So my mom and I went out to Fazoli’s to eat yesterday afternoon. She had herself a nice vegetarian sandwich, while I had baked spaghetti. A glorious amount of cheese covered my meal, but I’ve found that it goes by far too quick. Fortunately grated Parmesan cheese sat within easy reach on the table.
So I as I work the cheese, shaking out a pitiful little puff of the stuff with every couple of shakes of my wrist, I ask Mom how things were going over at my Aunt Jeri’s place. She was there the night before, as is her wont, and I like to keep informed of my immediate family.
Her response was typical, “Not much,” but she added “Oh, Emily was there.”
Now long time readers (I did have them once, shut up) know that I treat my Cousin Emily rather rudely. To put it mildly. This rudeness carries over to just talking with my folks, to the point where when I say something nice about her (i.e. “She doesn’t quite look like a Lovercraftian horror when seen at a distance in the dark.”) people think I might be sick. Or up to something. Or both.
So it will come as no surprise that I continued this fine, fine, albeit rather mean, tradition this time. “Oh,” sez I. “Sorry to here that.”
The instant I said that, the lid to my Parmesan cheese pops off and the entire container frumps down upon my spaghetti, covering it utterly.
There might be some who believe this was divine judgement. That Karma laid a hurting on to my head. That all that is right and just was punishing me, if only slightly, for going after someone who wasn’t there to defend herself.
But that’s only because they don’t know how much I like Parmesan cheese…