Food-deprived

I did not get to eat dinner last night, and it's all our local school system's fault. Well, and the local police too. And a few idiot drivers. And people with way too many choices. And possibly even the people at Subway. And probably husband-dear's too. And since I hate making people feel left out once I start shifting blame, I'll just go ahead and say that it's my students' fault too. Oh and Steve. Of course. Like the woman in Margeritaville, he's always to blame.

So what happened?

Yesterday evening was going to be a "take care of yourself" kind of evening. I had to work late (hence blaming the students and Steve), and husband-dear had to go to a meeting on base. So each of us was going to fix our own dinner, which in my case meant picking something up on my way home. Sounds easy enough. You would think that in a society as geared towards convenience as this one is, it would have been a piece of cake. Think again.

The trouble started at around 7pm last night, when I found myself on the highway into town, only to come to a dead stop in the middle of an intersection, where a police officer in a neon green vest was directing all traffic away from the direction I needed to go. I could see flashing lights over the hill, and assumed someone had finally done what we have been predicting for years, and pulled out of one of the subdivisions along that road without looking while doing 35 mph and encountered someone coming down the hill doing 65mph.
Now in Holland, people would have stepped up to the police officer, asked him what was going on, and asked him how to get to where they were going. But here in Georgia, police officers are not that service-oriented. In fact, that one time I spun off the road, I debated calling the police for help in getting back on the road, and husband-dear all but forbade me from doing so, arguing that all they would do was yell at me for losing control of my car, give me a fine, and then charge me for pulling me back on the road. And when I saw a car in front of me pull up to the police officer, and get yelled at so loudly I could hear it over my car radio, I knew I had better just move on.
But just "moving on" is never that simple in our town. Without any planning or zoning committee, our town has but a few roads that actually go somewhere. Most roads meander through subdivisions, past gas stations and come to abrupt halts just when you can see the place you need to be at. So anytime you can't take one road into town, you may find yourself driving anywhere from five to ten miles to get to where you wanted to be. And that was the case this time as well. It's actually a good thing I've taken up roadbiking, because five months ago I would have had to drive ten miles into the next town before I would have known where to turn. But the sun was shining and it was pretty out, so the fact that it took me a good fifteen minutes to turn into the main road, didn't deter me too much. Yet.

And that's where problem number two hit. Once I pulled on to the main road, I noticed that all the drive-throughs were lined with cars. The Sonic did not have one single empty spot, the Burger King parking lot was full, and even the gas station was buzzing. The overflowing parking lot at the local high school explained the craziness. Fortunately, I was in a healthy mood, and so decided to stop at Subway. For some unfathomable reason I can't remember now, I assumed that fewer people would chose the healthy option. Well, the place wasn't as crowded as everything else around it. When I came in, there were three people in line, and I settled into a content patient wait, confident that I would have food in my hand in a few minutes.

And instantly I was confronted with problem number three. I had assumed that the four sandwiches on the counter for the three people waiting, but they were not. They were for the one lady first in line. She was placing an enormous order, which involved things like toasted sandwiches, non-toasted flatbreads, pizza's, sides, drinks, and whatever else Subway had to offer. And that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that this lady, who, may the record show, was wearing a badge that showed her to be an English teacher at our local high school, had minute orders for what needed to go on each sandwich. Anyone who has ever stood behind one these incredibly controlling customers knows exactly what I'm talking about
"Yeah, so that one needs to be half plain, no cheese, well, actually, American. But just one slice. Yeah, right there. Thanks. And no salt. Only a little salt on the BLT. Do you have fat-free honey-mustard? You do? Great, I would like half of that and half of dribbly dressing number three on the Cold Cut Combo, and then just a sprinkling of lettuce. Just a little bit. Yeah, just a little. That's too much. Yeah right there. Onions? Yes, but only on the Turkey. In fact, add peppers to that one too. And pickles. But just a little. Very light. Light, light, light, light, light."

For those of you who may be unaware of my past, I have spent countless hours working behind the counter of such wonderful food establishments as McDonald's, the local deli, and cafeterias. And let me let you in on a little secret; we don't like customers like that. We really don't. I can tell you that whenever you talk to us like that, you are really just pissing us off. Really badly. It's fine if you want to fine-tune your order, but please keep in mind that it is just a sandwich, and not the next cure for cancer. On top of that, we know what "a little" means, we did go to school, you do not have to keep using synonyms to make your point.

But the lady, oblivious to my dark thoughts, droned on, and on, and on. When she was done, I thanked the heavens for giving me patience, and was convinced I was going to eat fairly soon now. And wrong again. The two people in front me not only wore the same type of badge as pickle-lady, they also had two equally huge orders, and a similar desire to minutely choreograph the looks and layout of each piece of food.

And so I left. Call me a loser for not sticking it out, but I knew that if I had stayed, this evil person inside of me called "auntie sarcasm" would have very quickly taken over, and people here in Georgia generally don't like her very much. So I took myself and my auntie out of there and drove home. Where I had grapes and chips for dinner, and pouted. Next time, I'm ordering in.