There’s a few things that bug me.
Okay, I lie, there’s more than a few things… But, my pet peeve for the day…
Is the lunch-mongerer.
Who’s the lunch-mongerer, you ask?
The lunch-mongerer is that person in your office who’s always inquisitive about what you’re putting into your belly.
They’re always the first one in the queue at the staff buffet, and hey, they’re always hogging the microwave come feeding time.
They’re the coffee slurpers and the popcorn chewers.
I’ve had a litany of those in my sometimes awkward, currently awesome career.
They’re the ones who’s first thought is to whether or not every birthday or flipping every email sent should be celebrated with cake and tea, and incidentally, they’re also the ones who spend their days flapping their arms about banal things.
If there’s drama, they’re in on it.
If there’s gossip, they’re crowding around the source and chucking in their whole fifty cents, and you can keep the two cents for change.
They’re the ones who are always tired, always stressed, yet produce the least work.
Making coffee is a task they attack slowly, and with dread… “surely we can get a tealady!?” they inquire.
Anyway, thats besides my point.
The fact is..they’re lunch-mongerers.
They want to know what you’re eating, how you’re eating it, when you’re eating it and whether or not it’ll take you one or two and half bowel movements to digest it.
Weirdly, they’re also the ones always, always on a diet.
I’ve had two in this job.
The first one was unparalelled, or so I thought.
I used to bring lunch in, in an effort to save cash, every day.
Also, I’m not the type with the time or the cash for lunches in restaurants every day so, it’s usually me masticating behind my monitor.
Without fail, I’d find her, every day, scratching around the fridge, trying to figure out what weird and wonderful concoction I’d chucked in a little Addis box for lunch.
She had finger-dipping skills of excellence.
She could scoop a phalange into my hummus faster than a speeding chickpea, and dig an index into my sarmie quicker than a lettuce on the run.
And heaven forbid if I had to do the walk of shame past her desk, en route from kitchen to my office, with lunch on my plate…
She’d bolt up, race across and enquire
“mmm, that looks nice. what is it?”
It put me off my food every time.
Sometimes, it would be worse…
“ooh, did you make that yourself?”
(no, fucknut, it fell out of the sky)
or
“can i have some? is it some of that weird food you like?”
(yeah, totally. lemme just chuck it at your face and you can see how weird it is)
She’d order in, daily.
Frosted wafts of dead animal would always meander down the passageway towards my desk.
Great when I was pregnant and nauseated enough, trust me.
Then she’d chew. Loudly.
Usually whilst phoning six hundred and eighty two of her closest friends to talk.
Funny enough, they’d always be talking about lunch.
She left, I moved offices, life was grand for a while.
I should have known another would come and my days of eating my lunch at my desk in peace, sans sound effects, would be gone.
And one day, last year, lunch-mongererer version 2.0 stepped into our office.
Flapping their arms and waving their ego in the air, they took up a little seat and started.
Soon enough, a sideways trip to my desk meant they met me.
And my lunch.
He said:
“ooh what is that? did you make it yourself?”
(no, dumbwit, didn’t you see my personal chef in here with his wok about a minute ago?)
I knew then. The lunch-mongerer was back.
So, life carried on, I started eating behind closed doors and then one day…
I had to do the walk of shame past his desk…
“ooh that looks niiice. what is it? did you make it yourself? did Cam have some too? is it leftovers? do you cook every night? do you use recipes? my mom always uses recipes…do you have good ones? you should make that for the next office lunch. what’s in it? does it give you indigestion? you must be careful with your intestine you know, mine is very upset right now, i spent half of last night on the toilet!”
(oh fuck me sideways with a spork. it’s back. and it’s worse!)
So, I decided, after realising that the lunch-mongerer was a flipping mongrel begging at the table for scraps of anything that could make them feel like they knew everything, and that clearly i had an avid almost fanatic interest in their poopchute-age, to eat in secret again.
So, now, every day, I time myself.
I time his ups and downs from his desk, and when he’s engaged in a terribly long, terribly important, VERY LOUD, phonecall…
I make my move.
Stealthily, I slink along the passageway, quietly open the fridge and frenetically whip up whatever it is I need to, or forage for.
The walk back is always the test though.
Just to escape the barrage of bullshit about lunch, I must walk sideways, in some way hide my plate and mince back into my office.
Success.
I make it most days okay.
And then hide behind my monitor, door closed, eating as fast as I can before he knocks and enquires…
“BUT CATH WHY’S YOUR DOOR CLOSED? ARE YOU BUSY?”
(no, fucktard, i’m masturbating to goat porn* during office hours, what the fuck do you think?!)
(*please note stalker types and assumption-creators – i do not, under any circumstances, masturbate to goat porn at any time. this is in fact, a joke).