I seldom have the opportunity to bring my dinner with me to work. It’s a combination of two reasons, really. One, I don’t usually go to the grocery store. The idea that I’d have food at home to BRING along to work is far-fetched. Two, I’m usually in such a rush to get out of my house that arriving at work fully clothed is a feat in itself, nevermind having to put little bits of food into a container and haul it along with me. I typically buy something at either the bakery across the street, or subsist entirely on coffee.
Today, my dinner came along with me. It’s leftovers from yesterday, because, for a change, yesterday’s dinner didn’t come from the Ethiopian restaurant down the street.
Needless to say, I was sitting at my desk, pleased as all hell that I had a little dinner with me. With my fork in the air, about to take a bite, the cleaning woman came into master control with a roll of toilet paper, and announced to me that “this paper, is DANGEROUS TO TOILET”.
I took the fork out of my mouth. “What?”
“The CHARM. It’s CLOGGING THE PIPES. NO BREAK UP NICE WITH WATER.” She really does talk like that. Her name is Dora, and she’s a walking, talking version of every stereotype you’ve ever heard about old European women. “ONLY USE 2 PIECES.”
“But it feels nice on your bum. I think they buy us 2-ply to be nice to us.”
She blinked at me. I think she thought I’d sworn at her. “Oh! Well!”
At that point, I took the roll from her and wound a whole bunch around my hand to demonstrate how much I use. “It’s a mitt.”
Now I have about three feet of toilet paper on my desk, and poor Dora has huffed back off to the kitchen.