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!