Holiday Lunch From Hell

It’s that time of year. The time for your annual department holiday lunch. In my case, the guestlist would be comprised of myself, The Grinch, Nip/Tuck, The Intern, and Stanley.

When it’s the appointed time to leave, we all hear nothing from The Grinch (and apparently in previous years past, she has forgotten completely leaving everyone to sit there and wait all day wondering when they were going to leave). So we keep on workin’. Then, all of a sudden, you hear the stomping of her heels as she swishes out of her office. Then you hear (much akin to a drill sergeant) they yelling, “UP! UP! LET’S GO!.....NOW!” We’re all in a flurry of activity – of trying to send that last email, get coats, purses, etc. After about a minute we hear “SARAH, OFF THE COMPUTER NOWWWWW!!” “INTERN, CARRY MY UMBRELLA!” I looked at the intern at this point and mouthed “you don’t have to do that”. I mean, my God, am I living in an alternate version of Devil Wears Prada all of a sudden?! Who the hell can’t carry their own freakin’ umbrella?!! Thus begins our journey into the great abyss.

We all literally run after her to the elevator (remember she walks at a brisk clip EVERYWHERE). Stanley, in all his 67-year old glory, has some aches and pains, and consequently, walks a bit slow. Any normal, kind person with a soul would understand and wait. But, then again, when was The Grinch ever normal, kind, or with soul? So of course, she is PISSED that Stanley is taking oh-so-long to reach the elevator. She is huffing and puffing so much I’m surprised steam didn’t come out of her ears. “If he doesn’t get here in the next 2 minutes, we are leaving him! Argh! Do you hear me! Leaving you behind Stanley!” Rolls her eyes in annoyance. Stanley does finally, slowly, but surely, make it.

It is pouring rain outside. Yet still, instead of driving, T.G. insists we take public transportation. It is a long, wet, awkward, miserable 30 minutes on the train. We FINALLY sit down at the restaurant. Everyone starts to warm up, sprits lighten, and people start relaxing. The chit chatting starts about holiday plans, etc. It’s all fine and good. Then T.G. decides she needs attention again and starts bringing up work again and about all the “idiots” we work with. Talk about Debbie Downer. Silence ensues, oh well, at least it’s time for dessert! Everyone eyes this amazing chocolate tart we want. So when the waiter comes to take our order, we naturally assume we are getting 6 of this dessert. But before anyone can speak, T.G. cuts in to command the waiter, “We will be having ONE chocolate tart with SIX spoons.” Mouths agape, we are struck speechless. Sure she’s always on a diet, and sure she’s paying, but honestly, we are a party of FIVE! A short while later, out comes a tiny delectable chocolate tart (you know, the kind meant for ONE), and 6 gleaming silver spoons. Everyone gets to take one small bite before it’s all gone. Stanley, having had enough today, goes , “You should have just ordered one for each person instead of making everyone eat a tiny bite and then feeling bad that they want more. That was stupid.” Touché Stanley, touché.