How I Almost Went Crazy Last Night When I Went To Buy Sour Cream...

The Project Runway Recap is coming tomorrow. I promise. I didn’t get to watch it because Boyfriend took over the couch last night, and I wanted to be a good girlfriend so I didn’t make him watch it with me. Why was Boyfriend all over my couch like it was his territory? Boyfriend is officially Gimpy Boyfriend now. He stepped on a nail yesterday at work and tore his foot up. Yeah, in his ultimate wisdom he decided that wearing shoes is for losers and thus pissed off the Flip Flop Gods, who evidently are buddy buddy with the I’m Gonna Shove A Giant Nail In Your Foot Gods. It’s so bad that Gimpy Boyfriend didn’t go to work today. We’ve been dating for over four years and I’ve only seen him not go to work twice. Once he had the worst flu bug I’ve ever witnessed (well at a distance because I didn’t want to get sick, which was hard because we lived in a 400 square foot efficiency) and once when he drank a gallon of gin the night before and had alcohol poisoning. Now I can add “that one time he stepped on a nail and shredded the bottom of his foot” to the list.

So, no PR recap, but I thought I’d tell y’all about my trip to my local fresh Mexican restaurant, Zocalo, last night.

It goes like this… Gimpy Boyfriend is in the bath with his leg sticking out, whining that it hurts and whatnot, while I am trying to figure out what to do for dinner. Today is payday, meaning yesterday there was no food in the house, but a shit load of polish sausage that Boyfriend’s Sister made the last time she was in Chicago. Gimpy Boyfriend didn’t want to wait the hour+ it takes to thaw and cook the sausage and wanted me to heat up the remaining part of his Rick Barnes on Potato Pancakes I had bought him the day before. He also wanted me to run to the store and get more sour cream because evidently the people at Katz had been stingy and he didn’t have enough for the second half of the sandwich. Now, being the nice girlfriend that I am, I said no problem, grabbed my purse, and left to make Gimpy Boyfriend happy.

I think I once mentioned that I hate when people misuse the word “literally”. So, when I say that Clarksville Grocery is literally two blocks away, I literally mean it’s two blocks away. In fact I usually just walk, but Gimpy Boyfriend was being gimpy and whining and wanted me to hurry so I took Yolanda (that’s my car’s name). I say this to let you, the reader, know that I’m kinda in a hurry to get home and nurse my wounded boyfriend back to health with potato pancakes and sour cream. As I was backing out of my drive way, I had a moment of genus as I decided to stop by Zolcalo to put in an order for guacamole and their tostada salad, which I love, and while it was being made just run to the Grocery store (which is right across the street) and grab Gimpy Boyfriend’s sour cream.

I park Yolanda in the Zocalo parking lot and quickly walk to the front door. As I’m about to make it up the stairs I am cut off by three girls walking into the restaurant. I am kinda annoyed by this when I open the door and see that there would have been no line at the ordering counter if I had been there a split second earlier, or if those girls would have held open the door for me. So, here I am waiting behind girl numbers 1,2, and 3.

What pissed me off first is the fact that all three of them picked up menus to look and see what they wanted, but then immediately walked up to the counter like they were ready to order. I mean that’s why the menus aren’t at the cash register, but further back by the door, so you can figure it out and then walk up to the greasy hipster and place your order. Second thing that pissed me off was the fact that they all looked exactly alike! And, no, not in a, “wow are y’all triplets?” kinda way, but in a, “we all shop only at American Apparel, Skinny Jean R Us, and Goodwill but only to be ironic” kinda way. Seriously, they all had on slightly over sized plain shirts with tiny, tiny shorts just barely sticking out under the hem of the shirt. They all had on the same T strapped sandals, but in different colors. They all had these small little purses with really long straps so they hung low. They all had long hair that was pulled to the side and braided. And they all talked in that “girl/flirty/annoying” voice. You know that voice.

Girl Number 1: (holding the menu standing in front of Greasy Hipster Dude who is behind the counter) “um… yeah… um…”

Girl Number 2: (also holding a menu) “Yeah… oh… um…”

Girl Number 3: (looking over Girl number 2’s shoulder) “Mmmm… okay… um…”

Girl Number 1: “The tortilla soup sounds yum… um… hum…”

Girl Number 2: “Yeah I had tortilla soup once… it was… yeah… good…”

Girl Number 1: “But look, enchiladas… maybe…”

Girl Number 3: “Hum…” (turning to Greasy Hipster) “What do you think about the Tacos?”

Greasy Hipster: “Tacos? Yeah, they are good, I guess.”

Girl Number 3: “Yeah, I guess…”

Girl number 1: (looking at Greasy Hipster) “What is your favorite thing on the menu?”

Greasy Hipster: “Well, I…”

Girl Number 2: “No, what are your three favorite things on the menu?”

Time Out... At this point I am already clinching my jaw and telling myself to calm down. But come on! It’s been 6 minutes and not a one of these dumb bitches has ordered and I have to get thought three of them!!! I just want to place my quick order, run across the street to grab some sour cream and Neosporin and toothpaste (I’ve been waiting so long I’ve remembered other things I need to get) and get home and take care of Gimpy Boyfriend like the fucking loving person that I am!!! Time In…

Greasy Hipster: “Well I really enjoy the… blah, blah, blah…” (he then went on to describe half the freaking menu)

Girl Number 1: “Oh… well… everything sounds so yummy… I think I’ll have… (OMFingG I think she is going to order) um… yeah… I’ll have the enchiladas.”

Praise God one of them is finally done! All she has to do is fish money out of that ridiculously small purse and move along.

Girl Number 1: “Oh… wait…” (No! No wait!) “Can I see a drink menu?”

Um, no you can’t stupid girl. You are in a restaurant where you walk up to the counter. Look around, there is no bar you dumb bitch. You can get a frozen Margarita or a frozen Sangria, or if you want to the really daring you can get a mix of both. How do I know this? Is it because I frequent this restaurant? No, it’s because there is a giant God Damn sign right above Greasy Hipster’s head letting the customers, including Girl Number 1,2, and 3, know!!! Greasy Hipster then gives Girl Number 1 her choices.

Girl Number 1: “Um… I think… I think I’ll take a Margarita.”

Greasy Hipster: “Do you want salt on that?”

At this point if I had a gun I would have shot Greasy Hipster in the balls if he asked this girl one more question. I wanted to scream at him to stop giving this girl the 3rd degree and just pour Margarita in her mouth every time it hangs open when she says, “yeah… um…”. But finally Girl Number 1 pays and moves out of the way.

Girl Number 2: “Oh… Well… I guess if it’s my turn… I’ll have…”

Girl Number 1: (interrupting Girl Number 2 as she is ordering) “Should we sit inside or outside?”

Girl Number 2: “Oh… Well… How about… Yeah… I don’t care…”

Girl Number 3: “You can decide… Sure…”

Girl Number 1: “But I don’t care where we sit.”

Me: “THEN WHY DON’T YOU GO SIT ON THE MOON! OR WHY DON’T YOU DRIVE TO THE HOME OF THE POOR SMUCKS THAT BIRTHED YOU AND TORMENT THEM!!!!” (Except I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything.)

At this point I had been waiting behind these girls for exactly 14 minutes. Yeah, I had been checking my watch. Finally another Zolcalo worker walks up to the other register next to Greasy Hipster, looks at me and smiling says, “Can I help you?” I want to say, “Yes take my order and club these girls with baseball bat to benefit the future of my own sex”, but instead I just walk up to the counter and say, “Yes”.

New Zocalo Worker: “To go order right?”

In my mind I am thinking, “Wow, do I look like a pathetic loser who couldn’t possibly be meeting someone to dine in” but then I remember I am in workout shorts, one of my dad’s old undershirts, flip flops with paint stains on them, and my glasses.

Me: “Yeah, that’s right.”

New Zocalo Worker: “Your name?”

Me: “Lemon Lady and I’ll ha”

New Zocalo Worker: “Wait. What? I don’t have a Lemon Lady. We have a Beth and an Albert...”

Me: “Oh, yeah I want to place the To Go Order.”

New Zocalo Worker: “Um… I don’t understand…”

Really? What don’t you understand? You speak perfect English and you don’t look mentally challenged and you work in a restaurant. Do most people walk up to the register (which is under the big “order” sign) and want to play Scrabble with you or want to talk about the Cowboys? You have food back there somewhere and I want some, so I’m going to tell you what I want and give you money and you give me some F-ing food!!!

Me: “I want to tell you my to go order…”

New Zocalo Worker: “Yeah I can’t do that… um…”

At this point I would have probably broken down and fallen to the floor crying because all I wanted was to get my guacamole and tostada salad and run across the street for sour cream so I could get back to my house and help Gimpy Boyfriend get out of the bathtub and turn off the oven which was heating up the sandwich that was sure to be burnt to a crisp by now… But at that exact second God decided to shine down some love and Girl Number 3 walked away and Greasy Hipster turned to me and said, “I can take your order.” Those magic words kept me from causing a scene. They were like drinking a cold glass of water after running in the desert. Those words were like taking off your high heals after wearing them all day. I could breathe again.

Me: “Yes, I’ll have…”

And then I was done. He took my money and I ran to get the sour cream. When I came back my food was ready and I could go home. I spent a totally of 31 minutes trying to place an order at Zocalo and a total of 1.5 minutes buying sour cream.