Driving home late last night, my husband says, “Operation Y.T. is a go. We need to make our move. Now.”
The rain pounds the windshield and the tires are kicking up a wake on both sides. I can’t see a thing. Good thing he’s the one driving.
“Now?” I ask. “It’s almost midnight.”
“The troops have spoken. There’s no turning back.”
Sigh. Hate when they vote without me.
So we pull into Wendy’s.
Operation Y.T. coined its name…
after several late night returns from the city or Flushing and the rumble in someone’s tumble made the car shake. Both drives are long and everyone knows, the later you stay up at night, the hungrier you get. Oh yeah. Almost forgot to mention: “Y.T.” stands for “Yummy Tummy.”
Back at Wendy’s, I take a quick mental note of everyone’s orders and enter a world that should be on the Big Screen. Late night munchers are just unusual people. But hey, makes for great entertainment, especially if you’re sleepy.
I take my place in line behind several youngins who are probably too young to get in the bars but too old to spend Friday night home with their parents. They are loud. But that doesn’t bother me. I do everything loudly. A friend of mine once told me that the moment he knew how to sum me up happened the day I entered my apartment with a ton of stuff in my arms and as I crossed the threshold, everything fell out of my hands and of course, I landed on the heap of a mess. “You just spill out!” he said. “That sums you up!”
So….back at Wendy’s, I can’t help but notice a woman dressed to the Hollywood “T,” heels, hot dress, hair done, bling-bling. She belongs in a lounge of club in the city. Not a greasy hamburger joint. Standing next to her was the guy. Dressed up, but no comparison. Nothing strange about that. But being the “spiller” that I am, I had to say something.
I turn to face Julia Roberts. “Is this his idea of a first date, cuz honey, you might want to reconsider. And if he makes you pay, I would seriously reconsider. Just sayin.”
The guy is so offended, he pulls out a gun…okay, that was a little far-fetched. But he does start cursing.
Fortunately, it is not at me. He’s swearing at the fairly large woman outside the Wendy’s who is waving her arms like a mad person. She’s standing in front of a cab.
“You took a taxi…to Wendy’s?” I just need to know.
“Yeah,” the guy says after he puts his gun away, “But the bleep bleep cab driver is threatening to leave us if we don’t hurry up and get our food.”
“You can go ahead of me.”
“We’re already ahead of you.”
“Oh yeah. Ummm, you might want to order her a frosty. She seems pretty peeved.” She is still out there flailing her arms and from the look on her face, those are not prayers coming out of her mouth.
The dashing couple now orders their food when insane cab driver lady barges into the restaurant and starts screaming. This is getting dangerous. Was Operation Y.T. so critical that it costs me my life tonight!?!?
Mr. Suave Cheap Date screams back. I will leave the contents to your imagination. Trying to keep this Blog P.G.13…Hey, my kids read it.
Anyway, decided if this is my last day on earth, at least I die with the scintillating taste of a French fry and frosty on my tongue. Yummy combination by the way. Don’t knock it till you try it.
She got the Frosty all right! On her back windshield as she left the dashing couple in the dust! …sorry, need to work on that happy ending thing… 🙂
So, the taxi driver didn’t get a frosty? Cause I like happy endings.