One office tradition that America loves is the ol’ potluck dinner/lunch, especially around Christmas in combination with a Secret Santa. For those of you who don’t have jobs, that’s where the women in an office cook tasty items while the men fight over who gets to bring plates, pop, or plasticware. I always try to sneak chili into the mix, but the new guy beat me to the punch, so it looks like I’ll be at the gas station tomorrow morning buying bags of Cheetos and Little Debbies because no one will be impressed if I throw Vienna Sausages on a plate and try to pass it off as a family recipe.
The Secret Santa is the other part of the equation. What that entails is everyone cool buying alcohol and passing it around, hoping the guy who got a flashlight out of his basement didn’t draw your name. “Oh wow, thanks! I needed one of these!” (You no good son of a bitch! Randy got his Secret Santa some Jim Beam! I should shove this flashlight up your…wait a minute, Randy’s Secret Santa is a recovering alcoholic. Time to negotiate a trade!) Once again, because I am selfish and a last minute person, I will be at the gas station again, trying to find a halfway decent six pack, acting like I bought it days ago. Tequiza, anyone? It’s like tequila mixed with beer. Sigh. I’m sorry, would you like a flashlight instead?