Today (which is April Fool’s day in case you live under a rock), and it was my birthday. Gawd am I old. Yup. Turned the big 3-3 this year.
I would have preferred to stay in bed all day but dear ol’ mom sprung for lunch and a visit. C’mon… who can turn down a free lunch?
So we go to this Mexican place in Cottage Grove called Las Margaritas. Never been there before, so I figured we were in for a treat. It was okay. The music was too loud for it only being like 15 people in there and it just being lunch time. We had to yell our orders and practically “Yoo-hoo, how’s the SALSA??!!” across the table to each other. I was going to get the carnitas but I hadn’t tried that before and being a well-fed and food-loving person I hate to take a gamble on something and have it turn out shitty. So I ordered a frozen strawberry margarita and the enchilada trio.
The food was pretty good actually. Mom was loving whatever it was she got (some kind of grilled chicken fajita thing called Pollo Abodado or something like that) and she got the strawberry margarita too.
Anyway, we enjoyed our drinks even though they were just mixer plus liquor–(I’m spoiled, I’ve had FRESH strawberry margaritas at other Mexican places), and of course the complimentary chips and salsa (I could just eat baskets of that and skip all the semi-ok & expensive entrees).
So we’re sitting there and the whole lot of staff (bunch of Mexican guys) comes up from behind me and all screeching a song in Spanish.
I recognize the tune. Oh shit, they’re singing “Happy Birthday” to me! OK well I suppOSE I could put on my fun face and play nice for a minute but ususally I hate this sort of thing.
Anyway, on they screech…
Feliz cumpleaos, (Happy birthday to you) Feliz cumpleaos, (Happy birthday to you) Feliz cumpleaos querido tan y por eso, (Happy birthday, dear so and soooo!)
Feliz cumpleaos! (Happy birthdaaaaaaay to you!)
Then one of the guys comes and puts down a plate with a sopapilla on it covered with honey and chocolate syrup and topped with a shitload of whipped cream. Then there is a candle in the middle.
I blow it out and they remove it. Then from out of NOFUCKINGWHERE comes a dollop of whipped cream headed straight for my face. I swear it was as big as my head. OK maybe not but when it got close they were aiming to just ‘dot’ my nose but ended up smearing it on my mouth, nose and chin and I started to make a fuss and all I could think was, “WHAT PLANET ARE YOU ON??!!WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING YOU ASSHOLES, YOU DON’T SMEAR SHIT
ON PEOPLE’S FACES YOU DUMB FUCKS!!” and while I was thinking this, I scrunched up my nose and turned my face just a little and the whole abombidable snowman of a whipped cream dollop came tumbling down my chin and plopped all over my (black, velvet, son of a bitch!) top I was wearing, then plopped onto my plate of (yet unfinished) enchiladas.
The whole time I was saying loudly, no, stop it…! Cut it out dont put that on my face! I think people were staring. I didn’t care. I think my face is smaller than most people’s and I think the guy wasn’t really looking where he was aiming that monstrous dollop and it seemed from the get go I was going to have more than a smidgen of it on my face. The whole scenario above took place over a period of 10 seconds but it seemed like an eternity.
Great. Just great.
Right after it was all over I looked at my mom and I think she could see how upset I was (like I say I was close to tears because I was like humiliated). But instead of saying somthing like, “I’m sorry you didn’t like that, I wish I would have known so I could warn you or ask them not to do that.” but NO she’s all mad that I’m mad. I’m thinking what the HELL is wrong with someone because they don’t want sugar and shit on their face??
Well OK I thought about it a second and maybe I was making too big a deal out of this whole thing.
Then I felt stupid for making a fuss and I *knew* if I hadn’t freaked out so much, the worst outcome would have been that I’d have a dot of whipped cream on my nose and not the ensuing mess because I didn’t just sit there and play along.
I asked for a wet washcloth. “WET WASHCLOTH.” “CLOTH.” Dude hands me a cheap flimsy (and dry) napkin. “NO, not a NAPKIN. I’m STICKY. I NEED A WET Wash. CLOTH.” Eh? Que? “Wash cloth. Dish towel. You know. Handi-wipe. Towlette. Dish towel. Whatever ya got that’s wet and cloth-y!” Ah fuck they don’t even understand my English!
Finally a guy walks from around the bar with a wet bar towel and I’m relieved. I suppose I could have gone into the bathroom but *shudder* I loathe public bathrooms.
Does all of this make me a bitch???
Maybe I just live in a world where people don’t do shit like this to you.
What do you think???
Same day, different year..
Other posts on this day:
- Tomorrow will be 1-2-3-4-5-6 – 2006