So, I had two hungry kids, and we were on our way to the hotel.
In a stroke of brilliance, I decided to call ahead and have a pizza delivered to the hotel pool. I called while we were in the drive thru lane at Chick-fil-A. Yes, I was going through a drive thru and ordering from another restaurant, simultaneously. And that’s where it all went wrong.
Picture me, driving a rental car, talking on the phone and into the drive thru microphone.
“Welcome to ChickFilA, what can I get for you today?”
“Thank you for calling Pizza Hut. May I help you?”
“Yes, do you deliver to the Hilton Garden Inn? I’m sorry – not you. We would like a number five.”
“What’s the address, ma’am?”
“I don’t know the address.”
“What would you like to drink?”
“Lemonade. And sprite.”
“Ma’am, I need the address.”
“Okay… hold on, please.” I switch to speaker phone so I can alternate screens and search for the hotel home page and thereby give her the address. And the children started wrestling in the backseat, and I pulled the always classic parental move of waving my hand wildly and blindly in the backseat, looking for any target that will submit to my authority.
“Ma’am, do you want the 8 piece or the 12?”
“Um, what? Oh. Eight.”
“Please pull forward.”
“Ma’am, do you have the address?”
I pull forward. I try to open my wallet even as I am alternating screens between hotel address and Pizza Hut.
There is screaming in the backseat. Screaming and loud iPod sounds.
“Yes. Here’s the address. Sugarloaf.”
(Isn’t that the best street name?)
“I need the phone number.”
Back to the hotel site. “Here it is.”
“And your address?”
“Didn’t I just tell you that?”
The ChickFilA window opens, and a drink is coming my way. And another drink. And another drink.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, go on.” That’s what I thought.
“Is this for pickup or delivery?”
“Ma’am, do you need any sauces?”
“Yes. Honey. No, not you, honey. Just honey. And it’s delivery, please.”
I am receiving a bag through the window and paying for the meal, all while I can hardly understand Miss Pizza Hut.
ChickFilA girl finally handed me my receipt, smiled and waved, and I’m pretty sure she cursed my vehicle as I drove away.
I pulled forward, now one task complete.
“I need a large cheese pizza, please.”
“Will that be all?”
The car behind me is honking.
“Um, do you have drinks? Desserts?”
Honking. Fighting. Smacking.
“Okay, I’d like Sprite.”
“Ma’am, we don’t have Sprite.”
For real? “What do you have?”
“Then diet Pepsi.”
“Anything else, ma’am?”
(By the way, I actually could not understand anything she was saying. I had to ask her to repeat everything, and I stopped being kind and tactful about it. “Say that again. I didn’t understand you. What? I can’t understand you.” I think she had the same problem, since my card was denied the first time she tried to run it. Nope. This card is good. Let’s start over, sister. It’s a Visa.)
I am sure a million other things happened. It just seems like at least a dozen must have.
Pizza. Chicken. Pool. Now. Enough. Of. This.