Dancing on the job

There are some things that I’m not necessarily proud of that I can’t resist.
Sugar is a big one.
Helpful driving hints when I’m in the passenger seat.
Helpful homework hints if I’m in shouting distance when I’ve been asked not to participate.
Dancing to Mariah Carey’s Dreamlover when it comes on in the the grocery store.
Googling what comes up for Chef Faye and Chopped. None of it is pretty–not my love for cheap now&laters or that I care what the three people who blog about cable television on the internet have to say about me and the Far, Far Out Episode.
You would think after all these years of cooking for a living, of getting work because people like my food–no one hires anybody to cook for a pity party–that I wouldn’t worry about what someone has to say who may have no idea of the difference between a reality television show and the reality of really cooking.
But the truth is I do. Tenth grade comes right back up in my face–some girl cuts my shoes with a word I can’t even fully hear because she’s not talking to me–and it doesn’t matter that I can laugh and keep on walking; her song is playing in my head like a broken record. And then what. You can’t stay home from school. You can’t not wear shoes.
Which is a good thing.
Because I have work to do.

Q: What would you like to say really to those people on the internet?

A: I don’t dance on the job–except when it doesn’t interfere.

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