In Which I Gain Another Mother

It's catching up to me.

My penchant for over-scheduling, that is. It's catching up. Nay, it's caught up, and it's keeping apace of me.

Since I moved out, there have been four times where, instead of buying groceries and then cooking my own food, I have spent the week's grocery money on a large quantity of food at a Chinese or Indian restaurant, which I then eat all week long.

The first time was a year ago. The other three times...have all been in the last two months.

I'm working on making time to do normal things like cooking and grocery shopping, I swear. Things are working out so that hopefully I can actually have free time. As soon as next month, I expect to be able to do things like write stories, bake blueberry muffins, clean my room and the apartment shower, and put all of my photos from 2015 on Facebook. You know. The good stuff. But I'm not there yet, so yesterday after work I went to Hometown's second-best Chinese restaurant.

I am a frequent visitor at Hometown's second-best Chinese restaurant. The manager knows me on sight although (as I think I've mentioned before) Etch-a-Sketch and I bear a passing resemblance that confuses some. Etch-a-Sketch used to go to this restaurant with Best Friend Boy fairly often, then she and I started going there together occasionally, and Best Friend Boy and I went there together shortly after he got home from his mission. This has caused the manager to seemingly mix up me and Etch-a-Sketch somewhat. No matter, though—whether he thinks I'm me or whether he thinks I'm Etch-a-Sketch, he's always happy to see me and greets me warmly.

He was the one who took my takeout order yesterday. First I ordered a sweet and sour pork combo, a dish I often get there because it's delicious not as expensive as my favorite dish. The manager knows that I often order the pork, so he didn't seem surprised, but when I also ordered a combo with lemon chicken he jokingly said, "Who's that for?"

"Me," I said.

He seemed taken aback.

"I don't have time to cook this week," I explained, "so I'm buying food instead."

"Are you sure you don't just want to come back tomorrow?" he said doubtfully.

I said it was all right, and then I also ordered a strawberry chicken combo.

"Who's that one for?"

"Also me," I said. I felt like I might be blushing. He just seemed so concerned that it was making me feel embarrassed.

Doubtfully, the manager rang me up. He asked if he could at least put the sauce on the side so that the food wouldn't get soggy. I told him that was fine, and I paid for my meal. When I got my change back, I noticed that I'd been given a small discount.

As I was waiting for my food, the manager approached me again to ask if I was sure I wanted all that food.

"Have you done this before?" he asked.

I told him I had. I assured him that I had some vegetables at home to eat with the food, and that I'd be all right. Seeming mollified, he headed to the kitchen.

A minute later, he came out with a styrofoam box. He flipped up the lid and showed me the contents.

"Steamed vegetables," he said.

"Yes," I said, unsure of what was going on.

He told me that he was going to put the vegetables with my order, if that was okay. I thanked him, a little amused and completely astounded.

When my order was up, I noticed an extra takeout container in the bag. Sure enough, when I got home, I found not only strawberry sauce and steamed vegetables on the side, but also extra fried rice.

 

I was charmed. I had been, dare I say it, mothered to death, and it had been adorable. I'm a big girl who can take care of herself, but it's from time to time it's nice to have someone unexpectedly look out for me.

On the other hand, my days of living off Chinese takeout are apparently over. I can never order three dishes from Hometown's second-best Chinese restaurant again if it's going to grieve the manager so. Next week, I'm going to have to start cooking again like a real adult.