Right. So. No one cares what I had for lunch. Want to hear about what I didn't have for lunch? What I didn't have was the can of chicken vegetable soup I brought to work with me. Why? Not because I forgot to bring a can opener (nope; that's what those handy ring-tab pull-tops are for). Not even because I didn't have a spoon. I actually brought a spoon from home because all I keep at my desk is a teaspoon, and I like to ladle my soup out with something more substantial. (What? If you think that's strange, you should visit a restaurant with my dad sometime and watch as he pulls a spoon from home out of his jacket pocket because he apparently finds restaurant spoons inadequate. He prefers those flat-bottomed Chinese spoons that they give you at sushi places along with your miso soup, and he carries one with him presumably at all times for this purpose. I am not making this up. I am, however, on a rambly sort of tangent and am stuck in seemingly perpetual parentheses. Moving on.)
Anyway, the can opener was not the problem; the spoon was not the problem. The problem was I didn't bring a bowl with me in which to heat this soup. What did I think I was going to do with it? Pretend it was gazpacho and drink it cold? Start a fire out back and stick the whole can in, like some modern, urban hobo?
Actually, considering the rednecks next door have a burning barrel in the lot behind my office, and considering I was raised by a man who carries utensils in his clothing, maybe "urban hobo" isn't really such a stretch. Hmm.