Momnesia

Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Unlike those who get to play hacky sack in the office, my days are pretty hectic. I spend a lot of time running around, following other people's schedules, while the rest of the world passes by all "Lah di dah, we're off for a scrumptious sushi lunch with gossip and such while you drive another set of tires off your car."

So it was that I found myself at the office, alone last night, still working feverishly to tabulate our Metro's Best category nominations. Hungry - lunch was baby shower food, which is to say, nothing - I thought I'd splurge and grab some Popeye's chicken.

As I pulled up to the order board at 450 Walton Way, I was greeted with silence.
I waited.
More silence.
I browsed the menu.
More silence.

"HEY!!" I heard, and saw an arm waving frantically at me from the drive-thru window.
"I'm sorry," I said, as I reached her. "Is the intercom broken?"
"Naw. My headset jus' about ta go out," she said. "Whatchoo want?"

What I wanted was to decide from a menu what I'd like to order. I never eat at Popeye's, and this is a perfect example of the damn reason: They can't seem to even take an order in a sensible, polite manner.

"Uh, well, I'd like some chicken strips and rice, please," I said.
"We ain' got no chicken strips," she said. "We got jus' regular chicken."
"Oh, are you closed?!" I said, mortified that I might be keeping these fine employees later than they expected. "You didn't have to serve me if you're closed."
"Yeah. We close at 9," she said.

I looked at the clock. It was 8:25.
I drove away.