Lessons from McDonald’s

We’ve spent the last few days in Mississippi at the annual Shindig there. This is a gathering of Christian families that includes worship and preaching/teaching and fellowship and games and eating bad camp food and it’s my second-favorite event of the year after RMO.

This year we opted to drive instead of fly because Ben was scheduled to preach Thursday night and we’ve learned we can’t count on air travel to be reliable these days.

So we decided to turn an 11.5 hour drive into 19 by leaving a day early and stopping in a McDonalds every time Ben had a meeting so he could use the wifi. He still used up almost all of his hotspot ration for the month, but we’re making do until we get home. It’s been an adventure.

At the first McDonald's I asked for a small coffee, 1/3 regular and 2/3 decaf. The sad reality of my life is that I am very sensitive to caffeine but love coffee. So here we are, asking for special favors.

“No problem,” the guy said, and then turned around and yelled, “I need a small coffee, 50% regular, 50% decaf!”

I have so many thoughts but feel I should keep them to myself. I added creamer and then drank 2/3 of the cup. That was all the math I could muster.

Now we are on the way home and sitting in yet another one of America’s favorite fast-food establishments. Ben is in a meeting and I am currently listening to two separate people yell order numbers like we are all deaf. First the employee hollers the number, then 15 seconds later the manager bellows it louder than a moose mating call. Seriously, they can hear the yelling at the Bass Pro Shop across the highway and I'm trying not to feel traumatized.

As I’m sitting here typing, another customer just walked over to me and said, “Excuse me, ma’am. They aren’t bringing the food out. When they call your number you have to go up and get your order.”

He must have thought this dumb woman was engrossed in her phone and not hearing that her food was ready and for the love, lady, go get your food so the drill instructors will stop screaming at us.

I thanked him and told him I hadn’t ordered any food. I'm not sure who was taking so long to pick their stuff up, but ORDERS ARE READY AND THEY'RE GETTING COLD, PEOPLE.

And while we are on the subject of ordering food at the ole Golden Arches, when we first came in, I was getting Ben all the things he needed to survive a 2-hour meeting-that-could-have-been-an-email. I brought him an ice water (which is no longer free, just so you know) and ordered him a cheeseburger to tide him over until lunch.

I gave him all his stuff and then left to visit the Lodge Cast Iron Factory Store down the road because I love my husband but shopping for cast iron is way more fun than listening to a meeting that makes my brain bleed. So off I went.

One 15” pizza pan and an adorable little melting pot later, I was back at the McDonalds, where Ben handed me the cheeseburger with one bite taken out of it. Apparently it was cold and burnt when he got it.

So I put on my happiest face and went to the counter to request a refund. Sally (her real name) came to the counter and asked me what I needed, hon. I blinked at my new nickname and kindly explained the cold, burnt cheeseburger situation and before I finished my sentence she threw her head sideways and said, “Take it over there,” over there being where you pick up your food.

On my way “over there,” I plastered my smile a bit more firmly on my face. The manager approached me and, again, before I could get half my statement out, she barked, “We’ll make another one.”

At this point I was losing patience and my smile was in grave danger of falling right off my face.

So I barked back, “No! I don’t want another one. I just want a ref—“

“You want a refund, hon?”

Yes.

(Deep breath.)

Please.

I decided to forego the lecture about being old enough to be her mother and my preference to not be called hon. It seemed like it would be an effort in futility.

I received my refund and, since the meeting was mercifully over, we quickly vacated.

And then because we are the slowest learners on the planet and have a secret wish to die from our poor food choices while traveling, we went to yet another McDonald’s 10 miles up the road where we got only slightly-more-life-sustaining food and I was called “Love” by a girl young enough to be my grandchild.

I wish I were making this up.

Who is teaching children to use these terms with total strangers?

And aside from the free wifi, why are Americans so enamored with McDonald’s?

I can only hope I’ve learned my lesson.