thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Christmas. For you. Dear Master, Yesterday was the day to WEAR RED. Today: WEAR ORANGE. Seeing a pattern emerge? Eh? Time for a flashback entry. Buckle up and mind your bladder. ~~ In early December 2000, I'm still settling into the theatre. So is my boss, Chelsea, a new recruit at the start of the season. She's already accomplished quite a lot during her short time on staff: she's made cheat sheets to help us calculate the increased candy prices; she's wallpapered our kitchen with Post-Its; she's redubbed us her "peeps"; she's dragged us into a volleyball match against the Box Office, who creamed us; she's helped coordinate a company holiday party for front-of-house crew, which I am dreading. She has also stacked up some allegations of stalking and sexual harassment from another woman on the staff, but few people know of this yet. HM lets me know on my way in one night that it's time to sign up on the snack list, since I have twenty minutes before my shift starts. I sip my coffee and ask where it is. It is in the trailer currently being used to house the Cage People during reconstruction. Okay. I go out there and make small talk with Dimples and Holly while relegating myself to the veggie tray. No one will eat from it. I will never learn. ~~ We are, I'm informed, to bring a white elephant for a blind exchange at the party. Don't buy, Chelsea instructs, but if you must buy, spend no more than five dollars. I go home, burn a mix CD, and call it good. ~~ The night before the party I buy a veggie tray and haul its cumbersome, unappreciated self home. I stick it in the fridge without any all-important post-it note warning people to keep hands off, and so Sis bogarts it the minute she sees it. I flip out. She and Dad run out to buy a replacement and, I, hysterical, wrap the mix CD fourteen times over. It loses any clues it might have given about its shape or density. It is a thing of beauty. ~~ I drag my ass out of bed at an ugly hour and primp until I'm presentable. I have no time for coffee. There had better be rewards up at the Lang-Lowenstein* home. There are two immediately evident ones: A. Gimp is not here. I stash my white elephant under the tree and donate the veggie tray to the buffet table that has been set up for everybody to stand around awkwardly. Finally we start pouring drinks and assembling plates and arrange ourselves in the living room. I am delightfully close to the fireplace. Molly has brought her boyfriend, who is charming, friendly, touchy-feely, and gorgeous. In their presence I feel very, very single. We finish the boring food-related part and begin the gift exchange. Most of them are dreadfully boring. Mine is a used copy of Anatomy of the Spirit by Caroline Myss, Ph.D., and I will never discover who donated it, but if I ever could, I would punish that individual for leaving weird stains in the pages. That's just scary. Our hostess is following the progress of the exchange measure for measure, stuffing every stray piece of wrapping paper into a wastebasket. Chelsea's bad idea: We're playing the kind of white elephant game where you can trade with anyone before you, but it doesn't matter, 'cos everybody is equally bored by his selection and everyone else's. Boring present, boring present, boring present. Then Holly gets up and goes to the stash to select hers. She takes her time. "Hmmm... don't want this one..." Shake shake shake. "Not that one..." Shake shake shake. "Ahhh, this is..." Mine. Ugly. "Yeah, this is The One." Our hostess's eyes grow suspicious. Holly sits on the love seat by Tasha, looking regal and radiant. She slides a finger under the seam and tears off the first layer, tossing it well out of the hostess's way. She is amused and surprised by the second. "Well, how 'bout that?" People chortle. Crumple and toss. Layer three. Giggling. Crumple and toss. Layer four. Chuckling. Crumple and toss. Layer five. Hearty guffaws. "Whose is this?!" Holly cackles. People look around. I pokerface. An accusation flies out, from whence I'm unsure: "A[listair]!" He blushes. "Not me!" Layer six. Seven. "ALISTAIR!" "No! Really! Not mine!" Eleven. "Alistair." Twelve. "Alistair!" This time it might be me. Holly makes quite a production of throwing the layers like confetti for the hostess to chase. Everyone's laughing. Then a squeal. "What's that?!" One of the remaining presents under the tree is moving. "Is THAT one yours, Alistair? Bring something in from the bio lab, maybe?" That's likely Holly talking as she shreds gift wrap and scatters it around. He says something like, "I told you." "Then who brought the... ahhh, a CD?" Shit. I'm the next weirdo in line for accusation. It's Sup who blows my cover: "Erin?" ~~ The present under the tree is still wiggling like so many of my toes, but no one has the guts to approach it as Holly stumbles over the big words in the liner notes I've made for her. Not until Molly's boyfriend steps in, anyway. He pretends to be attacked by the moving parcel as he tears it open. It's cute. Lucky Molly. It is a personified flower novelty toy, the type that dances in response to music or ... loud noise. No wonder -- the laughter Holly squeezed out of my CD crescendoed nicely. My music made the flower dance. I get way too pumped on this. We play a round of Cranium. Molly reads questions; I have to hum "School's Out" and nobody gets it; HM has to convey the word "nipple" to his teammates using only clay; he also has to draw a tennis racket that comes out looking oddly phallic. Holly insists that our hostess play my CD. Nobody listens to "One Little Coyote" carefully enough to learn the actions. ~~ At one point Alistair mentions an instance years ago when he was kicked by Holly at his work station. "You weren't behaving!" "Sexual harassment in the workplace!" The educational outreach coordinator has to be excused, and the top half of Chelsea's face stops smiling. None of us thinks anything of it. "Did you like it?" our hostess asks him. He is quiet. He could have had the CD, but he wanted the Chia Pet too badly. So it goes. ~ETK 03:01 - 11 June, 2001 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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