I’ve become a connoisseur of babies. And, by babies, I mean Qdoba burritos. Their weight and dimensional girth are comparable, sending me into a burrito coma bite by bite. Since I never intend on having kids, these burritos are my babies. My gaybies. And ones that I eat. I’ll take — and have had — a diversity of types. I don’t discriminate: the steak, the pork, the chicken, the veggies, the meatless, black beans, pinto beans, always cheese and sour cream, with guacamole, without, the pico, verde, roja, and even habanero on the rare occasion I want to make my lips tingle and burn. They all must have the queso though. Lately, I’ve been getting them on Thursdays, enough that I’ve deemed the day of the week in my head Qdoba Thursday for the last month.
This week, I was at my parents’ house and picked one up on the way back to mine, so for convenience sake went to a location closer to their place. My parents live in the East end of Louisville. For all you non-Louisvillians potentially reading this, I’ll summarize. It’s the area of Louisville where many families settle down to raise their kids. The neighborhoods comprise varying socio-economic pockets, but they range from mid to upper middle class (my parents fitting much more the former than the latter), but they all have one thing in common: they are the suburbia of the city, replete with chain restaurants and stores with no local flavor of the city whatsoever. So, of course, this particular Qdoba was swarming with East End Bitches (E.E.Bs), a name I used for a particular personality type back when I waited tables in the East end. They are generally on the higher end of the socio-economic scale, or if they aren’t, they pretend to be, and they are snooty and uppity as all get out. The telltale sign of an EEB would be something like payment with a Macy’s Visa card or coming in at 11:00 am on a Summer weekday with their three bratty kids and order two margaritas, suck them down, and all the while the oldest boy would be running around popping balloons, the toddler smearing mashed french fries onto the table, and the newborn screaming in my ear while taking their order. I can’t take the credit. A friend of mine used to work at a Target in the area, and this was a term coined by some of the staff there.
One of them was in front of me in the Qdoba line with her three little girls, all sporting matching pink, as if the three little ones are the narcissistic carbon copies of the fuchsia puffy vest donning bigger adult . Upon entering, she wanted to let her six year old daughter push the door open, to prove what is beyond me, encouraging her to push harder, as I’m standing right behind them waiting (come on, Woman! Just lightly push the goddamn door open already and make her think she did it. Your designer baby is holding up me getting my designer baby). There was another EEB in front of them with three boys. I should also mention something else about the kids of EEBs. They’re picky eaters, so I had to wait awhile as the individual meals of these six kids were tailored to. “No, she wants the kids’ meal burrito wrapped in an adult size tortilla. Can you redo it?” I was relieved when it was my turn to give my hassle-free order. But then, as I’m going to pay, EEB number 2 comes up to the cashier with her son’s burrito and needs it re-wrapped, so halt everything! Your dumbass son ripped his burrito open, so you expect the entire line to stop, and make me wait even more for my delicious baby? This is what kills me about this overwhelming need people have to feel self-entitled, which could be a whole separate post. The torn burrito crisis was finally put to rest, so I unclench my fingers around my Qdoba and debit cards ready to pay and eyeing the paper bag stroller keeping my child safe. But wait! EEB 1 needs another copy of her receipt. She then has to quibble over an extra charge for a side of queso even though the woman who got it for her told her it would be extra. “My bill should be $12.10. That’s what it was originally! Not $12.57,” she said. “I just saw you pull up in front of me in a Lexus, and you’re arguing over 47 cents?” is what I would have said, but did so only in my head.
I eventually got it! At last!
|the babe. I named her Hadley Renee.|
As I took a bite, there was no doubt in my mind I would most likely do the exact same thing to a real gayby. Chomp!
This is why I can never have kids.