Breeders, EWWW!!!

For reasons unbeknownst to me-- some dietetics majors are hoping and planning and praying to go into foodservice after graduation. Like-- on purpose and stuff. Maybe a bit more high-end-- like hotel-restaurant management, but it's all foodservice to me. I would never go to college to enter foodservice-- even as a manager. The hospitality people scare and confuse me. I've done foodservice for the majority of my working life-- all positions, and all manner of eatery-- and I went back to college to get out of foodservice for good. So imagine how stoked I was to find out that a lot of dieticians make their careers in foodservice...

Hooray. Wooo, and stuff.

Seems like the booby-prize to me-- but what do I know?

Regardless of my opinion on the matter, I am required to take a few courses on foodservice management. My last one covered a lot etiquette for formal and not-so-formal gatherings. Did you know that there is an appropriate way to handle finding hair in your food? I won't go into it-- but spitting the nasty into your napkin isn't it-- nor is badmouthing the waiter. We covered etiquette on all sorts of things-- all very fascinating to me. Our final was to serve a formal dinner for the administrative faculty at the Victoria. The Victoria is an old mansion-turned fine-dining restaurant/bed & breakfast that was gifted to my school when the owners couldn't pay the taxes on it. Even though I hate foodservice-- I'm a sucker when it comes to touring old buildings. I can't help myself. As an added bonus-- we were going to get to eat dinner for free.

Best final ever. Until....

The 22 year-old breeder from Podunk took the floor. Even though I'd been awake for nearly 24 hours straight-- I was really, truly, enjoying eating my perfect dinner in this beautifully ornate piece of history. I was even able to mostly tune out the obnoxious foreign-studies girl from Ethiopia. (Apparently Ethiopia is the very bestest place in the whole wide world and America sucks butthole. Whatever.) It's not every day I get an expertly prepared meal. Tomorrow, I knew, I'd be back to peanut butter sandwiches under the fluorescent lighting of the Evil Empire breakroom.

::enter breeder, stage left::

Out of nowhere, this girl who we all tolerate because we have to, looks at this other girl who is 27, and me (29)-- and loudly instructs us that:

"You and Vanessa need to start having some babies-- it's not good to wait until you are so old."

(stunned fucking silence from the whole group) Alas, this was not a clue. Henceforth, the breeder continueth proudly:

"You might not be able to have a baby if you wait too long. It gets harder and harder to get pregnant the closer you get to 30."

Me: "uh... (stutters something inaudible)"

27 yr old: (Turns bright red and stares at her fork.)

Seriously. The whole group has now stopped eating and turned their attention to Jada and me-- looking for our response. And still, the breeder continueth:

"You should get pregnant the second semester of your senior year..."

Oh now this just takes the motherfucking CAKE! This cow has it scheduled out for us????? What the hell happened to polite dinner conversation? What happened to minding your own business? Discretion? A comfortable silence? I mean, you just don't... yanno? There are throngs of people I'm nosy about-- but you don't see me doing that! No-- etiquette says you secretly stalk their myspace or facebook to answer your questions concerning another's reproductive preferences. You simply DO NOT publicly discuss my uterus in any facet! I had to shut this breeder down. Fast. But here's a catch-- I couldn't be my usual stab-you-in-the-eye-self. I at least-- had to demonstrate a touch of class. (Think! Think! Think!!!!!!!!)

Here's a list of rejected shut-downs:

"When I want life advice from a 22 yr old freshman who never learned how babies are made, I'll ask you."

"Oh? Should I invite you in on the conception? I would hate to miss any of your enthralling wisdom."

"Shut up, you dumb whore." (My favorite)

Here is my "touch of class:"

"Eh.. I don't know-- I think I'll probably just adopt an older child someday. Get 'em when their big enough to push a lawn mower. You know-- skip that whole useless stage. What do you think-- about a ten year old maybe? They can pretty much take care of themselves."

The breeder was offended: (gee, did I say something wrong???)

"Oh my gosh! You are terrible! I would never let you adopt my child!"

...and here is the point where my sleep deprivation, aggravation, and general smart-assedness took right the fark over without even asking me:

"Well praise God then! If your child is even half as dumb as you, the laundry would never come out right!"

:: exit breeder, stage left::

And I enjoyed my perfect dinner, happily ever-after.