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So over the weekend, three of us decide to go to Wendy's. Number One Son was dying to get his hands on some chicken nuggets, this is his equivalent to Mecca, and the rest of us were in rush to get to the movies, so everyone agreed on Wendy's.

We get into Wendy's, get up to the counter, and I say "I'd like a Spicy Wrap" (or whatever the heck it's called). I wait for a couple of seconds, the woman smiles back at me blankly, and I finally say "Er, is there anything that comes with that?"

"No," she says. "But you could get a fries and a drink for a dollar extra." The way she says it implies that this is a whole lotta money, and she's not sure if I can come up with that amount.

"OK," I say. "Let's do that and make it a diet Coke. Oh, and can you add a small vanilla Frosty with m&ms?"

"Um," she says nervously. "You mean a... wait a minute...." she looks behind her, carefully scanning the menu. She really takes her time, and makes a big production of this. She's straining to read the board. "It's uh..." and she reads the "official" name of the treat off the lit menu board.

Yeah, thanks for reading that one off to me: Obviously it's made a great impression, as I can't think of that name for the life of me this morning.

"OK," I say. I don't really care if it's called dog vomit, but if it makes her happy to say it, fine with me.

"Er, do you want it vanilla or chocolate?" she asks.

"Vanilla," I say again.

"Anything else?" she says, seemingly oblivious to the other two people with me - the ones that I've been chatting with the entire time.

I then look at her name tag, figuring I'll see the word "Rookie" on it, or "Mentally Handicapped: Be Patient", or something. Instead, it says "Manager."

"Yeah," I say. "He'll have..." and I jerk my thumb at my son.

"Number 9," says my son promptly. "With a coke. Oh, and a chocolate Frosty with m&ms, too." He looks at me and says "I don't know how you can stand vanilla." I shrug my shoulders.

She looks back over her shoulder again. "A whaaa...? Oh, a..." and she names the Frosty combo again. "And what flavor would you like that to be?"

"Chocolate," says my son. Again. We look at each other.

"Is that all for you, then?" she asks brightly.

"Er, no, I think he'd like to have something too," I say, pointing to the guy with us, who orders his meal.

She then goes into fully-spastic mode, getting us three drinks. It looks like a real production back there and I begin to wonder if Wendy's has some sort of special punishment for managers. Is that why she's so

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