Getting Oscared

You know when you get invited to a barbecue, and you bring something yummy to put on the grill, like some steak tips or some fancy kind of sausage or something? And you are all excited to eat whatever it is that you have brought? And then, when you grab a plate and reach for it - *someone else* has eaten ALL OF IT? And then, it turns, out, that *someone* who is so enjoying your fabulous contribution to the grill, brought something lame like a $2 pack of hotdogs or some crap like that? Something that they certainly aren't planning to eat - it's like they just used the BBQ as an opportunity to clean out the deli drawer or something.


Or you go to a party and bring really good beer, and the jerk who brought a 6-pack of schwag guzzles your microbrews?

It's called "Getting Oscared" (as in Oscar Mayer, or the Odd Couple - whichever works for you).

Today I got fucking OSCARED, and I am still all butt-hurt about it. I am sitting in the car eating a damn McDonald's Snack Wrap because I am starving,

BECAUSE I GOT OSCARED.

The day started out so well. We visited with lots of family, then headed out to the beach for more family fun. 2 beach houses and 1 enormous family gathering, with a bonfire and fireworks to cap off the night. En route, we stopped by Trader Joes and grabbed some stuff to throw on someone's grill for dinner. 2 filets and a NY Strip, some fingerling (oh that sounds dirty) potatoes, and beverages.

I sensed the potential Oscaring climate right away - the meat choice for dinner (which historically had been a huge mix of lobsters, steak, burgers, chicke, dogs, sausages, lamb, and fish) was hotdogs or organic hotdogs. Hm. I was relieved that we had thought to bring something else for our kids to eat, but at the same time, extremely concerned about eating our yummy steaks while everyone else was enjoying hotdogs. I didn't want to be rude. And I hadn't brought enough to share with everyone. But the steaks had to be eaten - we had no cooler and a long drive home.

This was going to have to be handled very carefully.

"Let everyone else eat first" I muttered to Sami. "We can eat later on."

I sat down to work, and apparently Sami and I have very different ideas about what constitutes "later". Because suddenly he appeared next to me with the plate of steaks, cooked, and put them down on the table.

I wasn't hungry.

The potatoes weren't cooked yet.

And most importantly, No one else had eaten.

I stood up and went out to put away my laptop. I came back and the kids - NOT MY KIDS - were being served MY STEAK. And the kids were complaining because it wasn't well done.

I stood by for a minute. I mean, sure, they could have some steak.

But the steak was being divided up and doled out - while my kids were sitting there watching.

Watching other kids eating their food.

I finally stopped this travesty, only because Lucy looked like she was going to stab someone with her fork. "Hey, uh, I gotta feed my kids that steak."

"Oh, kids wait, we have to let them get their food first." Oh boy. So the other kids all stood there and stared at me as I tried to get a few pieces of steak on Lucy's plate, and then grab some for myself. I was afraid to take all of it - even though it was MY FUCKING DINNER - because the kids were obviously planning to eat steak for dinner, MY STEAK, and now I was basically taking food out of their mouths.

Wait - HOW THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN?

"Are you done?" one of them asked. "Um, yeah, I guess......" my voice trailed off as the little boy grabbed an entire filet mignon - cooked rare - and shoveled it onto his plate. He went outside, rammed a huge piece in his mouth, gagged, and had to pull it out with his fingers, dropping it on his plate and then glaring at me. "I choked." he said accusingly. "It's raw." His grandfather took his plate, and put my formerly gorgeous filet back on the grill, cooking it medium-well - which is a fucking TRAVESTY in and of itself when we are talking about filet mignon.

I chewed my small strip of steak, which was (for some unknown reason) overcooked as well.

And when I went back to get more, the plate had just been deccimated, to the point where I didn't want to even touch the steak that was left.

And so, starving and furious, I got in the car, lit a cigarette, and started driving. I fumed. I stomped my feet. I yelled. I am sure that everyone I drove past was wondering when the hell I developed Tourettes. ("She used to be such a sweet thing, it's sad how she has fallen apart like that.")

Eventually, I got over it, and went back to the house. "Feeling better now?" my husband asked as I sat in the driveway furiously tryping into my blackberry.

"Uh, yeah, NO." I responded icily. And then I did the only thing that I really could do, given the circumstances. I sat on the beach, and watched the fireworks. Not self-created this time, but the real deal.

Happy Fourth of July. Don't touch my fucking steak or I'll kill you.