Why I Flipped Out On a Rude Man at Trader Joe's, or "You know you're broke when..."

I shouldn't have flipped out on him.

It wasn't a bad flip-out, and he was straight-up being an asshole, but really I could've been cooler.

See, what the rude man at Trader Joe's didn't realize is that I was having a really stressful day. So stressful, in fact, I was almost inspired to start a whole new series entitled "Reasons Why I Can't Stand LA," or "Reasons LA Sucks," but because that pretty much warrants an entirely new blog and I barely have time to keep up with the exhausting demands of this one, I will not do that.

Anyway, I was standing in line at Trader Joe's at around 2:00pm on Sunday. Let this be your first indication that the day was fucked. Going to Trader Joe's on a Sunday is like like inviting a child molster to your son's bar mitzvah. It's not so much a crime in itself as it is a bad idea.

So I had been standing in line for at least 25 minutes, with at least 10 more to go, and it just so happens that at my "neighborhood" Trader Joe's*, the line for the last checkstand, when it gets backed up, actually overflows into the already crowded produce section creating a blockade of people and shopping carts right in front of the lettuce. I was unintentionally part of the lettuce blockade.

Cue Mr. Sassy McSasshole.

He approached the blockade already with a bad attitude; a khaki-clad twenty-first century hunter on a warpath to the romaine hearts. After briefly scanning the situation and WITHOUT DOING ANYTHING REASONABLE to get around me, he looked up exasperatedly and said with a severely furrowed brow:

"Well?" [Pregnant pause] "Are you shopping or what?"

Taken aback, I looked at my fellow blockaders, just to make sure I was actually the target of Mr. Sasshole's aggression. Their timid stares confirmed it was me. In no mood to take it like a doormat, I responded.

"Oh, Sir, PLEASE excuse me. Is it not OBVIOUS that I'm waiting in line with the REST OF THESE PEOPLE?" I gestured to the 4 people ahead of me, and the 3 behind. "If you need to get to the lettuce, you can ASK me to fucking move! But don't fuck with me dude. I don't need it."

I'm seriously so badass.

With that he shot me a dirty look, grabbed his pussy European salad mix, and stormed off.

I probably overreacted, maybe ran my mouth a little irrationally, but what that douchebag didn't realize when he threw me his bucket of sass was that earlier that morning my car wouldn't start. Again. And then at the laundromat I ran out of quarters and stepped in a puddle of flith on my way to 7-11 to get cash.

And then... and then... and then... what I think it comes down to is that I hate being poor.

Being poor in your twenties is kind of to be expected. People who aren't poor for at least a few years in their twenties are probably getting their money from a trust fund or from investments their parents made in microwaves before eveyrone had microwaves. And those people shouldn't exist. It's not the worst thing that could happen to a person, but there are a lot of things that are better.

I can handle driving a crappy car. I can handle doing my laundry once every two weeks at the shady laundromat on Westwood Blvd. I can even handle the fact that my life is something short of what I'd like it to be right now. But some jerk-off in the salad aisle at TJ's giving me 'tude because of things beyond my control? Nope.

Not gonna take it.



*My neighborhood Trader Joe's isn't remotely close to my neighborhood, and this is another reason why I can't stand LA.