May 16, 2001

It's about nine thirty in the morning and I'm foraging through the fridge at work, pulling out little cardboard boxes from yesterday's lunch.  I spoon some fried rice onto the slippery shrimp and drop a wad of cashew chicken on top.  I mash the whole mess together, poke some chopsticks in and turn around to find a female co-worker standing behind me with a sort of Dian Fossey-ish look on her face.

"You're not going to eat that, are you?"

"Um...  Yeah."

"Cold?"

"Yeah."

"Now?"

"Yeah."

A shudder runs through her body.

"Who in the world has Chinese food for breakfast?"

"The Chinese?"

She doesn't know what to say to that.

"Plus," I add, "I'm going to have scrambled eggs for dinner."

 



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