I Suspect Nargles Are Behind It

B-ry received the Harry Potter DVD box set for Christmas from my mom.  This pleased both of us a great deal.  As a result, we've been having Harry Potter marathons.  I have to say, my two absolute favorite characters are Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom (also, Mrs. Weasley is THE SHIZZ).  Therefore, the following conversation during a viewing of The Order of the Phoenix should have come as no surprise to me.  Still, it brought the LOLs...

Me:  "Squeee!!!  Luna!  I love Luna!!!"

B-Ry: (Pausing & chuckling to himself) "That's probably because you are Luna.  The non-wizardy version anyway."

Strong is the force with that one.

Boiled shrimp, grilled shrimp, shrimp kabobs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo...

I previously shared my work-Thanksgiving-luncheon-horror in this post.  Sometimes I still have to take a Silkwood shower to try and wash the Janie-memories off.  It doesn't help though.  Nothing helps... *shudder*

Now the Christmas party, well, that was a completely different debacle.  It was held one afternoon down in our food court area (which, on a normal day is pretty good).  There were tables set up with elaborate fruit and cheese displays, lovely ice sculptures, tables with breads, crackers, veggies and dips, tables with hot appetizers, a carving station and a vast dessert buffet.  None of that, however, could hold a candle to the main attraction.  I instantly wondered, what was on that table that was hardest to get to, the one that created a huge road block to the other buffets?  What exotic treats rested therein?  Foie gras?  Baked Alaska?  Petit fours made out of gold and garnished with Asscher-cut diamonds?  Pfft.  No, no, my friends.  I have two words for you: boiled shrimp.  Boiled. Shrimp.  And cocktail sauce.  People were throwing elbows and stepping on each other to pile their plates as high as the laws of physics allowed.  With boiled shrimp.  Here’s the bitch of it: this is Houston.  As in, the Houston that sits smack-ass on the Gulf of Mexico.  You can pretty much hop in your car, drive to the coast, stick your hand in the water and BOOM!  You have shrimp.  They’re like freakin’ pigeons around here.

Soon after all shrimp-hell broke loose, the food service staff caught on and instituted a lockdown that included mandatory “shrimp bouncers.”  Tiny women in hairnets and long aprons armed with tongs were standing guard, steadfastly monitoring the shrimp output.  Two shrimp per person, and GOD HELP YOU if you asked for more or tried to sneak back through with a different plate (oddly, they didn’t seem concerned with the people schlepping 5 or 6 cans of Diet Coke back to their offices- naturally, I found this to be the far more heinous act of depravity).

I headed for the dessert bar, since it appeared to be the least crowded (and least dangerous) aspect of the festivities.  A couple of cookies and a gorgeous slice of cake later, I was settled back in a corner, watching the shrimp shenanigans, fork poised ready to dig into my cake.  It was still frozen!  That's when I decided it was time for my exit (though I thoroughly enjoyed watching what I’m guessing would have been an anthropologist’s dream).  I remembered I had a Diet Coke in the fridge in the break room and some Jelly Bellies at my desk.  Hark!  'Twas truly a Festivus miracle!

Dante’s Tenth (and lesser-known) Circle of Hell

Whether or not you actually get along with your co-workers and supervisors many times dictates the level of gleeful anticipation and/or horrified dread in the approaching days, minutes, and hours leading up to a workplace holiday party.  Another deciding factor is the location- will the festivities be held at the gorgeous country club where, under normal circumstances you’d be hauled away for merely giving it a sideways glance?  A fabulous restaurant?  The office janitor’s closet?  The parking lot?  Finally, the main reason people come: the possibility of free food and sometimes, free booze.

Many, many years ago, I worked at a place that could be described as "klassy" at best.  The office Thanksgiving party was decidedly on the lower rungs of awesomeness.  The festivities occurred in our break room- not bad (not great, either).  The problem was a lack of real estate.  Everyone had a rough time comfortably and easily navigating with plates (wasn't really enough room to navigate sans plates, either).

After the lines died down, I made my way to the chafing dishes.  What culinary excitement awaited me?  Hmm.  Green salad?  Okay!  Lumpy sweet potatoes? No thanks.  Rolls?  Why not?  (Because they turned out to be like little rocks, that’s why not.  Damn near chipped a tooth…) Unidentifiable weird casserole?  Aughhh!  Someone kill it with fire!  Turkey?  Um, I guess.  (I discovered too late it was going to be drowned in salty gravy)  The best part, though, was being called out for not having a filled-enough plate by the  in-charge-type-person.  Nothing says holiday fun like management loudly berating you about your lunch choices in front of all your colleagues!  Especially if you have a long and storied history of food issues!  WHEEEEEE!

The best part, though- the marshmallows on my lumpy sweet potato casserole of a lunch, if you will- was what happened next.  As I was standing around chatting, a manager from a nearby department (we'll call her "Janie") was commenting on how many new people had joined the staff in recent weeks.  The following exchange is what took place shortly thereafter:

Janie: “I see lots of new faces!”  Staring intently at me, “You’re a new face!”

Me (looking around thinking she can’t possibly be talking to me): “I am?”

Janie: “Yes!  How long have you been with us now?!”

Me (yep, she’s definitely talking to me): “Three years.”

Janie: “Three years?!  Here?  Really?!  You have not been working here three years!  Really?!”

Me (wow…this is getting uncomfortable): “Yes, really.”

Janie (did I mention we had a sizeable audience?): “Well, your face is new to me!  I must not have ever run into you until now!”

Me: “Apparently not."

The thing about this conversation that made it so uncomfortable was not the fact that this woman didn’t recognize me.  What made this so uncomfortable- irritating, really- was the fact that I'd had basically the exact same conversation with this woman a year ago almost to the day.  Word for word.  A year ago.  The only real differences were a.) previously she asked me in the middle of a huge meeting as she was doing a presentation and b.) my response was two years.  I felt like this was becoming a holiday tradition for the two of us, Janie and me. It also didn't help that she and I exchanged quite a few emails and I visited her in her office on numerous occasions over the previous three years to discuss/drop off paperwork.  So, yeah.

The final insult?  I paid $2.00 for that.  I decided that the following year I was going to keep my two bucks and head over to Chick-Fil-A.  See, they knew me there (and couldn't care less what I was or wasn't eating).