7 courses, 1 hour. Go.

I, lucky girl that I am, got asked to be a judge at Greenfest's Top Chef competition this weekend.

Noble Fare versus Cha Bella.

7 courses delivered at the speed of light into my inadequately sized stomach.

At the end of the event, we had to turn in score cards.

There were four categories for each course:

1. Taste
2. Presentation
3. Creativity
4. "Green"ness

Do the math: four categories times three courses times two chefs--that's 24 boxes that need numbers in them. I waited until the end of all course to fill out my card in terms of being fair to both parties. Apparently I was the only one to do so, and this is the flak I got for it:

Score card collector guy: It's not rocket science, you know.
Me, laughing lightly: I know, I know.
S: I mean, hurry up. We're all waiting on you.
Me (glancing down the 10-person-long table): O.K., I'm just trying to do a good job.
S (slaps the already collected scorecards against his leg impatiently, whistling).

Guess what I wanted to say? This:

Listen, asshole. You're not as cute or as funny as you think you are. Your only job today, possibly your only job in life, is to gather cardboard scorecards and give them to someone who can actually do the math. That's right, I saw you looking at them, discreetly counting on your fingers, trying to find out who had the advantage. I caught you. Your lack of math skill automatically prohibits you from accusing me of being too dumb to score my seven dishes. I was doing the math on my own card so your English pea-sized brain wouldn't have to do it.

So excUSE me for taking my job seriously. And excUSE me for actually caring about who won the award. I hope the scorecards get recounted, the award gets recalled, and you get publicly shunned for being horrible at your job AND rude to guest judges.

Damn--that was harsh even for me, wasn't it?

It's been a rough couple of weeks.