Sometimes we eat Mexican because there’s nothing else to do. And it’s cheap.

I don’t understand these people who get hung up on the menu. It’s all the same: beans, rice, cheese, and either chicken or steak. Just randomly point, it’ll be fine. I’m looking at a girl, maybe 25, clearly at a loss on what to order. She’s dithering. All the advice I have is probably don’t try the molcajete. it comes in a cauldron and has tiny squid in it. I feel a little sorry for her boyfriend, but not too much, because it looks like he’s accustomed to her level of pickiness. He looks bored and slightly stressed because the waiter is having to answer fourteen thousand questions about rice, beans, and cheese. The boyfriend is probably thinking their food will be spit on. I would spit on it if I was their waiter. Heck, I might spit on her. That’s why I’m not a waiter.

She looks kinda high maintenance. She’s got one of those “I need to speak with the manager” haircuts and a big nose. I hear hear say, “No guacamole. Nothing green,” with a cutting off motion of her hand. She’s wearing some very fancy shoes for this kind of establishment. The boyfriend is wearing a ball cap, cargo shorts, and a t-shirt. I watch their exchange for a few more moments, then turn back to my friend. She knows what I’m thinking, she’s been eyeing them, too. We chat about the latest drama at work and then her vision goes back to the picky girl in sparkly sandals and she lifts her eyebrows. I turn my attention back to them as well.

“You know, Erin…” he began in a tone that wanted to sound wheedling but really told us that he was fed up. “I am so tired of you taking up my time, the waiters time, the time of people who will come in this restaurant wanting a table but instead of us being ready to leave after an hour of dining and conversation, we’re still waiting on your food after you’ve requested no cilantro, your tomatoes be diced, not sliced, and tortilla chips that aren’t broken!! You’re worse than a toddler!”

With that, she promptly burst into tears. And wouldn’t you know it, she was one of those beautiful criers, daintily dabbing at the corners of her artfully made-up eyes, her mouth still smiling as though this was all a big misunderstanding, and not a hair coming out of place as she shook a manicured finger at her date.

“Trevor!”

Of course it’s Trevor. He couldn’t have a normal name like Mark, or John, or Andy.

But she didn’t say any more. She just snatched up her Michael Kors or Louis Vuitton or whatever the heck designer bag it was, rose like a newborn colt on those stiletto strappy sandals and stalked out in a cloud of perfume.

“Wow,” Mandy said.

Trevor looked around, stunned, then turned up his beer. I kinda wanted to salute him, but figured that was bad taste. He had just made a girl cry, after all. We’re supposed to be team women and everything. But if you ask me, she had it coming. I studied my fingernails that I had painted two days prior. They were already chipped. I was a low-maintenance babe. I didn’t like cilantro, but could never remember to mention it to the waitstaff, so I merely scraped it into a pile to the side. I’d eat pretty much anything else. And I was wearing flip flops from Belk. I got them on sale for $15.

I would love to segue into Erin’s point of view, here, and all her reasoning for being picky and difficult but unfortunately some women are just immature and needy and unfortunately that is the case with Erin. She just wants attention wherever she can get it, at any cost. I don’t know what happened with Trevor, Mandy and I finished our guac and margaritas and hugged goodbye outside. Erin was nowhere in sight, I guess she called an Uber, because she didn’t strike me as the type that would be willing to meet her boyfriend anywhere. I’d probably never see her again, but I would see her everywhere. Because the Erins of the world are plentiful.