Adventures in takeout and other signs your city doesn’t see skirts

Friday night. Jenny and I decide that it’s Mexican takeout night in the office. We’re trying a new place and everyone is pretty excited–even more so because the interns are picking up. So we get everyone’s orders, call them in, and Jenny and I walk over to pick up our food.

Keep in mind that it’s a game night, and Buccos fans are a rare breed. I’m wearing wedges and a skirt because I’ve got a special someone to see when I get home. And not a short skirt mind you–one that definitely passes the “finger-length” test of my middle school days.

On the way out of the parking lot, we get hit on by a group of pretty cute guys in the parking lot. (Just a “hello” for round 1). An incoming tailgater waves as he pulls into the parking lot. A car of young guys whistles.

We get stereotypically hit on by construction workers while walking through their zone and then by a car filled with old men. Another car of young guys honks and a third group oggles while I try to jump the metal guard rail in the parking lot (it was our only way out…).

We pick up our food, walk back, smile at the tailgaters (holding a slightly longer convo on round 2) and then get hit on by a guy delivering food to a floor above ours.

Crap. Once in the office we discover that our order is wrong and we have to go back. We get hit on by a few more cars of guys, including a convertible of leering old men, pick up our food and return, but not before exchanging smiles, hellos and no thank you’s to ticket poachers and guys in the line for the Port-a-Potty.

The construction workers ask us how the food is and we tell them to cross the restaurant off their list. The tailgaters ask us if we want a beer (more than appropriate for round 3…our actual 3rd trip out, they’d made friends with femmegaiters nearby and missed us). While I was more than willing to stop and chug (hey, I went to Penn State, I know how it’s done) Jenny is more responsible than I am and made me go inside. Which, let’s face it, was probably the better decision. We made it into the building but not before the guy selling carnations in the parking lot said we deserved flowers for being the office delivery girls.

All that and my quesadilla was, to be perfectly honest, crappy (no cheese and extra squash does not a proper quesadilla make).


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