I try to be a good husband. I’ll do just about anything for my wife. So when she was too tired to cook one night last week I offered to take the drive to Ralfin’ Ronnies to pick up a ‘quick’ meal. Wifey claims the Hamburger Happy Meals are the perfect portion size.
The drive to the Golden Arches is barely two minutes from our home and I spent it basking in pride at my good deed for the day, coupled with excitement at the thought of sinking my teeth into one of Ronnie’s coveted, tender cheeseburgers, since I was going to feed myself as well. (Hey, if she thought I was bringing her change from her 20, she was sadly mistaken.)
Suddenly I found myself at the moment of truth -- the order desk, where my success rate at correctly placing Ronnie’s orders is 50-50 at best. We rarely get to dine at this fine establishment as my wife insists we eat “healthy”. So when I find myself in the McHouse, my palms begin to sweat with excitement and my ability to recall my wife’s exact order often escapes me.
This time, though, I remembered. I asked for a hamburger meal. My order was immediately challenged. “What kind of hamburger meal, sir?”
“You know, a hamburger meal ... a hamburger with fries and a coke,” I explained.
“We don’t have a hamburger meal, sir,” she countered.
At this point my palms turned to hot butter, armpit sweat trickled down to my lower ribs and my heart raced. My knees buckled as I sensed the crowd of teenagers converging around me. I scanned the brightly lit billboard and recognized the word ‘hamburger’, at which I sheepishly nodded.
“Oh a Hamburger HAPPY Meal” she exclaimed, audible enough for the patrons at the Mickey Dees at the opposite end of town to hear. The kid with the long hairnet working fries shot a sudden look over his left shoulder and missed his target completely with the salt-shaker; the four employees working Drive Thru stopped in their tracks, jaws dropped. One of the newly licensed 16-year-olds behind me wondered aloud, “did that old guy just order a Happy Meal?”
Then the delightful order-taker inquired if I’d prefer a girl toy or a boy toy. All remained in suspended animation for my reply. Figuring there’s nothing at this point I can do or say to alleviate the embarrassment already heaped upon me, I loudly declared, “GIRL TOY, PLEASE!”
I exited the building forgetting to order for myself and promptly returned home with a pre-cooked meal, an entertaining tale and some 15 bucks in change, all of which was met with a bright-eyed smile and a kiss for thanks.
I repaired to the kitchen to make a tuna sandwich and poured myself a glass of milk, then laughed at the realization that, through all of it, things actually worked out in my favour.
Happy wife, happy life.