Last Friday, in the midst of a long, tiresome 8-hour day at the library, I took my well-deserved lunch break at Starbucks to meet up with a friend, Chris. Before I departed, a fellow co-worker made a request, an order that caught me completely off guard. She handed me 50 cents and asked if I could grab her a miniature cup of pickles from Quizno’s. Although I found her request strange, I refrained from delving into her personal matters any further. From my experience associated with the Veneta bus, I eventually learned it was better to refrain from asking too many questions. You learn things you shouldn’t like, how much people like to poop.
I nodded conveying I would kindly take up this questionable deed, unaware of the impending consequences. I simply proceeded to ask her if she would like any mustard with her lonely cup of pickles. She gave me a weird face and said, “No. Just pickles you weirdo.” I disregarded that ego-boosting comment and commenced operation: pickles.
I safely made it to Starbucks, chatted with Chris, and then ventured over to Quizno’s with one thing in mind: pickles. I asked the nice man at the counter how many pickles I could get with a quarter. The man, who’s bald head was so finely polished I could’ve sworn I saw my reflection when the light hit it just right, gave me a quizzical look and said I could grab a cup full at the pickle bar near the assorted drinks. Who knew Quizno’s had a pickle bar? A bar of options dedicated to pickles? What the hell? Just one more reason why I prefer Subway. Eat Fresh.
I sauntered my way over there, accompanied by Chris, and scooped myself a generous helping of finely sliced pickles. As I used my massive bicep to snap the lid, Bald sandwich man yelled from the counter, “So, what’s the deal? Are you pregnant?”
I stood there. With my pickles. Shocked. What kind of a question was that?! Is he even allowed to ask such a thing even if it was clearly evident I had a bun in the oven? But clearly, I was not with child and clearly, he was out of line with such a question.
I gasped and said, “Excuse me? Does it even remotely look like I’m pregnant? Are pickles good for pregnancy or something? Why would you even ask that?”
“Oh, well, all I know is that pregnant women have these uncontrollable cravings and I just thought that these pickles were one of your uncontrollable cravings,” he stupidly replied.
“Well, you thought wrong bucko.” I scoffed.
And then, just like the cherry on the top of a disastrous sundae, Chris touched my arm and asked, “Oh, honey, do you need some more pickles?”
Screw Pickles.
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