Letter of Frustration...

Dear So-Called "Sandwich Artist"...
I really was not going to get a sandwich today - but when I went home to get some laundry going, I found a card from your shop. It was one of those "buy 10 get one free" cards...and although I have no idea how it got filled up, since you're sandwiches aren't my favorite - but I figured "What the Hell"..and headed over to get a sandwich.
And now, I arrived at work 20 minutes late because of YOU.
I left my house (which happens to be 5 blocks from your establishment) at 12:45pm - and am now arriving back at work (which also happens to be just about 5 blocks away) at 1:20pm.

Now, let me explain that one of the things I enjoy about your sandwich place is that you have those little forms to fill out EXACTLY what I want. I consider these to be somewhat foolproof because how could anyone screw that up? You don't have to remember that I don't want mayonnaise on my sandwich...all you have to do is look at the paper and see that I only want MUSTARD.

So here's the deal,
I understand that you must be somewhat of a perfectionist since it looked like you spent at least an hour styling your hair and applying 478 layers of different colored eyeshadow and mascara. I also totally appreciated your t-shirt that said "SPOILED" on the front. And of course I noticed those perfect and fake nails that handled my sandwich like it was absolutely out to RUIN YOUR MANICURE...pinkies in the air and everything.

But I do not understand why it took so damn long to make my sandwich. I watched you slowly lean over and take the sprouts out of the refrigerator. I also watched you VEEEERRRRY SLLOOOOWWWWLY disperse said sprouts onto my sandwich...and then I sat there and stared as you tried to put the lid back on those sprouts 5 TIMES. I'm sure there were a few stragglers trying to get out - but seriously, did you have to attempt it 5 TIMES? Just put the darn lid on and get on with things.
I also watched as you grabbed a handful of onions and proceeded to seperate each and every ring of onions before you strategically placed them onto my sandwich - I can only assume that you really felt like you were making art? or perhaps you were mesmerized by all those little circles overlapping each other...
I also was positively amazed that you spent 2 entire minutes rearranging the meat on my sandwich, so that each slice was perfectly folded over and pretty looking....like a ruffle...and yet -as I was watching you, I wanted to scream "Just PUT THE MEAT ON THERE, SLAP THAT THING TOGETHER AND LET ME GET ON MY WAY!"
I alllllllmost got up and let you know what a hurry I was in - but I was so amazed at the slowness, that I couldn't help myself...I had to sit and watch you.
I saw you STOP putting my sandwich together, and actually lean over and check out your reflection in the microwave...and then I saw you scoot my fully made, but not put-together sandwich over just a bit to the left...and start on another person's sandwich. At this point, I actually did get up and ask you to just wrap mine up so I could go...and you blankly blinked your Tammy Faye lashes and looked at me while saying "huh?"
I pointed to my sandwich and said "I'm in a hurry, can you just wrap that up before completing the sandwich for the customer AFTER ME?"
You then actually SIGHED and said "I thought you were together?"
which is when I blinked at YOU. Because the guy after me, was outside drinking a beer at a table with his buddies...while I was sitting INSIDE all by myself (alllllll byyyyyy myyyyseeeeeeeeeeelf!)
I stared at you for a moment until you started wrapping up my sandwich.

And when I FINALLY got back to work - I opened up my sandwich and found....not mustard...no, no....no mustard for me! But a big slab of mayonnaise spread all over my perfectly ruffled looking meat...and gently placed sprouts.

If I didn't have to work, I would definately be headed back to your shop and mentally squishing my mayonnaise laden sandwich right into your perfectly coiffed hair.

I don't care if it WAS free....

Signed,

Late-for-work-mayo-scraping-customer-no-more