Setting: A McDonald's, located somewhere between here and Iowa, where, after hours of begging, Brad Mosiman's starved family finally convinced the man to pull over.
Characters: The star of the show (me...did you really need clarification?), Savannah, Sydney (in the restroom), Brad (refusing to leave the van and impatiently timing us) with a special guest appearance by a good-naturedly patient food service employee with a Spanish accent and a lisp. "She didn't have a lisp, Mom," Savannah protested but really, who are you going to believe? Does Savannah have a blog? No-oo-oo. Does Savannah share with you the inner most workings of her heart? No-oo-oo.
The scene opens with a disheveled yet still-beautiful Amy Mosiman squinting wearily at the over-head menu as though she had never seen it a million times before. She gracefully approaches the counter, her elegant movements belying the hours she has spent, cramped up in vehicle. She smiles at the food service worker and places her order: "I would like a hot chocolate, please." Rather than tapping the picture of a cup of hot cocoa posted on her register, the woman inexplicably feels compelled to respond to Amy's simple and humble request with a barrage of complicated questions, posed in her native language. Confused, our heroine (that's me by the way; not the food service worker whose only goals were to a) deny me my hot chocolate in order to b) destroy me) repeated her order in a slightly louder decibel. This painful process continued until Savannah leaned over the counter and said something softly to the !@#%^ denying me my inalienable right as a loyal fast food customer to order and receive a hot cocoa.
Still shaking from my fast food altercation, I was led back to the van with hot cocoa happily in hand. "What on earth could have taken you 8 minutes and 42 seconds to accomplish in there," my husband asked, barely waiting for the van doors to slide shut before careening back onto the not-so-free-way. I regaled him with how Savannah had stepped forward and threatened the food service worker who was refusing to fill my simple and respectfully-submitted request. "What did you say to her," Brad asked, glancing at his daughter in the rear view mirror as he simultaneously crossed six lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic at 72 mph while consuming his double cheeseburger without onions. "I said, 'Whole milk.'" Savannah answered. "What!?!" I screeched, "Was she lactose-intolerant? How did you know that these were the magic words to end that heinous encounter?" "She kept asking you if you wanted 2% or whole milk in your hot chocolate," Savannah explained. "Well...I can't speak Spanish" I protested. "She was saying it in English, Mom," Savannah said gently. "Well, she had a lisp," I argued. "No, she didn't. How's your hot chocolate?" Diverted, I returned to my drink. "Oh, it tastes good," I said, before drifting off to sleep.
According to my husband, who has learned over the years to just sit by and enjoy the show, this encounter was eerily similar to my pre-surgery screening where I misunderstood every single blessed question and ended up launching into an anecdotal episode that occurred over twenty years ago when I ingested ibuprofen or aspirin or Junior Mints and my right eyelid inexplicably blew up like a Macy's Day balloon float. The nurse dutifully chronicled my entire ordeal (I'm considering asking her to be my biographer) before scurrying off. I turned to my husband to humbly brag about how well I was handling this somewhat stressful situation and frowned when I noticed him smirking. "What?" I asked, irritated. "All she asked was HOW LONG AGO you had taken any medication," he snickered. "Instead, you took 8 minutes and 42 seconds telling her about what may or may not have been an allergic relation to Junior Mints that occurred two decades ago." I turned my back on my insensitive husband, "I think she had a lisp," I complained.
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