A few weeks ago, I worked in the kitchen at the church, helping a friend “host” her mother’s 80th birthday party.
The hall was filled with tables with crisp, white tablecloths and real tea cups. Each table had flowers and a pedestal plate filled with the most delicately decorated mini cupcakes (they tasted as good as they looked). A photo booth was set up at the back, with feather boas, hats, and an assortment of silly glasses, moustaches, and wigs. There was a side table set with fancy tea sets and coffee urns, and another table set with glass containers of different flavoured lemonades. The centre table was a buffet of fancy sandwiches and scrumptious squares. Truly, it was glamorous affair, and the room was packed with people.
My job (along with some other super gals) was to keep the food coming, the lemonade stocked, and the tea pots filled. Our heels were smoking! Funny speeches were shared after the buffet table had been decimated, and it was only then that it dawned on everybody – there were only a few clean plates left. Thus became the chaos upon chaos to discreetly start clearing tables, running to the kitchen and praying the dishwasher would work a little faster. It didn’t. I had so many facials in that agonizing 20 minutes to make me look 20 again. That was the only up side. My fingers were scorched and I was just about ready to commit murder if one more person came in to tell me we needed more plates!
But we pulled it off.
Hours later, high heels kicked off and with a blister the size of an ostrich egg, I hand washed all 75 cups and saucers, along with an assortment of plastic containers now emptied of their delicious contents. I had had nothing to eat. I had had no time to get my picture taken at the photo booth. But the camaraderie of working alongside these amazing women and the smile on the birthday girl’s face was worth it.
Then the afternoon took a downturn.
I helped clean the bathrooms; I saw things in the men’s room that still haunt my dreams. Still shaken, I piled my leopard heels, my box of cute cupcakes to photograph (and eat), 2 canisters of herbal tea, and a can of Italian lemon sparkling water on my back seat, and headed home. We were going out for dinner.
Some idiot cut me off and I had to slam on my brakes. The cupcakes …(wiping a tear)…
…didn’t make it.
Apparently, neither did the can.
I picked it up from the floor mat, and it was empty. Weeks later, that floor mat still has a gorgeous sheen. My theory is that one of my heels is a combat stiletto and it killed the can. I couldn’t find anything online to confirm my hypothesis. The closest I came was this link: How to Open a Can Without a Can Opener. Informative, but not what I was looking for…so I conducted some preliminary tests with a high-heeled shoe and an empty Coke, but they were unsuccessful.
I’ll keep trying though. It could be handy to have a pair of combat stilettos, especially when you’re washing dishes at a tea party!