Explosions and The Many Variations Therein

I worked a wedding this weekend. I bartended it, actually. (Tarbended! All this really means is I get to wear all black and look surly. I do these things very, very well--Majored in Dark Clothing and Surly Attitudes in College.)

This was a gloriously weird group of people. Not big drinkers, actually, so I did a lot of standing around for a few hours, which is never a bad thing. It was a low key, quiet affair.

But some gems came out of it.

My good friend (Hi!) was sent down to cut the prime rib on the buffet line, which was stationed right next to my bar, so we could gossip and talk shit and quietly laugh the entire time, which was pretty much the highlight of the evening.

Until.

First, some back story. (I am so good with the back story.)

My friend, A, is tall. Quite tall. Built exactly like my stepfather, actually, but that means nothing to most of you.

A also smokes. He smokes Newports, which, to those of you who are better people than we are and have no frame of reference, taste like cigarette and mentholated cough drops. They are very popular with African Americans. (This is something I mean no offense by. I have sold enough cigarettes in my life to see trends--strong, heavily mentholated cigarettes are popular with African Americans, just as really really long and thin cigarettes are popular with post-menopausal women.) And when you see someone smoking one of these particular cigarettes that doesn't fit into the bracket of 'stereotype' that I have just mentioned, well, its funny.

For instance:

A (I am fuzzy on the details here, but you will get the general idea. I'm sure he will set me straight later.) was told by a black woman that his pack of Newports was a 'Ghetto Pass'. I think this is far, far funnier than I should.

Moving on.

So A is cutting the prime rib, and I am standing next to him in my dour tarbending outfit. (Tell me one thing--Is it not a perfect wedding reception where you can have a slab of beef put on your plate while ordering a double vodka martini?) A woman walks up to A--She is a very tall, (rather pretty, I thought) black woman, who is looking A directly in the eye and says, "I want the thinnest piece of meat you can cut. Like, shave it."

And A does, because he is good with a knife and also, not stupid.

She smiles at him, and says,

"Look at that, you big, tall, sexy white pimp. Cutting that meat so fine.....Mmmmm."

It took everything I have inside me not to squeal and laugh out loud.

I believe A blushed, which makes it doubly hilarious.

He then said, "I should have offered her a cigarette."

I replied with, "You probably would have come away a changed man."

(I know how wildly inappropriate this crap is, but you all know you are laughing a little. Or a lot, if you are an asshole, like me.)

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Later that evening, the other two servers and I were faced with the task of cleaning up. One of these girls is diabetic, and hadn't eaten all day, and the other is pregnant and becomes wildly enraged if she doesn't eat. (Which is also really funny. I'm sure my tune will change if and when I get pregnant, but watching her carry around a bag of food wherever she goes and bark "I'M PREGNANT AND HUNGRY!" whenever anyone questions her really makes my day.) I'm mostly just pissed off all the time, but I was hungry too. A cut off huge slabs of prime for us to eat...which we did, with our hands, locked in a closet. (I'm telling you, I have the most glamorous job on the planet.)

Shortly thereafter, the diabetic server and I were caught by the groom eating wedding cake. He laughed, and told us he was happy that we were eating it. Which is good, because the cake really sucked and if he had been pissed, it really wouldn't have been worth it.

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You're all waiting for the explosions, aren't you?

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While we were setting up for the wedding, my mother called me and left a message telling me that she has cancer.

I was reasonably shaken.

But I was at work, so I soldiered on. I walked into the kitchen and was attempting to ask the chef a question about the buffet line, when I started stammering.

He said, in normal chef talk, "Spit it out! I don't have time for this!", to which I responded, "I'm sorry. My mom just told me she has cancer, I'm not thinking straight."

He replied....And I shit you not, "Leave that shit at home! Tell me what you want!"

I freaked out. In the back of my mind, I knew I should keep my trap shut and just walk away with the knowledge that he was talking without thinking, which happens a lot, but I couldn't.

"Did you just fucking say that to me? Seriously? Just leave that shit at home? Do I need to remind you that my father has been dead a mere 5 months and my mother is the only real family I have to speak of? Do I need to remind you that I have not asked to go home and make travel plans to go see her, when she could potentially be dying, because I am COMPANY MINDED and know that I need to be here right now? Really? Oh, I'm sorry, you don't have time for this. How many plates and tongs do we need for the buffet line, that's what I was trying to ask. Is that concise enough?"

We stared at each other for a long moment, me waiting to be finally fired for insubordination, him probably waiting to be assaulted in some way.

"Ten.", he replied. Patted me on the arm and walked away.

We got along famously for the rest of the night.

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The other explosion is far more intimate and gross.

Eating the prime rib and wedding cake combo, along with the pound of cheese I ate the night before, was a really, really bad idea. I was not the only one afflicted, but still. I was at work last night when a sudden fear overtook me--the kind of knowledge and fear we have all had, and hate having in public or, especially, at work. The knowledge that everything in your lower GI tract wants out, NOW, and you are powerless to stop it.

Me, both my friends that also imbibed the cheese, both my coworkers from the wedding. We all had frightening experiences as a result of our culinary indiscretion. Luckily, not all at once.

I was sent home from work. So I guess that's good.

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Oh, and my mom? No cancer. Its coming up on three years since my stepdad was killed, and she is jonesing for attention. She did, however, have a small stroke and her blood pressure is through the roof. She is on medication, refuses to change her diet, quit smoking or drinking, and doesn't want to monitor her blood pressure because if it goes up she has to be hospitalized and she doesn't want that, so she will ignore the problem and it will go away. Magic!

Small amounts of stress, that's all.