McCafe Nonfat Latte

It was the first time in recent memory I have cried from my experience at McDonalds.

I had just finished a rousing afternoon of shopping 'til I dropping, and I thought some type of caffeine would just about hit the spot. Diet soda was practically running through my veins, so I thought I'd give my poor aspartame-soaked intestines a break by reaching for a dark, flavorful McCafe latte. The day had been pleasantly warm, so getting it on ice was just logical and summer-y.

Driving through the labyrinth that is any strip mall type property in Olathe, I pulled into one of two drive thru lanes. Ha. There are two cars in that lane and none in this lane. Sucker, I thought to myself, re: the poor red Ford Taurus behind the car in the first lane. Karma would soon reward me with a little run in with the curb.

I ordered a Nonfat Iced Latte. I didn't pay attention to the order screen because I had done this, oh, probably 10 times or so before, so I had no reason to suspect things would go horribly wrong. I pulled up, handed the Kind Window Man my large bill (rollin' in the Jacksons, my friend) so I could get change in smaller bills in case the Bee Eff and I decided to go out to eat later and I needed cash for a tip. Because naturally, like any liberated, independent woman, I pay for the tip when I manipulate the man to pick up the rest of a meal tab.

$17 dollars in hand, I pulled forward once more, time for Second Window Lady to hand me my smooth, refreshing prize.

I waited.

And waited.

Darn, this is take an inordinately long time.

Then, Second Window Lady appeared and said something in Spanglish to me and gestured that I should drive forward and wait, because it would be a while longer before I would get my order.

Hm. Well, that's fine I suppose. I really have nowhere to be until 8:15 (cupcakin' time. look it up in urban dictionary).

So I waited some more, annoyed that I was wasting gas idling. Should I shut off the car? What if I shut it off and 3 seconds later they come out with my drink? I decided to leave the car on, content that at least I got to listen to one of my favorite songs from the Footloose soundtrack, Kenny Loggins' "I'm Free (Heaven Helps the Man)," blasting from the outdoor speakers. This McDonalds had a touch of the 80s fever, just like me. Very nice.

It seemed like forever until Second Window Lady came out and handed me this drink, which did not look anything like my dear old Nonfat Iced Latte. It was darker in color, and had the Devil's whipped cream on top. I hesitated, before asking her if that was my drink. She said it was, I reluctantly took it.... but then I decided I just couldn't be adding extra calories that wouldn't even taste good to me. "I didn't want this whipped cream on top, do you mind?" says I. She nodded. Nods are generally an indicator of understanding, except when they are not. She disappeared back into the window, and I was left to listen to more forgotten 80s radio gems.

She came back out not too long after, with a drink that had none of the offending whipped cream, but I'm sure had a bunch of spit. That's fine. I've long since resigned myself to the fact that because I am a fast food consumer, I am a consumer of strangers' saliva also.

I thanked Second Window Lady, still skeptical, and plunged my hard straw into the wet, awaiting cap hole.

Was that sugar? Too early to tell...

Yep, definitely sugar.



TO BE CONTINUED