squirrel with nutTonight I had dinner with one of my long time friends, Downtown Christy Brown (not her real name).  I will hereinafter refer to her as DTCB.

We are sorority sisters and have been close since college.  We share a love of food, farts, and all things hilarious.  When we get together we manage to get dumber and together we have the collective IQ of a barn mouse (or that of any Jersey Shore cast member).

Apart, we are both quite intelligent, but seeing us together laughing as milk comes out of our noses, you would never know it.  We somehow manage to laugh at anything and everything and usually cause a scene, most likely because we snort from laughter or we spill something…or both.

I was excited about our get together tonight because I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks, which to us, is a lifetime.  We agreed we would meet for dinner, but wanted somewhere with a good menu, as DTCB and I like to eat.

No, we love to eat.  Our love of food is one of the things that makes our friendship so strong.  It’s a bond based upon burritos, and to me, there is no stronger friendship.

chilisWe (shamefully) agreed to meet at Chili’s.  This decision was based upon their large selection of appetizers, entrees and desserts.  It was a calculated decision and one we didn’t take lightly.  We were serious about dinner decisions.

DTCB arrived at the “restaurant” before I did, which is rare, as I swear that woman can’t tell time.   (And can we really call a place that has plastic cups a restaurant?  I think not.)

As soon as she arrived she grabbed a booth and texted me to let me know we were placed in the booth closest to the restroom.

Normally I would be offended by such placement near the lavatory, but I knew that we were going to binge on nearly everything on the menu, so placement by the bathroom was actually a smart move by the hostess.

She obviously remembered us from the “buffalo chicken dip of 2010 incident”, which DTCB and I still don’t discuss.  It was a rough time, and an even rougher time for the cleaning crew of that restroom.  But I digress….

potato chipsAfter processing our coordinates, I texted to let her know I was on my way and to order an appetizer.  If possible, whenever I arrive anywhere I like to be greeted with food of some kind.  Whether it be a granola bar or a mint, I like to say hello with something in my mouth.  DTCB obliged and immediately ordered bottomless chips and salsa…with a side of Ranch dressing.

It’s another reason I love her.  I like to put Ranch dressing on most things, but never thought to put Ranch on my chips and salsa.  But DTCB’s dedication to increased caloric intake for our dinner was not only ingenious, it was inspiring.  I decided I would try it once I arrived.

I made it to the restaurant before the appetizer and tried to mask my disappointment by downing the iced tea waiting for me.

DTCB and I engaged in informal pleasantries, all the while eyeing another table’s queso dip.  The smell of melted cheese was intoxicating as we waited for our heart attack in a festive bowl.

The chips, salsa and Ranch arrived, and I wasn’t disappointed.  DTCB may not know much about reading directions, or how to properly obey a stop sign, but she knows a good appetizer.

waitress

NOT Heidi.

We began inhaling chips and practically bit the waitress’s hand off when she placed them on the table.  We looked like two starving orhpans who hadn’t seen food in days, instead of two women who just snacked on peanut butter prior to the dinner.

Well, maybe that was just me.

After gobbling the appetizer in 30 seconds flat, we realized the waitress was still standing there staring at us, most likely too shocked and horrified to move.  We looked up to see a skinny woman named Heidi who didn’t understand the discomfort of a fat roll hanging over her jeans.

She seemed flabbergasted by our behavior, so I informed her that we used to be thin, as if that fact made our ingestion of a half pound of salsa somewhat more acceptable.  She looked at us quizzically, not believing our previous single digit sizes.

However, Heidi was smart enough to know she needed to get a good tip from us, hopefully to pay for a hairdresser to address her black roots. She told us she was gaining weight and was “only 21 and already getting fat.”  Seriously?!

I told her until she started purchasing pants based upon the elasticity of the waistband, I didn’t want to hear her complaints.  DTCB was too busy stuffing her face with salsa and Ranch to chime in, but she nodded in agreement.

chocolate cakeWe told Heidi we needed time to peruse the menu, as that decision shouldn’t be taken lightly.  Before we even looked at the entree options, we agreed we to get dessert.

We turned to the dessert menu, complete with photos of the decadent treats that are most likely pre-baked in a factory in South Dakota approximately 3 months before they’re shipped to Chili’s.

We didn’t care, because the molten chocolate lava cake is delicious.  We agreed on dessert.  With that critical decision made, we turned our focus to the far less important decision:  the main course.

I snacked on Ranch and salsa chips as I looked over the options, my eyes drawn to the photos of the delicious options.  A menu with pictures of food is like a fat person’s version of porn, and I was in heaven.

From nachos to burgers, the photos were amazing, and I found myself drooling over the options.

Luckily, Heidi made the correct assessment that we were messy eaters and took the precautionary measure of providing us with extra napkins.  I wiped the drool off my laminated menu and decided to make a healthy choice and get a salad.

salad89After all, I was trying to watch my figure.

Naturally, to reward myself for ordering a salad, I had it covered in buffalo chicken.  Heidi read back my order as “buff chicken,” making it sounds like the chicken was in a weight lifting contest.

I could imagine my chicken oiled up in Vaseline, wearing a man-thong, posing for the judges with his veins popping out of his neck and thighs.  Was it really that hard to say “buffalo?”  Was cutting off the “alo” that much easier?  Did it really save that much time?

DTCB followed my healthy example and ordered soup and salad.  We also ordered another basket of chips, salsa and Ranch, as the only thing left of the first basket was a pile of salt and the remainder of our dignity.

DTCB and I chit chatted in between gulps of food, all the while watching out of the corner of our eyes every time someone emerged from the kitchen with food.

When the main course arrived, we jumped for joy, although with a belly full of chips, all we could muster was a solid fist pump.  Heidi asked if she could take the chips out of our way. She nearly got a punch in the face from DTCB for that.  Heidi made the good decision to leave the chips for further snacking.

boys eating ice creamWe ate our salads, thinking about dessert.  When Heidi returned to remove our plates, she didn’t even ask if we wanted dessert.  Judging by the food wasteland on our table, she knew she didn’t have to sell dessert to us, so she simply asked us what we wanted for dessert.

We told her the chocolate lava cake was calling our name (although it actually could have been our subconscious calling our names, urging us not to eat another day’s worth of calories in 2 bites).

We sat back, unbuttoned our pants, and waited for the glorious dessert to arrive.  We chose to ignore the judgmental stares from the woman in the booth across from ours who weighed approximately 90 pounds and was most likely preparing to purge.

The lava cake arrived and we immediately went to town, annihilating the dessert.  In just a few short bites we destroyed the dessert and practically licked the plate clean (the only reason we didn’t is because we couldn’t decide who should get the privilege).

Shortly after we devoured dessert, we realized we were painfully uncomfortable and needed to get home quickly.  We both left Heidi a good tip, not so much for her great service but for the hope we could buy her silence about our night of gluttony.

We waddled to our cars in silence.  We set a date (and a menu) for another time, said goodbye, and plopped into our cars.

As I struggled to move the steering wheel without striking my protruding belly, I was reminded that tonight is what life is all about….friends and laughter…and a side of Ranch.

This weekend we attended a “white party.”  No, we aren’t racist, and this party wasn’t filled with hateful propaganda nor did it look like a scene out of American History X (although I would have been just fine if a hunky Edward Norton was there sporting the wife beater he rocked in that movie).

Rather, this party required everyone to wear white clothes to the soiree.  My husband and I have an amazing friend who throws parties like you wouldn’t believe.

He has a sarcastic sense of humor, which makes him quite dear to my heart.

He also looks like a thinner version of Santa Clause, if Santa Clause trimmed his beard and dropped f-bombs every other word.  So, to keep this blog G-rated, I will hereafter refer to this friend as “St. Frick.”

St. Frick sent out an invitation for the white party, making it clear that if we wanted to eat or drink at the party, we had to be dressed in white.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity for free food and top shelf liquor, I needed to find myself a white outfit.

Since I’m not a size 2 (and I dislike those that are), it was difficult to find a flattering white dress that covers my backside without looking like a semi.  (I will make a honking noise if you do the arm signal, but I won’t be happy about it).

064Naturally, I went to my go-to place in times of crisis….target.com.  It didn’t let me down.  I found a cute white sundress at a great price.

When I went to check out Target let me know that if I spent another $25, I could get free shipping.  I’ve never been good at math, but I figured this was clearly a bargain.

Why would Target lie to me?  So, I found another dress I liked, completed my purchase, and waited for the shipment.

The white dress arrived and although it wasn’t the cutest thing in the world, it would work as my ticket to all the top shelf vodka I could drink for the night (which by the way, is a lot).

My husband also found a white outfit, although he wasn’t nearly as lucky with target.com as I was.

The night of the party we donned our white outfits and headed to St. Frick’s house for the bash.  As we walked to our car, Matt and I realized we looked like we were either getting married, or going to our jobs at the painters union. 

068Either way, we didn’t care because we knew were going to have an amazing time at St. Frick’s house.

We arrived and parked several blocks away, and followed the sounds of pumping music.  St. Frick has the most amazing house I’ve ever seen, and his patio/pool/pool house look like it came out of the pages of Crate and Barrel.

Whenever we go to his house we find ourselves cussing profusely, cursing how awesome his house is and how lame ours is.

We arrived and saw a taco truck in front of the house.  I love tacos and all things Mexican, so I bellied up to the truck and asked for some tacos.

The sixteen year old employee glanced at me and knew he would be earning his minimum wage making tacos for me all night long.

Begrudgingly he verified the taco truck was food for the party.  Woo hoo!

We walked to the backyard to get the party started and were shocked to discover it already started without us.

We walked into the back and saw several different sized balls hanging from the second story of the house.  It looked like there were bubbles floating everywhere and it was amazing!

We immediately found the bar.  It was located in the pool house, in case you were wondering.

I felt better with a vodka in my hand, and Matt and I walked around to check things out.  As I looked around, I noticed everyone was wearing white. We looked like were were members of a crazy cult, and not friends of the fabulous Mr. Frick.

Although I knew we most likely weren’t invited to to a cult ritual, I promised myself I wouldn’t trust anyone wearing white Nikes and I definitely wouldn’t drink purple Kool-Aid (unless it was mixed into my drink of course).

After downing my vodka, I set my glass down for two seconds only to look back and discover it magically disappeared.  Either I was drinking too fast or we really were in a mythical place.

I was impressed but knew if this place could make vodka magically appear instead of disappear, it would be my happy place.

As I stood there thinking about such an enchanted place, a woman in all black asked if I wanted another drink.  I really was in heaven!

The party was in late July in St. Louis in the middle of a heat wave, so it was over 100 degrees outside.  Everyone was covered in sweat, but no one noticed, either because they were too drunk to care, or too mesmerized by the hanging balls.

I fell into a category somewhere in between.

As I felt the sweat running down my back and into my unmentionables, I started a conversation with a lovely couple noticeably sweating more than I was, which may or may not be the reason I chose to stop and chat.

We talked for a few moments until the announcement that we could begin ordering tacos from the taco cart.  It then turned to anarchy as everyone bombarded the taco truck.

I suspect I spilled a drink and punched a woman in the face, but I got a good spot in line, so I figured it was well worth the violence.

To say the tacos were amazing would just be a slap in the face to the tacos. They were better than amazing.  They were the greatest things I ever tasted, and that’s saying a lot as I’m a bit of a food connoisseur.

I enjoyed my first round of tacos but needed more.  I was too embarrassed to return to the truck because I didn’t want the teenagers to think I was a fatty, as if they couldn’t tell.

So, I went incognito and sent my husband under the guise they were for him.  Right, like anyone would believe the guy with the flat stomach was getting more tacos while his overweight wife looked on.  Whatever.

I successfully finished my second round without spilling anything.  I was beginning to think St. Frick’s house had magical powers, as I always spill on myself.  Always.

I can eat a banana and somehow stain my shirt.  It’s a gift I have.  Really.  Some people can paint or draw with anything, I can make a mess out of anything.

With a belly full of tacos and vodka (the perfect storm), I got to mingle.  Since it was dark, people were wearing glow sticks like jewelry.  Not to be outdone, I made myself a necklace and anklet, as I’m trying to bring that look back…and failing miserably.

My husband and I chatted with friends separately and then met back up to swap stories.  We sat down by the pool with another couple and dangled our feet in the water, desperately trying to cool off.

I splashed water on my dress, hoping I could then use the excuse that the wet spots quickly forming under my breasts were water from the pool, and not massive amounts of sweat.  I’m not sure I fooled anyone.

We stayed a few more hours but ultimately left when our white outfits looked like napkins drenched in water.

We headed to the car sad it was over but amazed at how cool it was.

I hope I didn’t make an ass out of myself too much, but I suppose I won’t know until all the photos come back.

I just hope we get invited back, as there is nowhere else in the world I can go where the drinks magically appear and I leave a party without a stain on my dress

After indulging in lots of fried rice and lo mein last night, I decided this morning that I should get up and go for a run to burn off the ridiculous amount of carbs and calories I inhaled last night.  (Yes, inhaled.  I’m pretty confident I didn’t even stop to chew as I was shoveling the complex carbs into my mouth.)  And perhaps using the word “run” is a little optimistic, as what I did this morning definitely doesn’t qualify as a run, or anything Jackie Joyner Kersee would be familiar with.  I like to call what I do a “jalk” or a “wun” which is a pathetic combination of walking and running…mostly just walking at a faster pace.  I actually think what I do may be considered mall walking, but since I’m not 55, nor do I own a fanny pack, I refuse to call it such.

I got up this morning and put on a comfortable pair of lounge pants.  After all, I did want to be comfortable on my jalk.  What’s ironic about these pants is that one of my skinny friends gave them to me because they were too big for her tiny frame.  Naturally, she thought of my large backside as the perfect fit.  Sadly, they fit better than OJ’s glove at trial, although I knew if I kept binging on Asian food, they wouldn’t for much longer.

I threw on a top, dusted off my running shoes (which were most likely housing an entire family of spiders based upon the cobwebs I found in them), and I headed out the door. (And no, the running shoes weren’t Skeletoes.  Those things give me nightmares)  I snagged my iPod from the car, which was filled with old school songs to pump me up for my pathetic attempt at a jalk.  I turned on some Janet Jackson, and got to work.

As I jalked down the street, I started to realize that perhaps Chinese food and working out wasn’t the greatest combination. I felt lethargic from all the carbs and I was regretting that third crab rangoon.  (Who was I kidding?  No I wasn’t.)  As I left my driveway, I discovered I was already sweating, which didn’t bode well for my 30 minute wun.  I cranked up some Foreigner and forged ahead.

The sweat kept coming and soon I was convinced I was actually sweating out pure soy sauce, and had to look down at my shirt to make sure copious amounts of LaChoy weren’t seeping out of my shirt.  I also smelled like First Wok’s buffet line after a few hours of the “chicken” sitting under the heat lamp.  But, I told myself I just needed to sweat it out, so I kept going.

Somehow, I managed to make it through the workout, although I was passed by an old man walking his beagle puppy at one point, which didn’t help my self esteem.  I chose to completely ignore the fact that the man had a cane and an apparent bad hip.  Somehow, I made it back to my house, dripping in sweat and angry at the Chinese for coming up with the brilliant idea to fry rice.  I predict I will be in a coma the rest of the day, that is, until it’s time for dinner.  I’m thinking Mexican….

photo credit: Caden Crawford via photopin cc

photo credit: Caden Crawford via photopin cc

It may be hard to believe, but I’m actually a pretty good cook.  You don’t get thighs and a stomach like mine without knowing your way around a kitchen!

So on the eve of a three day weekend, I hit up the grocery store to fully stock up.

I worked from home before I went, which basically means I worked in my pajamas, wore my glasses, and didn’t bother to put on a bra or brush my teeth.  I know, I live a glamorous life.

About mid-afternoon I decided to hit up the grocery store instead of waiting until after work hours when the lines would be longer and I would be irritable and far more likely to trip someone in the canned foods aisle.  Since I shop at a hoosier grocery store that requires you to bag your own groceries, I wasn’t too concerned about my appearance.

photo credit: Mista Yuck via photopin cc

photo credit: Mista Yuck via photopin cc

I was wore a pair of men’s sweat shorts that were 3 sizes too big and an oversized t-shirt.  I looked like the winner of The Biggest Loser only I didn’t have the stretch marks or the Type II Diabetes to show for it.

I arrived at the grocery store and out of my air conditioned car.  At that moment the heat from the day actually turned into a fist and punched me in the face harder than the hit Snookie took in Season Two of The Jersey Shore (only I didn’t whine like a baby afterward).

I then walked from the parking lot to the store in the scorching heat. By the time I reached the door I was drenched in sweat, and pretty sure at least two patrons were convinced I was going to have a heart attack.  (I may or may not have been one of the two patrons).

photo credit: Robert S. Donovan via photopin cc

photo credit: Robert S. Donovan via photopin cc

I looked for the cart that had the least amount of grime on the handle, and began my trip throughout the store.  Since I had only eaten a small amount of expired leftovers from my fridge for lunch, my stomach was growling with hunger, or I was in the beginning stages of food poisoning…either one were viable options.

Either way, being in a store filled with food wasn’t helping.  I felt like…well…I felt like me in a grocery store filled with food.  I tried to avoid temptation by rushing through the aisles, picking up the items I needed and a few that I didn’t.

photo credit: kevin dooley via photopin cc

photo credit: kevin dooley via photopin cc

I managed to fill my cart with all the necessary items I needed (yes, grape flavored vodka is a necessity), and I headed to the checkout.  There were only two checkers working, and they both had lines several people deep.

Normally I wouldn’t mind the line and usually would stand and read the trashy magazines about how everyone hates The Bachelorette,

photo credit: CarbonNYC via photopin cc

photo credit: CarbonNYC via photopin cc

but since I have a subscription to many of these magazines, I knew I would only be cheating myself.

I proceeded to the self checkout lane, which this store cleverly called “The Fast Lane.”  It looked like a spaceship, and I was feeling futuristic and up for the challenge.

I began taking items out of my cart and putting them on the miniature conveyor belt in rapid speed, as I felt I needed to stay true to the “Fast Lane” mantra. Before I could scan any of my items, the computer asked me what language I wanted to use.

Naturally, I chose Spanish.

photo credit: hfabulous via photopin cc

photo credit: hfabulous via photopin cc

I scanned my first two items without incident. After all, I was a star grocery checker back in my high school days when I worked at a grocery store.  (Okay, so I wasn’t so much their star checker, but that’s because they didn’t understand my sarcasm.  Standing all day in the same spot was hard work and I needed breaks so every shift I told my male boss I had my period and had to go to the bathroom where I would sit on the toilet, clothed, and read Elle Magazine).

The scanning was going along great until the machine began beeping and a woman’s voice from the machine said “Quitar elemento y colocarlo en la bolsa.”  What?!

I did remove the item and place it in the bag!!!  I was staring at the item in the bag.

What was wrong with this woman, and how did she know anything about the location of my items?  I sought the assistance of the rebellious teenager working the futuristic machine and she reset it for me.  I was back on track!

photo credit: pin add via photopin cc

photo credit: pin add via photopin cc

I scanned again and it started beeping at me again, but this time my Spanish wasn’t as great as I had remembered, and I had no clue what was going one.  (Perhaps I should have paid better attention in Spanish 5 instead of using it as my “siesta” time.)

The teenager with the bad case of acne working “The Fast Lane” was now growing irritated with me, most likely because I was slowing it down to more of the “Regular Paced Lane.”

She walked over to me looking annoyed.  I thought about telling her my period trick so she could have a break, but thought better of it.  She fixed the machine and I once again began scanning.

Just about the time the bitter teenager returned to her station, the machine beeped again, and I swear the woman’s voice in the machine became more hostile.

The teenager returned for the third time, and I felt like a kindergartner who was called to the principal’s office for eating her friend’s boogers.  The checker was not

photo credit: Mike_tn via photopin cc

photo credit: Mike_tn via photopin cc

happy with me.

She asked what I did to the machine to make it continually beep, and when I opened my mouth to proclaim my innocence, I realized that I forgot to brush my teeth, and the smell of last night’s Mexican food filled the air.

While overpowering my urge to grab a bag of chips and salsa for the road, the teenager reset the machine for me one last time and stomped away.

I finished scanning my items, saying a silent prayer the machine wouldn’t call me out once again on my incompetence.  I completed my purchase and left the store, my head hung in shame.

I was just thankful I had purchased enough grape vodka to ease my sorrows from such a stressful trip to the store.

For any of you that know me, even in a cursory way, you know I love Chipotle.  I’m convinced that Chipotle salsa may actually be running through my veins.

I know the majority of people’s bodies are made up of 70% water, but I’m sure that at least 30% of that number on me is comprised of their delicious and perfectly seasoned rice.

Fortunately, I have a job that allows me to frequently eat the deliciousness that is Chipotle for lunch, and also allows me to expense it while I’m out of town.

When the perfect storm arises where I can get a free lunch of Chipotle, I am overwhelmed with happiness, as this combines two of my favorite things: saving money and guacamole.

photo credit: Ѕolo via photopin cc

photo credit: Ѕolo via photopin cc

Naturally, I was excited today when I was in Columbia, Missouri and I felt the familiar hunger pangs that could only be cured with a heaping bowl of Chipotle, where I’m fairly confident they know me by name.

I stood in the long line that wrapped around the store, deeply inhaling the smell of avocados and tomatoes and trying to contain my excitement.

I’m pretty sure the patron behind me was concerned I was in the beginning stages of a seizure because of my deep breathing, but I didn’t care.

She kept a safe distance from me, most likely to ensure she wouldn’t be collateral damage when I fell to the floor from whatever apparent ailment was affecting me.  With each step forward my anticipation grew and I began salivating worse than Pavlov’s dog, or R. Kelly at a junior high school dance.

photo credit: msTiNG via photopin cc

photo credit: msTiNG via photopin cc

The awaited moment finally arrived and I was asked what I wanted. Chipotle has several people working on an assembly line, as if they were assembling my burrito bowl the way they assemble a Ford Focus.

Normally I would find this type of procedure repulsive, but the end result is so fantastic, that who am I to argue with their protocol?

I advised the gentleman at the beginning of the line that I wanted a bowl, which he began preparing, and moved it to the next guy in the line.

This is where the system seemed to fall apart, and disaster struck.

The second gentleman in the assembly line of goodness, who I will refer to as “guy number 2”, was wrapping up a burrito for the guy in front of me when the tortilla ripped.

photo credit: David Salafia via photopin cc

photo credit: David Salafia via photopin cc

He then screamed at the top of his lungs “broken tortilla!!!“, as if we were in a Trauma I emergency room and someone was flat lining.

Surely the 10-minute employee training had prepared him for such a disaster.  Apparently not.  He turned to the workers in the kitchen, who had not yet received the promotion to the assembly line, and demanded a new tortilla immediately.

Once he was given the new tortilla, he begrudgingly threw it on the counter and transferred the burrito contents from the broken tortilla to the new one.  He did so with such anger and fury that I was convinced the cost of the broken tortilla was going to come out of his hourly wages.

He pushed the new burrito down the line to the next person and then glared at me asking me what I needed on my bowl.

photo credit: Burger Baroness via photopin cc

photo credit: Burger Baroness via photopin cc

At first I was taken aback because I’m on a first name basis with several Chipotle employees and am convinced I’m on the verge of being invited to the baptism of the manager’s child based solely upon the number of Chipotle purchases I make in a week.

As a result, I was surprised “guy number 2” didn’t know what I wanted.  However, I was feeling quite charitable and advised him of my order.

“Guy number 2” was clearly angered about the severed tortilla debacle and began throwing the different kinds of salsa into my bowl.  (Hey, if a girl can have more than one kind of salsa without being charged extra, this girl is going to do so).

We then came to the end of the assembly line, but the next worker had abandoned his post, so “guy number 2” was required to complete my order.

This made him visibly upset, as if he was asked to deliver a baby on that shiny metal surface, instead of just throw a few toppings on my bowl.  (okay, it was more than a few, but whatever).

He inquired as to what else I would like, and I advised I wanted guacamole.  Quite honestly, the guacamole is the best part of the meal and if I could have it served in a cup I would drink it with a straw as my beverage of choice.

However, I knew this activity would be frowned upon and I didn’t want to ruin my chances of the invite to the baptism, so I asked for the guacamole on top of the bowl.  Although this sounds like a simple task, it was more than “guy number 2” could handle.

photo credit: greg westfall. via photopin cc

photo credit: greg westfall. via photopin cc

Instead of providing me with a heaping scoop of guacamole, he placed a heaping scoop of lettuce on my bowl instead.  He then immediately left his station, most likely to go to the kitchen to see where the breakdown occurred with the defective burrito.

As he was exiting, I was tempted to ask him what about me suggested I wanted lettuce in my bowl.  One look at my flabby arms as they shook when I pointed to the condiments should have suggested I wanted nothing to do with lettuce.

In fact, it blows my mind they have lettuce at Chipotle, as it seems like such a waste.  If I wanted a salad, I wouldn’t have come to Chipotle.  But then again, if I wanted a salad more often, perhaps my bulging stomach wouldn’t have been smashed up against the counter as I paid for my burrito.

I advised the cashier that I wanted guacamole.  “Guy number 2” then returned to the line where he was advised of my desire for guacamole.

This new information clearly sent “guy number 2” over the edge, and I was tempted to reach over and grab my bowl before his head exploded all over it.

He then grabbed the spoon and plopped the guac into the side of bowl, where it practically had no use.

Seriously?! After I paid, I sat down to eat the delicious goodness, but much of the guacamole stuck to the bowl.  I forged ahead and ate the contents of the bowl anyway, practically licking it clean.

Certainly, my bad experience with “guy number 2” will not keep me from returning, but it definitely put a damper on the experience today.  I’m sure Chipotle will make it up to me sooner rather than later.

After all, I still don’t know what to have for dinner…