So two blondes (okay, one of them was me) were on a shopping day trip, each clutching lengthy lists, deciding whether or not to have our usual girls-day-out leisurely lunch at our favorite cantina, but concluded that we’d never get all our goodies if we stopped and knocked off an enchilada sampler platter and a pitcher of margaritas at noon. So we decided it would have to be a McDonald’s kind of day. I suggested drive-through, because I can’t stand the counter service at fast-food restaurants. Seriously, what’s UP with shouting out your order number, even when you’re standing right in front of them?? It’s like employee auto-pilot, and they can’t stop themselves. “ORDER NUMBER 31!!” Geez, I heard you. So did most of Montana. (One day I snapped, and when the pimply-faced employee-of-the-month bellowed at me, from 2 feet away, “ORDER NUMBER 27!!” I smiled brightly and screamed back, “THANK YOU!!” Kenny says I have issues.)
Decision made, we were happily yakking nonstop in the car about whatever came to mind as we placed our order into the squawk box, kept chatting while we pulled up to the next window to pay, and then continued our stories as we pulled forward and drove away.
As we pulled back onto the freeway, I looked over and asked, “Um, where’s our food?” Silence while we both looked around the car like it would magically materialize out of the dashboard, until we simultaneously burst out, “Oh my God, WE FORGOT THE FOOD!” Immediate U-turn back to the restaurant, where we went inside and confessed our oversight.
Amidst much hilarity and “So YOU’RE that car!” they told us that the next four cars got the wrong orders because they gave OURS to the guy behind us, and HIS to the woman behind him, with the Happy Meal going to the couple with no kids, and so on down the line. After everyone came inside and swapped lunch sacks like 3rd graders at recess, we left with as much dignity as our red faces would allow.
So the next time you hear a blonde joke, be kind. It just might be true.