This will be brief as I still have a LOT to do on my paper, but I had to share with the blogosphere the weird incident that just went down.
Caitlin, Edwin and I decided that Ice Cream was calling our name. It does that from time to time. So we loaded up the Intrepid and headed over to Braum's. This was a quick run, so I am shoeless, Caitlin is wearing someone else's pants and Edwin is donning his flannel jammies. We had no intention of being presentable because well, we just wanted some dadgum dairy creaminess and there was no need to get all gussy'dup for the likes of the cows. Therefore, we went the route of the drive through. Edwin politely told the nice talking menu that we were feeling rather indecisive tonight so it might take a minute. *crickets chirp* Nothing...but silence. The awkward moment passes and the voice in the talking menu says, "Take your time. Order when you're ready." I turned to Caitlin and at the same time we realize the talking menu must not have known what indecisive meant and had to run for a Webster. We made up our minds, placed our order, and gathered up our goodies at the window. (Edwin paid because he ROCKS! and because I'm a doof and forgot my wallet.) We pull out of Braums and head through to parking lot to get back on Hall of Fame. We are on the East side of Blockbuster when I start hearing, "HEY!! HEEEEEYYY!!!" I turn around to see a flash of apron on our tail. I said, "Edwin, STOP! We're being chased!" (Hey...I never claimed to be brilliant, okay??) So Edwin stops, Caitlin rolls down her window and a Braum's guy (NOT the brilliant and wonderful drive thru guru Zach who totally got my order right) named Boseefus or somethin'er other thrust his hand throught the open window.
Okay, that was for dramatic effect.
He really just said that he had given us the wrong milkshake and was bringing us the correct one. I'm not kidding!! This kid ran out of the building, probably hurdling countertops and small children, to chase our car through the parking lots of two businesses to bring us a different milkshake. Now that's service. Or psychotic. You choose.