You know how some people are always obsessed with what other people are eating? Surely you know that of which I type. Especially if you ever have lunch with workplace companions. One person always takes it upon herself (because men are too busy telling their glory days stories for the fifty-eleventh time) to point out the amount of calories/percent of fat/grams of carbohydrates/number of artificial flavorings/sodium content in other people's food.
Perhaps I've mentioned such a person at my workplace. This person is not there every day. She's more of a filler-inner. An artificial ingredient at our lunch table. And she has the nerve to stare at and comment on my food. Yes. It's always MY food. Maybe because I don't face the wrath of the servers by going through the line after the last student, and instead bring sustenance from home. Come on. How many foods could Mrs. Hillbilly Mom possibly bring that would be unrecognizable to one so practiced in plate scrutiny? Must she always ask, "What is THAT?"
Is it really so hard to discern a cut-up shook&baked pork steak? Lemon pepper chicken? A barbecued bratwurst? Leftover Hunan chicken with rice? A cheese sandwich? Seriously. It was like I had sliced Jimmy Hoffa and cushioned him between two slices of Nutty Oat, ridding the world of his remains one bite at a time. It was enough to make me shove my Glad disposable container that I washed out every night into her face and say, "Here! You can quit eating your birdseed granola and have something with flavor!" In my mind, of course. What I really did was glower at her, answer direct questions tersely with monosyllables and no adjectives, and turn away to talk animatedly with my worst full-time enemy. I know what she was doing. Pointing out that I should be eating organically-grown and home-processed tofu burgers on stone-ground flaxseed loaf from my very own fire oven.
The Pony and I stepped into a local sandwich shop today when I finished my Save A Lot shopping. I was just ordering when a voice with no body attached hailed me mid-topping. "How are YOU? Have you been enjoying your summer?" Hidden behind The lagging Pony was Mrs. Inquisitor. How dare she! No only did she interrupt my topping train of thought, but she violated the first rule of Teacher Club: Don't talk about summer at the end of summer.
Sweet Gummi Mary! Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster tail! (I have not dropped out buttery friend from my lineup). How did Mrs. Inquisitor manage to track me down in my own Hillmomban habitat and intrude upon my final week of freedom and fast food? I tried to listen to her order, but those darn sandwich-makers and cashier kept interrogating me. All I heard was her son's sandwich.
Mrs. Inquisitor probably ordered six inches of lettuce.