The moment I knew I hit rock bottom: Tuna salad debacle

This is a Just PMSing original series titled “The moment I knew I hit rock bottom” where I tell y’all about some of my lowest moments. Don’t feel sorry for me. Just laugh and buy me a drink. If you have a story you feel can top mine, then start your own blog.

It’s 11 a.m. CT Saturday morning at Social House in Uptown, Dallas, Texas, America.

My friends and I have gathered to partake in something pretentious millennials like to call “brunch.” It’s a time where you drink mimosas, eat breakfast food, and talk about last night’s happenings all while sitting outside on a pretentious porch somewhere.

This Saturday was no different.

Except if you’re PMS, then brunch is your hell because you hate the outdoors, you don’t love mimosas, you hate drinking during the day, and sometimes pancakes don’t satisfy.

So there I was at brunch. Drinking a Dr Pepper and looking over the menu.

I spy a tuna sandwich. I order.

“How would you like your tuna cooked,” the waiter asks me.

Offended and completely confused, I asked, “What?”

The waiter responds. “I would suggest medium.”

“I think we have a misunderstanding. I want a tuna sandwich. Like open the can. Or if you’re real fancy, the pouch.”

Then someone chimed in. PMS, you’re an idiot. This is like actual tuna.

Then the waiter says, “Oh, would you like tuna salad?”

YES, YES, YAS, YASSSSS, that’s what I would like. I tell him yes. Finally, we are on the same wavelength.

He jots something down on his notepad and away he goes. When everyone’s orders come out, it all looks so good. There’s bacon. There’s eggs. There’s waffles.

And then there’s my order.

A salad.

He pulled out my BOWL, places it in front of me and I word vomited and said, “This can’t be right.”

And he says, “Oh, yes it is.”

And then before my actual eyes, there was a salad so green with tuna steak slices so smelly, and dressing so gross, I actually died.

My eyes got wide.

“PMS got a salad? That’s the most un-PMS thing ever,” Augusta yells four people over, so all of Uptown, including the waiter, could hear her.

No, no, no. I meant tuna salad, not a salad with tuna, I thought to myself.

Everyone at the table looks at me. I’m too nice and considerate and angelic to tell the waiter there was a misunderstanding. Plus, I don’t want to appear anymore “stupid white girl” than I already have.

So the waiter leaves. I cry. I try taking a bite of the salad. I gag. Everyone begins throwing me their toast. Every time the waiter comes back, someone is talking about my tuna salad debacle. I talk loudly over them so the waiter doesn’t hear. I don’t know why, but the worst thing at this moment is hurting the waiter’s feelings. Or letting him know I hate salad. Or letting him know I hate him and the establishment he works at.

So I asked everyone at the table to take one bite from the salad to make it look like I ate it. No one did it because everyone was too drunk off their carafe of mimosas. So then I just moved it around a lot like the actual toddler I am. I hid the tuna slices under the greenery because I’m sneaky. I ate some toast. I went to the restroom when the waiter came and got our plates.

I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t you just send it back? BECAUSE I’M NOT A BABY BOOMER. ONLY BABY BOOMERS SEND THEIR FOOD BACK. I’m serious. Go to dinner with a Baby Boomer and if their meal isn’t from Wolfgang Puck himself, they send it back. I just didn’t want to do that.

So I pouted instead because I hate attention and I hate everyone’s sympathy.

So after I returned from the bathroom, I sat back down and a nice waitress brought over cheese fries. She looks at me and says, “An order of cheese fries?”

“No, you have the wrong table,” I adorably said back to her.

And then my friends say, “SURPRISE!! WE ORDERED YOU CHEESE FRIES.”

In a moment, I went from sad from the tuna salad debacle to completely elated at the thought of cheese fries because CHEESE FRIES.


And then two seconds later, my two friends said, “JUST KIDDING.” And then the waitress was gone with the actual wind. (I’m a great writer.)

Sad, I continued to eat everyone’s leftover toast like the begging dog I am.

When the check came, I was so excited to get out of there.

I took one look at my check and my tuna salad that I did not touch because it smelled so bad only cost me $16.






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