In early December, 2002, my dear husband informed me that since it was an even year, we would really need to attend the company Christmas party. We had an agreement that we'd skip the odd years, as we HATE going to those things. They're just pretty much the entire staff getting drunk on the boss's dime. While that may sound rather like a fun time to some, we don't drink alcohol beyond the occasional glass of wine with special meals; so these annual parties hosted by the owner entail my husband and I sitting around, listening to music we don't like and watching everyone else get drunk.

The worst part is always when the owner starts going from table to table with the bonus envelopes in his hand, dragging people onto the dance floor. "No dancey, no money!" he'd sing. While I am personally willing to let the guy keep his envelope, my husband doesn't want to be a spoilsport among his coworkers. So we have to dance, although neither of us is very good at it, and it is always somewhat embarrassing. The only saving grace is that everyone in the room is usually so schnockered by then that they probably won't remember our awkward gyrations on the dance floor.

And I am always all the more pissed because the event is always semi-formal dress (it says so on the invitation), which means I feel compelled to buy a dress for the occasion -- one which I'll inevitably never wear again.

The only tolerable aspect of these functions is the food. I have to hand it to the owner: he knows how to pick a caterer! In this case, it was the caterer attached to the newly constructed Golf Club in the nearby hills -- a very swanky location indeed! The buffet was fantastic. A fully-laden fruit and cheese table, a salad station, beautiful fillets of salmon (to the delight of my husband, since I neither eat nor cook anything that swims), entire rotisserie chickens rent asunder at your order, breads of every description, as well as sides, veggies, sauces, and desserts, all served by very nice young people in starched white uniforms. And in addition to all of that bounty and more that I've forgotten, there was the PRIME RIB STATION!

Oh, Heaven! There was still an end piece!

I sidled up to the carver and smiled politely. A slice of prime rib, if you ask me, needs to be smacked onto a hot grill for JUST a few seconds to sear a little of that blood out of there. I know, I know: the perfect preparation for good beef is to carry it through a warm kitchen. I know! But I LIKE it cooked! And I LOVE the ends of a prime rib; but sometimes the waitstaff snottily acts like a person is a bumpkin because they want cooked meat. I was hoping this guy wasn't one of those. So I smiled again and said, "Would you mind terribly slicing off that other end for me?"

I waited for the attitude, but instead he gave me the biggest grin back. "Oh! That really IS the best part!" He then proceeded to slice off that oh-so-small but oh-so-perfect piece.

Heaven, again! It was perhaps the most tender, juicy, flavorful slab-o-cow I have ever eaten. I had abandoned the rest of the offerings, though, when I saw the prime rib; so when I finished that perfect tidbit, I went back to follow up with some veggies and other dishes. I had picked my way through the salads, breads, cheeses, and fruits, when, passing the prime rib guy, I heard, "Ma'am?"

I thought I'd dropped my brie or something. But instead he reached under the warming table and brought out a plate of SEVERAL lovely, crispy, juicy END PIECES. "These are from the last two primes this evening. Nobody usually wants them, but since you appreciate the done ends..." He held the plate out to me. That was a lot of meat! But damn it, I took it and fairly skipped back to the table, stopping only for a large dollop of horseradish sauce. Screw the veggies.

A dress I couldn't afford and wouldn't wear again; trying to remember peoples names and what they did; loud, bad DJ music I didn't like; drunks and disorderlies all around me; my husband dragged off to some other table to talk shop... but I had me some DINNER!

I took my time and enjoyed every last morsel of that meat, much of it tipped with a delectable horseradish sauce. It was amazing!

But I should have known, I should have known.

On the drive home, the rumbling began. Then the gas pains. Then the gas. From both ends. I was feeling decidedly woozy by the time we got off the freeway. Remember: I don't drink. Could the beef have been bad? Was it the horseradish sauce? Bacterialized brie? Some other food entirely? Evil Waiter Boy playing me? Punishment for charging the dress?

By the time we got to our neighborhood, I was sitting bolt upright in the seat, trying not to move, lest that cow try to escape and reassemble and resuscitate itself. There was NO WAY I wanted to get poop on my new dress! I'd only worn it once! But I also didn't want to tell my husband that I'd eaten the equivalent of an entire pot roast (for so it seemed, mooooving through my intestine). It was all I could do to not sway and whine like when our dog has to go out. I had broken out in a sweat, and was trying to keep up my end of the conversation when we finally pulled into the driveway. I was carrying a silly little clutch that matched the dress, with just lipstick and breath mints -- no house keys. So I was hopping up and down on the porch while my husband got his jacket out of the trunk where he'd laid it, picked up a realtor memo pad off the driveway, etc...

I was groaning and holding onto the doorframe when he arrived with the keys, which he of course DROPPED once before successfully opening the house. I bolted up the stairs, leaving a shoe on each of the bottom steps like Cinderella, hiking the skirt as I went, and barely, barely making it to the toilet before the torrent began. Exertion followed by explosion followed by excretion followed by expulsion, followed by exhaustion. My innards were trembling and my hands were shaking. I was still sweating.

I sat slumped, trying to regroup, when the rumbling began again -- but with a strangely different timbre. I sat upright again, waiting for the next round to commence. And it did. But this time my bowels did not act alone.

I barfed into the bathtub. It was not easy to remain balanced on the bowl so that my butt wouldn't blast the cabinets while at the same time blowing bits of abused beef into the bathtub. But such was my predicament.

Eventually, emptied of everything, I hosed out the tub (thank goodness for those handheld showerheads), and, leaving my dress in a heap on the tiles, showered off myself, too. I staggered to the bedroom and dragged myself onto the bed, where I lay still. My husband eventually wandered in, and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Must've been something I ate," I said.

I was sick for about five more weeks; turns out I was pregnant. So I guess I'll never know if it was the prime rib or not.