When Maurice and I arrived a few people were standing around the table where hors d’oeuvres were being served. We skipped lunch, so we were relieved there was a little to eat. I couldn’t believe the grilled vegetables. Grilled asparagus, onions, peppers, carrots, eggplant – each and every one of them tasted as wonderful as they looked. I piled these delectable treats on my plate.
Next to the vegetables was the cheese tray. I know, I know, I shouldn’t be eating much cheese on my diet, but it was a birthday party after all and one must be polite. I didn’t know what kind of cheese to get. There must have been a dozen types and most I couldn’t figure out what the hell they were. I was left with no choice in my dilemma – I had to get a “sample” of each one. My small cheese and vegetable platter in hand I began to walk towards a table when a server stopped me on the patio and asked if I’d like a meatball. She was so young and sweet, I couldn’t say no.
I scarfed down my (not so) little plate of deliciousness and decided I must still be polite and went back for a second fill. Remember, I skipped lunch after all. The second time around I knew exactly which of the cheeses I liked and only picked those, which was each and every one of them. Oh yeah, got to get some veggies too. I still didn’t want to appear rude. Plus, that’s the thing fat people like me do. If nothing else, I had to pretend to eat the veggies. Fortunately these were delicious.
On the way back to the table this time I was stopped by another young lady offering chicken skewers dipped in peanut sauce. Later there was bruschetta and then more meatball and then more chicken skewers and more bruschetta. I could feel my waist busting as I was feeling sufficiently full and proud that I’d done my best to ensure the hosts that I was enjoying myself.
Then there was an announcement. They wanted us all to go inside for dancing lessons while the caterers set up the food. EXCUUUUSE ME? After all I ate we were going to dance and then top it off with THE food? I thought what we’d been eating was THE food. Inside I reluctantly traipsed and joined a hundred other people making fools of ourselves as we learned a new dance that I’ll likely never do again.
When the doors were opened back to the patio to the buffet I stayed behind. I stayed behind, not because I was full, but because that’s what fat people do. If we get there too early then people will comment that we are pigs and that is why were are fat. If we wait too long then all the good stuff will be gone. We have to wait for that perfect moment when a good line gets going but there’s still plenty of people milling about. It takes proper schooling to learn this technique. I hear they are giving them online now.
The buffet was disgustingly wonderful. Salad, shrimp, salmon, crab legs, beef stroganoff, rolls, lasagna. I was loving Los Angeles at this point. I knew had I been back in the midwest, I’d be at a birthday party serving burgers in the backyard. The food called to me. I couldn’t resist. I decided the caterers were Satan’s minions.
Topping it off, we ended with the birthday cake. It was at this point I had to keep myself from losing it all on the patio. Dancing was beginning and I said “F**K it!” No way. Not for me. I let Maurice dance while I sat back in a chair feeling like I looked like Jabba the Hut.
Getting home it was nap time. My body was exhausted from the whole affair. As I lay there in bed staring at the ceiling I made a firm decision – there is no way in hell I’m getting my ass on a scale this week.