Proof I may be clinically mentally retarded #2

Yesterday I ordered lunch for a co-worker and myself. I did a search, found the phone number and menu of the restaurant, and called the order in. Please note that I did all of these things myself. I am not saying that because I am proud that I can accomplish such a task, it is just an important fact to note as we continue. And please continue with me, will you?

Fifteen minutes later I head out to the restaurant. I went up to the bar and informed them that I had a to-go order waiting for me. After a few minutes of the bartender searching the computer he stated that he didn’t see any to go orders. He headed in back to check with the kitchen and, nope, no order there either. I told him, rather indignity I might add, that I myself called this in and no, I could not have called any other locations. I started giving him my order so I could sit there sullenly for another 15 minutes waiting for it to be completed when he informed me that they do not even serve what I was ordering. Confused I looked around. I was in the WRONG restaurant. Not the wrong location mind you, a completely different restaurant than I ordered from.

Crap.

The place I ordered from was on the other side of town. I apologized to the bartender and took a shameful walk out to the car trying to diffuse the embarrassment with giggling. “Hehehe. Can’t believe I did this. Hehe. This is so embarrassing.” Just LEAVE RACHEL.

So, of course, I call my co-worker and let her know the situation. Partly because her food is obviously going to cold by the time I get back and partly because I knew she would laugh with me about it. (And, yes, she was laughing with me. Not at me. Thankyouverymuch.)

I get to the other restaurant. Repeat the trip to the bar and ask for my to-go. The bartender starts asking people frantically if they knew about a to-go order because, “Ohmigod, no one told me about a to-go order!”

Now, at this point it should have been obvious to me that AGAIN I had walked into the wrong restaurant. That the one I needed to be in was actually directly next door and even though they shared the same parking lot they were not ACTUALLY the same restaurant. But I am nothing if not oblivious to the world so, nope, just patiently asked her to take my order and she quickly informed that that they did not serve that item. Once again, I looked up and saw that, Oh, dejavu, this is not the right restaurant! Repeat giggling and a shameful exit.

Long story short, I did walk my sorry butt to the restaurant that was, literally, about 10 feet away and picked up the order. The price was cold pasta, and me feeling like maybe I should stop drinking and maybe even blow drying my hair upside down because apparently I do not have any brain cells to spare.

Mission Statement

I wish I was a writer. I have realized through my life that wishing really doesn’t do anything for you though. Believe me, I can’t tell you how many times I have wished and prayed to win the lottery and one look at my pathetic checking account will show you that has SOOOOOOO not panned out. At. All.

Either way, I have realized that practice makes perfect. The difference though, is I usually hate the practice part. I am not so good at the whole, “wow, I really suck at this but I am going to get better so just buck up woman and keep trying” part. What can I say, the Little Engine that Could was probably not a story my parents read to me as a child. I am too impatient. I am all about the immediate gratification. Which hasn’t been something that has really panned out for me either and probably has a tiny little something to do with the state of my checking account. (Dear God, please let me win the lottery. Soon. I have shopping to do.)

I am going to try this blogging thing. As practice. Because I honestly think practicing writing will be something that I will enjoy versus, oh, I don’t know, practicing anything else I have ever tried because I have an attention span equivalent to that of a red ant.

So, there is my mission statement. Write. Write. Write. Practice. Practice. Practice. In the meantime, I hope that I can get some of my thoughts out there. Get them out of my head so that they don’t bounce around incessantly causing me to fret over them until they drive me crazy. Especially since when something is driving me crazy it will ultimately affect my relationships when I create a mountain out of a molehill. (Reason I am probably clinically mentally retarded #1: I actually wrote that first as a mole hole out of an ant. Don’t ask. I don’t even understand what goes on in my head most days. I started off on a tangent about what on Earth that really means and how is it possible to make a mole hole out of an ant. Then I wised up and googled it.)