Look, the title’s got it covered. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the swearing.
This could get ugly…for various reasons, the most influential of which is that I’m short on sleep and it’s Monday. (Or is that two reasons?) Sadly, I don’t even have a great excuse. It’s not like we were out having a roaring good time drinking with friends. (Hubby always says Sunday beers taste better than beers any other day of the week. Personally, I think beer tastes like lightly carbonated piss any day of the week. But Sunday drinks, definitely. It’s just that somehow Sunday Drinks doesn’t have the same ring to it.) Anyway, we weren’t drinking. We went out for a Sunday drive (true story), meandered all over the countryside and then into the city and had some ice cream. Very G-rated. I loved it. It reminded me of Sunday outings with my parents when I was a kid. Driving around on a beautiful day with no set destination or agenda other than a desire to locate and consume ice cream at some point is one of those childhood memories I most cherish and one of those rare activities I savour as an adult.
At the end of our outing we picked up a couple of movies from the Zip rental machine and headed home to flop on the couch. By the time we got the movie started it was nearly 10pm, which is the approximate time most weeknights when I notice hubby is snoozing on the sofa with his mouth wide open and I shove him and suggest we head for bed, however, we’d slept in til after 9 that morning so we weren’t getting sleepy yet. We proceeded to watch We Bought a Zoo, with Matt Damon (yum!) and Scarlett Johansson (meh. she only has one character in her thespian arsenal and if you don’t get a glimpse of her exceptional cleavage I’m not sure I see the point in casting her.) Decent movie actually. A little predictable, but heartfelt. The zoo animals are spectacular. I cried quietly (on and off) like a loser over the dead wife and the poor sick tiger (but had to contain the ugly cry for fear of hubby razzing the crap out of me.)
It’s Monday and I’m overtired not because I was drinking like a normal childless adult on a beautiful summer night, but because I went on a Senior Citizen-approved Sunday outing and then watched a slightly-better-than-average movie. Here’s where I was headed with that:
On my way into work this morning I decide I want a coffee. I didn’t have time to make one at home because I was in a rush (I’m pathologically late but trying to improve). So I stop at McDonald’s. I like their coffee (and service) better than Tim’s (gasp!) and it’s in a convenient location on my commute. I go through that McDonald’s drive-thru probably 2-3 times each week and they’ve NEVER screwed up my coffee. (Whereas Tim Horton’s can be counted upon regularly to hand you a multi-grain bagel with strawberry cream cheese and 20 of those godawful un-iced Timbits when you ordered a toasted plain bagel and 20 assorted Timbits and specifically requested they leave out those stupid unglazed ones. ‘Cus who in the hell wants a dry little ball of cake? Not this gal. In my humble opinion, the purpose of Timbits is two-fold: 1 – to increase the ratio of icing to donut and 2 – to allow me to consume way more than 1 donut’s worth without the guilt of eating three or more donuts.)
Back to McD’s: I appreciate that they are usually extremely timely and accurate in the drive-thru and employ staff with sufficient IQ to string together a coherent sentence. But this morning is different.
1) I pull into the parking lot only to discover the drive thru lanes are blocked by milk crates and a miraculously typo-free sign indicating their regret that the drive-thru is closed. What the fuck?
2) I circle the building (cus I actually have time) and park my car so I can go inside.
3) Once I get three steps from my car I look over and see a McEmployee in the process of removing the sign and milk crates.
4) I actually utter aloud “What the fuck!” which seems to amuse the construction guys in their truck nearby with the windows rolled down. Oops.
5) I get back into my car. THIS TURNS OUT TO BE A CRITICAL ERROR.
6) I steer over to the drive-thru and find myself third in line. Third! What the fuck?
7) I get up to the speaker and hear an unfamiliar voice. Shit. I order my coffee exactly as usual. Large, 3 creams, 1 sugar, shot of caramel. (Yes, I admit I like it sweet and creamy. I don’t eat breakfast, so I guiltlessly enjoy this. If coffee doesn’t taste dessert-like, I don’t bother with it. My eating philosophy is explained further in Healthy Shmealthy.)
8) The girl sounds confused. Flustered. Repeats “So that’s a large with, uh, 3 creams, a shot of sugar and, uh, – long pause – caramel? Uh, I’ll have your total at the window.” The screen reads cream, sugar, shot caramel but I’m kinda driving ahead already because I don’t want that bastard in the other lane to sneak ahead of me. I was here first, dammit.
9) I wonder to myself, doesn’t the screen usually say ‘3 creams’? I get to the window. Shit. She looks dopey. I’d remind myself to confirm my order before I proceed to the next window.
10) McDopey says ‘That’s the coffee with caramel? It’s $2.15.” I hand her a $10 bill.
11) McDopey hands me $1.55 in change. What the fuck? I look at her with squinty eyes and say, “Didn’t I give you $10?”
12) McDopey looks at me blankly for few seconds, then realizes what I’m saying. ($10 minus $2.15 probably isn’t $1.55). She has to go get someone who is allowed to open the register. I hear her ask them how much change to give me. Oh my god.
13) McDopey now wants the $1.55 back so she can give me proper change. Huh? I finally get my $7.85 in change and am so befuddled by this turn of events that I forget to confirm my order. (CRITICAL ERROR #2)
14) I pull up to the second window and a woman hands me my coffee. It’s too late to ask her what’s in it without looking neurotic so I drive away, simply shaking my head.
15) I open the peek-a-boo lid to take a sip. It smells caramel-icious. Great. I sip. Yech! I look inside and see murky brown coffee. What the fuck?
After all of that, I’ve got a large coffee with a shot of caramel and precious little else. Maybe a miniscule splash of cream.
W h a t i n t h e n a m e o f f u c k?!
I cut my losses and continue on my way to work, aggravated. After arriving at my desk and a quick scan of my inbox for items of imminent urgency (there aren’t any), I head for the lunch room with my miserable, ill-fated coffee. Once there, I pop the lid and pour in some more cream and a sugar. Stir. Sip. Yum. But it’s now lukewarm. Grrrr. I decide to pop it in the microwave and proceed to bump it on the lip of the turntable and spill at least a third of it in the microwave. Seriously? Just kill me now. I have to remove my coffee cup and the glass turntable, wash everything off, and try again.
I no longer need coffee. I need Valium. Or a drink. What do they say about Monday drinks?