Tag Archives: open letter

D*mn Right I’m Going To Pick Out The Lettuce

After learning that one of our favorite chain restaurants was permanently closed, the bf and I headed to a smaller, possibly local (?) Mexican joint. We walked in the door and immediately asked about some beautiful drinks a waiter was carrying.

We got chips and salsa and ordered 16 ounces of awesome called a Crazy Horse. (16 ounces each, thank you very much.) Mango, peach, guava, and strawberry margaritas mixed in the second biggest glass I’d ever seen. For the life of me I still can’t figure out what the blue part of the drink was, but it was good, so I won’t complain.

About that.


16 ounces is the perfect size to drink with dinner, apparently.

I perused the menu and found a burrito that sounded awesome. Chicken, rice, beans, pepper, and onion. And when the burrito arrived at the table? There was an extra ingredient. Sneaky, disgusting, slimy. Lettuce.

This restaurant in particular did not have abnormally gross lettuce. To me, it’s all gross. If it’s not listed on the menu, how the heck do I know to request its absence? I don’t.

Seriously, almost every restaurant ever – why do you want me to eat lettuce so badly?! It’s mostly water, it’s not like it’s some life changing food. If you want to ruin smother all your meals with crunchy, green water, at least give me a warning!


Fact: I don’t even eat lettuce in salads. Spinach all the way! Also fact: I didn’t plan to post this image anywhere so it’s not very good. Oops…

I mean, what if I was allergic to lettuce? I’d be DEAD! Twenty two years of picking out little green specs has given me a keen eye, but sometimes I miss a piece. (And trust me, I CAN taste it, no matter what my mother insists.) If people can be allergic to sunlight it doesn’t seem impossible I could be allergic to lettuce.

In fact, I do feel a bit ill every time I crunch into a sliver. I have the chills just thinking about it.


Truth, this isn’t me after lettuce. This is me after half a bottle of rum. But I wasn’t about to eat lettuce just to take a picture.

Please, restaurant owners and future restaurant owners – you can taste lettuce. And to some of us, it tastes NASTY. It’s not a garnishment if it’s hidden inside of my food. It’s just an obstacle to enjoying my meal. Please stop acting like it’s no big deal to sneak in cheap ingredients. I’d rather have a small burrito than one filled with little green land mines.

At least slap a warning label on that sucker: Contains the single food item you’ve spent more than two decades picking out of your food (please ask if you want omitted so you can actually enjoy your food while it’s warm).

No, that piece is NOT too small to taste and I will not eat until I’m confident there is no lettuce left on my plate

Dear Amatuer Extreme Couponer In Line In Front Of Me:

Good God woman, what possessed you to find 20+ coupons for fucking vitamins? You and I both know you’re not going to take all, or probably any, of those pills. To be honest, I’m a little concerned about your health.

And what’s worse? You can apparently read the fine print of a coupon, but you can’t read the sign that says 10 items or less? It’s only four words! But, despite seeing that you had far more than 10 items (and 30 bottles of 2 kinds of pills counts as 30 items, not 2, just so you know), I thought you were almost done. I was wrong.

I have learned that the only thing worse than the stereotypical old person who counts every single penny to get the perfect change, is the damn couponing bitch who is literally still cutting the coupons while standing in line. Put the scissors away, your time is up.

So I’m waiting in line behind you while the poor teenaged cashier glances at me every few minutes with looks of sympathy and hints of annoyance. I, too, feel annoyed. And I feel sorry for myself. And for her. And I really have to pee. She tells me she can save my order while I go to the bathroom, but surprise surprise you’re still arguing about coupons when I get back. Finally, freaking finally, they open a third check out lane for us. I stomp out of the store with my 6 fucking groceries and you’re still arguing with the poor staff. Bless their souls. You’re not going to make it on TLC’s Extreme Couponers. Please just stop annoying everyone and wasting my favorite grocery store’s money. There is a better way to pay for your obvious multivitamin addiction: getting a damn job with the hours you waste cutting coupons and pestering corporate about little known policies.

Grocery shopping took me two freaking hours this afternoon, and a disgusting proportion of that was thanks to you.

Dear Driver In Front Of Me:

Dear driver in front of me,

We just drove past a speed limit sign that says 45, yet as we did, you slowed to 35. What are you doing? That sign really means go 50. At least, for the love of all things wonderful, go 45, because I am not able to pass your slow self on this long stretch of road.

Yes, I am close to your bumper. Have you looked at your speed? Have you looked at the time? It’s 11:30. It is close to midnight. How do you not have somewhere to be? I don’t mean some rockin’ party. I mean bed. The place I’m trying to go.

What the hell was that random turn signal? You just gave me false hope I wouldn’t be stuck behind you anymore. But, here we are. You moseying along and me releasing a steady stream of curses. It’s now 11:40, and I am not feeling good.

Do you know why, driver in front of me? Because when I lose 25 minutes of my cruddy minimum wage shift in an attempt to get home early, my one true goal isn’t asking all that much. I just want to get home from work the same day I left for work. LITERALLY. I’m not exaggerating. I worked on Wednesday. I’m going to be pissy if I get home on Thursday. Even if it’s just 12:01. Otherwise, I would have kept that $2.50 my bosses offered me to stay my whole shift. That might have paid for a coffee to keep my awake on the drive home Thursday friggin’ morning.

I know I’m all about trying to “master the art of optimism” as I called it, but come on. One slow person after another? Are you people out because you hate your homes? Mine’s a pig sty, but I’d still rather be in my comfy bed with my floppy stuffed hound dog than driving behind you. You, Mr. let’s take a drive because it’s nice out. You, Mr. insomniac. You, Mr. I obviously don’t have plans in the morning.

I do. I have people to e-mail, NaNoWriMo challenges to complete, and yet another gruesome pm shift to prepare for.

So, driver in front of me, please do me one favor, since by now it’s Thursday and I am home: do not be the driver in front of me on the drive home tonight. Because when I’m driving home from a pm shift, I have somewhere to be. And preferably, I’d like to get there the same day I left.


Miss I just want to crawl into bed after working all night (normal human being)