Hot Air Vent

Every year at Sunnydale, we have a big Christmas party. I mean *big*. Our floor feeds all our employees, the employees from various other departments, and sundry patients and family members. We plan the thing for weeks in advance and everybody chips in.

There are rules. If you don't bring enough food to feed a minimum of twelve folks (or one hungry resident), you have to pony up cash. There's no set amount, but whatever is given should be given without our having to pester you or your whining about it. Likewise, if you didn't bring something or pay money, you don't get to take any leftovers home. And, finally, we leave the vast majority of food for the night shift and residents, who reciprocate throughout the year.

Sounds reasonable, right? And you know where this is going, right?

I have two coworkers: The Thiever and The Bitcher. 

The Thiever steals anything and everything that isn't tied down: potted plants, toilet paper, items left unclaimed in the lost and found, people's empty totebags that are left a moment too long, clean Tupperware from the kitchen.  I understand that two kids and a deadbeat husband can make things tight, but c'mon. There is a limit.

Plus, she hates giving money for parties and doesn't cook.

The Bitcher has not--and here I do not exaggerate, for once--ever eaten anything besides meat and starch in my presence. Everyone else's food is fair game for her wrinkled nose and expressions of disgust. Vegetables are a foreign concept, as is any cheese that is not processed. She lacks even the most basic dinnertime manners. She would give my mom a heart attack.

Plus, she hates giving money for parties and doesn't cook.

I know you can see the end of this tale, like the steeple of a church rising up from the Alberta horizon, but bear with me. My blood pressure is insanely high.

Friday was the annual Xmas Do. Those of us who cook spent hours preparing food (and a good chunk of our own change), setting up the tables, and making sure things were hot. There was a turkey. There was a ham. There were various side dishes including, but not limited to: greens, macaroni and cheese, scalloped potatoes, mashed potatoes, dinner rolls, bean casserole, an enormous green salad with walnuts....you get the idea. I made four pies and a cake for the dessert course. We rocked out. 

Come afternoon, The Thiever arrived with--and again, here I am not exaggerating--a stack of plasticware and a couple of trash bags, and proceeded to scrape, pile, dump, and ladle all of the leftovers she could fit into the plastic containers. This after not giving any money or time to the party fund or even bothering to show up for the damn thing.

The Bitcher joined her in the kitchen and offered a running commentary on what was good, what was bad, and what was just plain too weird to eat. 

I was washing dishes and so got to see and hear the whole thing. After hearing my beautiful Potatoes Savoyarde denigrated as being "funny-tasting" (that would be the Gruyere, thanks), I lost it. I put down the sponge and grabbed the plastic container with the half of an apple pie in it.

And I snarled, "Get OUT." Like a pink-eyed pig on a fire escape, I was.

I was met with expressions of disbelief.

"Neither one of you," I hissed, "Did one fucking thing for this party. You" (stabbing finger at The Bitcher) "refused to eat anything without complaining about it. And you" (ditto at The Thiever) "didn't bother to show up, pay even five bucks, or cook anything. You do not get leftovers. Bitcher, you do not get any more food from me."

"I am not done cooking, but I am done cooking for you two damn fools."

And with that, my beloved, blessed, wonderful coworkers, who had heard the whole thing, all stood up silently and began to unload the various plastic tubs and boxes from The Thiever's bags and return them to the fridge for the night shift. The Bitcher stood there flummoxed and protesting that she was only joking, but everybody ignored her.

And on Christmas Day? When we're all working together again and a few of us are bringing breakfast? 

My two worthless colleagues will have to brown-bag it or buy something from the vending machines. I am *through*.