My day began at 7 a.m. with my mom waking me up, asking, “Was I supposed to wake you up this morning?”
I’d forgotten to remind her the night before.
Because a tardy counts as an absence in my journalism class, and I knew I couldn’t make it there by 8:00, I rolled back over to go back to sleep.
Five minutes later, I woke up, overwhelmed with guilt and haste.
Somehow, I got a shower and got dressed and out of the house by 7:30. (I didn’t wash my hair. Ew.)
So I actually made it on time.
At work tonight, Jimmy came through the line like usual. (Jimmy, for those who are unfamiliar with the name, is the president of Tinny’s and my fan club. He’s always talking us up to the bosses. Jimmy rocks.) So he comes through the line, and he gets to me and says, “Ginny…you know the drill.”
Well, at first I’m a bit distracted, so I’m thinking, “The drill…I know I know the drill…vegetables? I know there’s one guy who always asks for lots of vegetables, and I always give it to him, just because he’s…oh! Jimmy!”
So I gave Jimmy lots of vegetables.
Okay, that story was definitely funnier when I was telling Tinny my thought process out loud.
But the greatest thing that happened at work tonight was before dinner started.
Tinny and I went over to our line, where all the food was being put out, to get the sneezeguards and carry them to a table to clean. We’re standing there looking at everything, talking about what we do and do not wish to eat, and she’s already pulled her sneezeguard out of the sneezeguard-holder (whatever that thing is called).
Then I notice there is bacon in the corn.
Tinny and I have this theory that the chefs are conspiring to kill off all the vegetarians one by one by persistently sneaking bacon into vegetables and the terra ve.
So, pulling my sneezeguard out of the thing, I said jokingly, “There’s bacon in the terra ve again!” over my shoulder, not looking at the person that I proceeded to whack across the chest with the sneezeguard, because I was looking at the corn. But knowing that Tinny had just stepped to that side of me, I knew it must have been her that I’d just hit. So I turned to say that I was sorry, and found that it wasn’t Tinny at all.
It was Dan. My boss.
Now let me tell you a couple things about Dan. Dan is…well…he has no sense of humor. I’m not sure if Dan is capable of forming his lips into a smile. He is all business, and has no patience for things unrelated to business. He’s short, with grayish-white hair, a droopy moustache, beady sort of eyes, and a little round belly. Sometimes he wears a chef’s uniform, complete with hat, which is how all of us workers know to hide behind something—when we see the top of that hat protruding above all the foodstuffs, and moving in our general direction from that of his office.
Now to be fair, I don’t know what he’s like outside of work. He could be a very pleasant person. But at work, if you see him coming, you scatter.
So I whacked Dan across the chest with the sneezeguard, laughing all the while.
When I saw whom I’d hit, I froze for a short, unnoticeable instant before saying, “I’m sorry” and then walking away as quickly as possible.
People high-fived me for it later. I couldn’t stop laughing.