
Ignoring the perfunctory prompt to order their mess of the week, I respond, “I’ll take the number 8.”
“We’re out of chicken for *inaudible* meal,” the box replies.
“Well, what kind of chicken do you have?” This is ridiculous. I’m not asking for anything special.
“We’re out of chicken for *inaudible inaudible*.”
“Um…okay….so, again, what kind of chicken do you have?” This beyond ridiculous.
“We won’t have chicken for four minutes.”
“Oh, okay. That’s fine.” I figure by time I pay and drive up, I’ll have one more minute to wait.
“Okay….” It takes an additional 60 seconds longer than I thought it would to finish my order. Great, I’m shaving down that 4 minutes easily.
I pull up to the window.
“Can I add one of those Boston Creme Pie things in a cup?”
“You know…it’s chocolate and graham crackers and such.”
“Sure a parfait.”
At this point, the smells of KFC are making me nervous.
“We have chocolate and strawberry and …”
“Okay.” He adds it into the total. “That’ll be $8.77.”
I hand him my card.
“Wait…let me make sure we have the chicken.”
What? I thought we just went through this. He turns around and walks away momentarily and then returns.
“We won’t have Original for 14 more minutes.”
“We have extra crispy.” Ugh.
Gross. For the record, I don’t like extra crispy…it blows. But it was better than no dinner.
“Fine…fine…just give me extra crispy.” I’m now starting to shake and salivate. Part of it is mental, but I do have an issue with my insulin and blood sugar and I need to eat regularly…something I didn’t do today.
Some manager type woman comes to the window. “We have two thighs and a leg.”
“Fine.” It’s almost as if I’m chanting a mantra.
“She ordered two legs and a thigh,” the original kid adds.
“It’s fine. Just give me what you got.” I’m pretty sure I was hallucinating this.
“Well, we have two thighs and a broken leg,” the manager type adds.
“Fine….that’s fine.” I’m going to eat the leg, not use it to run a marathon.
“I won’t have the rest of the chicken for another 18 minutes.” Clearly, we’re not discussing the same meal. Not to mention that the time should have gone down and not up, but I didn’t question this. I didn’t have time.
“She said she doesn’t care–SHE JUST WANTS TO EAT,” the kid-who-couldn’t-figure-out-what-flavor-parfait-I-wanted adds, ever so astutely.
“Okay,” the manager acquiesces.
About sixty seconds later, the kid comes to the window with a bag…my parfait inside with my meal.
“Here you go.” He smiles as if he’s done me a big favor.
“We added in a wing for you.” Ah, the favor is revealed.
I should have been grateful. But at this point, I wondered why in the hell they were able to throw in an extra wing without even blinking, but getting me my meal was the cause of great distress. I’m lucky I made it home without pulling over and ripping the bag open. To be honest, it was the thought of poor Rocky at the door, whining and waiting to go out that kept me intact.
I get home, open the door, and Rocky is already on the landing, pushing me out of the way to get out. I then look in the kitchen. Apparently TheMister had Wendys. So did the dog…or at least what TheMister left.
I see we all got our fill of fast food today.