Would you care to hear how great of a wife I am? Or really, why I am awesome in general?
Then listen up for a harrowing tale of how, despite all adversity, I delivered my husband a chicken sandwich.
It was a long night of slaving away at my job at a veteran’s housing facility, which requires sitting at the desk for 8 hours answering the phone and getting lots of school work done, and occasionally walking around the building to see if anyone needed anything (they didn’t).
I finally left work at 12am, starving. Granted this was Tuesday night so it was technically Ash Wednesday, but I don’t think Lent starts until you’ve had one last hamburger. So I decided it would be in my husband’s best interest if I stopped and got some McDonald’s. Cause you know, happy wife = happy life. In an extra act of graciousness, I called him to see if he wanted anything.
A chicken sandwich. That was my mission. Well, technically a spicy chicken sandwich, but whatever.
So I drove to McDonald’s A. The automated voice came out of the little box to inform me they were closed, but thank you for my visit. I said you were welcome and left.
Then I drove all the way across town in the direction of my home to stop at McDonald’s B. This time, again, nothing. But my husband needed his chicken sandwich, so I drove on.
Again, I travelled all the way across the street to the Burger King. I placed my order, and to my husband’s dismay and my complete apathy, there was no spicy chicken sandwich. So I ordered two regular chicken sandwiches, but lucky for him, remembered at the last minute he didn’t like mayo. Every man should be so lucky to have a wife like me.
The young lad at the window informed me it would be 5 minutes because they had to cook up another chicken sandwich. Obviously it was my husband’s sandwich, not mine, creating the wait but I didn’t hold a grudge. I noticed we were low on gas, so in an act of extreme responsibility, I turned off the car.
Five minutes later, I turned it back on. Well, sort of. I turned the key.
“Umm…” I looked at the guy in the window. “My car won’t start.”
He stared back.
“Uh, okay. I need you to move though.”
“Yeah, it won’t start.”
So, for the sake of getting my husband his chicken sandwich, I let two of Burger King’s finest push my car into the gas station next door, which unfortunately involved going briefly onto a not-so-well-lit and usually-quite-busy highway. Except it wasn’t that busy cause at this point, it was 12:30am.
ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring. (Except it wasn’t ringing cause really, whose phone makes a ringing noise anymore? It was playing some jazzy number that I can’t figure out an onomatopoeia for.)
“Hey, honey? Where are you? Are you alright?”
“So, yeah, you love me right?”
Change in the tone.
“Why? I mean yes, but why?”
Oh, did I mention my husband has extra long extra busy days on Wednesdays? So he usually tries to get a good night’s sleep Tuesday night so that he can be extra well rested on Wednesday. Not to mention that Tuesday nights are super long nights of studying, so he’s pretty worn out by bedtime on Tuesdays. Hence me bringing him the chicken sandwich. And french fries, did I mention french fries?
I called a friend.
“Hey! What’s up? What are you doing?”
“Um, going to bed. What are you doing?”
“You know, just stranded in a gas station parking lot! Want to give me a jump?”
“Great! Can you pick up my husband too? He wants to help.”
So she did. What ensued was a long hour or so of attempting to figure out a) if the battery really was dead since the lights still worked, b) what that clicking noise was, c) what “red dead, good red, black good, ground black” meant, d) what really is a sufficient place to ground the cable.
It was peppered with several very helpful suggestions of mine that we just call a tow truck.
Meanwhile, my husband’s chicken sandwich was getting cold. I had already ate mine.
After the first failed attempt to jump start the car, my husband had the brilliant idea to try the exact same thing again. ‘Cause you know, now it’s 1:00 in the morning and what else do we have to do except just call the damn tow truck and go to bed because its obviously completely broken because the battery can’t run out in 5 minutes and usually when batteries die it doesn’t make a clicking noise, trust me I had to jump start my car about a million times when I was in high school, honey.
It gave me a good chance to catch up with my friend while my husband fiddled around with “important” things like gas pedals and owner’s manuals and the like.
Me to my friend:
Me: “So how’s life? We should hang out more”
Friend: “Yeah totally! [insert lots of interesting things going on in life here]”
Me: “Okay, so how many times is he going to try this?”
Friend: “Ugh, I don’t know.”
Husband: (yelling from car) “Okay, I’m just going to try it one more time”
Me: “Okay honey! Love you!” (to friend, whilst rolling eyes) “Seriously? It’s not going to work on the millionth…”
Vah-vah-vah-vroooooooooooooooooooom! vroom vroom vroom!
Me: “Hey! Honey! You fixed it. I knew you would. I kept the faith.”
Then we preceded to drive around for another 15-20 minutes to ensure the car would keep its charge. Then finally, finally, around 2:00 am we came home. And my husband got to eat his chicken sandwich.
Really, I’m not sure why he isn’t more grateful about it.