KFC

"Yes."
"Hi. I'd like blah, blah, blah and a small rootbeer."
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
"You wanna blah, blah and blah?"
"Yes, and a small rootbeer."
Silence.
Silence.
"Blah, blah, blah?"
"Yes, and a small rootbeer."
Silence.
Silence.
"Be $5.04 at window."

I turn the corner and find myself at the back of the building where the folks in the car ahead of me are having a rip snorting fight. He's leaning against the building, angrily sucking on his cigarette and screaming and she's in the drivers seat, yelling right back. Eventually he stomps on the butt and climbs back into the passenger seat. I stay way back in case they have guns and feel like shooting Durango drivers.

"You wanna the blah, blah, blah?"
"Yes, and a small rootbeer."
"Blah, blah, blah and small Pepsi."
"No, rootbeer."
"Is same. $5.04"
I hand her the exact change she hands me my pop.
"This is rootbeer?"
"Same like Pepsi."
She hands me my blah, blah, blah and I drive away knowing there is no way I've got rootbeer in my cup.

I pull out onto 64th Ave and take a sip. Yes, it is Pepsi. It feels like years since I've had a drive through fast food order filled correctly.

Three things I'm thankful for:
1. My vacuum is fixed. She sucks again.
2. I've mentored another friend into joining Facebook. Yay Terry.
3. I have 5 pretty pink tulips on my kitchen table defying winter.

Shlom,