Order for me. Ever. No way. Unless I am two seconds from wetting my pants and I yell over my shoulder as I run to the bathroom, "Hey, get me a sweet tea, k?" You may feel free to open doors for me and pop the tabs on my Dr. Pepper cans so I don't chip my Lincoln Park After Dark, but that'll do it. Ordering for me makes me feel like the third wife in some twisted Mormon polygamy hexagon. No thank you.