Pot(Un)Luck

Xmas potluck at the office just now. I usually skip such silly functions; I'd usually much rather read in solitude. But today I opted to be sociable. Why oh why didn't I refrain?

Brenda, the President's Executive Assistant, and I are always kibbutzing. We act like we hate each other—and sometimes we do—and entertain everyone with our put-downs and our tauntings. When Brenda walked in with her slow-cooker, I yelled out "What a crock!" And when I came in with my two dozen dinner rolls, she told me—exclaiming loud enough so everyone could hear, of course—that I had really nice buns.

Eating—all 20 or so of us who work on this floor, including all the corporate big-wigs—in the main boardroom, Brenda and I sat across from each other. At one point I caught her eye, then leaned over and gawked provocatively under the table. "Did you spill something?" Brenda asked, sarcastically, trying to get one over on me in front of everyone.

"No, actually," I replied, dramatically. "I was just trying to look up your skirt!"

Brenda stuck her tongue out at me, and the Vice President of Finance almost peed his pants laughing.

Later, I asked the East Indian lady from Finance, sitting beside me, if I could have the empty tinfoil thingey her pastry had come in. Looking a bit disturbed at the request, she said sure. I turned it upside down, and finger-snapped it across the huge boardroom table at Brenda.

But it veered off to the right, shuffleboarding into the lower left breast of our (female) Vice President of Communications.

My face is still red.