Since when is hitting on a pregnant woman a good idea? Call me crazy, but if the diamond ring on my left hand didn't give it away that I was in somewhat of a serious relationship, maybe the fact that my uterus is now protruding past my bellybutton provided a bit of a clue?
And yet, crazy Wendy's Fry Guy didn't much seem to care.
I was at work Saturday night and found myself hankering for some of Dave Thomas' specialties: a chicken sandwich, fries, a frosty, the whole value menu. Uh, I mean meal. Value meal. *cough* Freudian what? *cough*
As always, I decided to walk into the store rather than use the drive-thru because, well, I have legs. And I like snagging a handful of their super sanitary individually wrapped plasticware for my desk drawer. Plus I can better monitor how many ketchup packets I get if I'm standing right there when they toss them in the bag. Any less than 103 and I'm so asking for more.
While I was placing my order, I noticed Fry Guy was staring. A lot. So much that I almost stopped to remind him to blink. As in, "I'd like a chicken sandwich, a small fry and a chocolate ... DUDE, WOULD YOU BLINK ALREADY? ... frosty, please."
But I didn't get a chance. He interrupted my order request before I could.
I think I was mid-word. As in, "I'd like a chick- ... um, fine thanks ... en sandwich."
Apparently, he was oblivious to the third party in our conversation -- THE CASHIER I WAS ACTUALLY SPEAKING TO -- because he continued screaming over the sound of hot bubbling grease.
"GOOD CHOICE! ... THE CHICKEN. GOOD CHOICE."
First of all, thanks for the endorsement. Not that I need anyone to tell me that the chicken sandwich at Wendy's is a good idea. It's not like I've been eating them at different locations all over the country for the last TWO DECADES. I mean, they're not exactly hard to come by. Not like, say, the giant blue sapphire necklace that crazy bitch threw in the ocean at the end of "Titanic." And, second, the menu isn't all that extensive. Customers have the agonizing task of choosing between chicken patties, beef patties and fish patties. Wow. It hurts just trying to wrap my brain around such staggering options. It's a good thing Fry Guy was there to steer me in the right direction.
Apparently the cashier was as annoyed with Fry Guy's antics as I was. Eventually, she turned toward him, threw out her arms in exasperation and said, "GARY, STOPPPPP! Ugh." Even better, she was still close enough to the register microphone that it sort of reverberated through the grill area causing the rest of the cooks to erupt with laughter.
But that didn't deter Fry Guy. In his best attempt at using his indoor voice he said, "WHAT? She's hotttt! STOP BUSTING MY STONES. ... STOP BUSTING MY STONES."
Because "balls" isn't appropriate to say as an employee at one of America's most beloved fast food chains, but "stones" is fine. No one will have any clue what that clever analogy is meant to imply. Especially not the line of customers in front of the counter.
And thanks to Fry Guy's fantastic declaration of love, the rest of the men in purple polo shirts oh-so-subtly took turns abandoning their posts for a momentary walk to the counter area to look in my general direction, eye me up and down then return to their station. I now know, with a certain degree of accuracy, what it feels like to be part of a zoo exhibit. I'm sure that will only solidify once I have given birth.
To top it off, I couldn't exactly see where Fry Guy was coming from. I mean, I pretty much looked like I had just crawled out of bed thanks to an afternoon spent swimming at my mother-in-law's house. I was wearing an oh-so-stellar maternity top, elastic waistband shorts and flip flops with dog teeth indents. The outfit was rounded out with frizzy pool hair and no makeup -- unless you count leftover under-eye mascara streaks as makeup. Yep. I was ready for my close up.
But putting up with Fry Guy almost had its perks. Instead of a small fry, he gave me a jumbo container. Then he ran to get my chocolate frosty and put it in one of those mammoth cups that I'm pretty sure holds an entire gallon of liquid.
Unfortunately, the cashier noticed and intervened. "What are you DOING? ... She wanted SMALLS!"
But before I could say, "Don't worry about it," in my most nonchalant voice, she dumped the large fries back into the warming tray and scooped out a small. Then proceeded to get my itty bitty frosty.
I took extra plasticware. So there.
Fry Guy thankfully didn't have the "stones" to ask for my name or number or anything, so our grease-filled rendezvous ended at the door with him shouting, "IHOPEYOUHAVEANICEDAY!"
Next time I think I'll use the drive-thru.