Devastating Diva in the McDonald’s Drive-Thru

The other day, I was at McDonald’s in Mount Pleasant doing what any responsible adult does when presented with a deal: getting a $1.50 McChicken, fries, and a large Coke Zero.

Fine dining? No.

Efficient dining? Absolutely.

I pulled into the drive-thru, placed my order, and began the traditional McDonald’s ritual of slowly moving forward six feet at a time while wondering whether I really needed the fries.

Of course I needed the fries.

Then I noticed the car in front of me.

Nothing particularly unusual about the car. It was a Honda with a South Carolina license plate. But then I looked at the license plate frame.

It read:

“DEVASTATING DIVA.”

Well.

That is certainly a statement.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have a license plate frame myself. Mine is a Tau Epsilon Phi fraternity frame. It basically tells the world, “Yes, I joined a fraternity, and apparently I’m still talking about it decades later.”

But “Devastating Diva”?

That raises questions.

If I were a woman, I’m not entirely sure I’d want to advertise that to every person sitting behind me at a red light.

Because there's confidence, and then there's issuing a public challenge.

You aren't merely a diva.

You're not even an exceptional diva.

You are DEVASTATING.

That is a lot to live up to when somebody finally pulls alongside you.

I hope she’s married or has a partner, because otherwise that license plate frame is doing some serious pre-screening on the dating pool.

Imagine meeting someone:

“So, tell me a little about yourself.”

“Well, I enjoy traveling, trying new restaurants, spending time with friends…”

“And?”

“I’m devastating.”

“Excuse me?”

“Check the Honda.”

At least she's giving everyone fair warning.

Meanwhile, my license plate frame basically identifies my fraternity affiliation. Hers sounds like it should come with terms and conditions, a liability waiver, and possibly a hurricane warning.

And really, I respect the commitment.

If you're going to declare yourself a Devastating Diva, don't hide it in an Instagram bio where only your friends will see it.

Put it on the back of the Honda.

Take it through McDonald's.

Make the guy behind you eating a $1.50 McChicken contemplate your entire life story.

Mission accomplished, Diva.

Mission accomplished.

The Mel Robbins, at Maximum Volume

I love old people.

Let me take that back. I love old people who don’t give an F’ about anyone around them.

All right—maybe I don’t.

What prompted this post? I’m sitting in the waiting room at Carolina Eyecare Physicians, eating my Costco pretzel bagel—see my other blog post—when a lady older than me walks in with her phone at maximum volume. I mean, as loud as that thing can possibly go.

She’s walking through the office watching—or listening to—a Mel Robbins podcast.

I love the Mel Robbins. Yes, the Mel Robbins.

The episode wasn’t about relationship problems, as I first thought. It was about a decline in mental capacity—which I, along with everyone else in the waiting room, could hear clearly.

Did I mention she was sitting 20 feet away from me?

I don’t know what’s going on in her life, but thanks to maximum volume, the entire waiting room was now part of the podcast.