Last week, as part of Job II (the event planning one), I was needed in a place called Platteville. Up north. Where the cows are. Julie and I were to meet the event rentals truck at "Skyler's ranch." Who is Skyler, you ask? I was thinking along the lines of Little Joe on The Ponderosa in Bonanza. We drove and drove. Down the freeway, off the exit, then east on a country road. We pulled up to a small(ish) house, glanced around back (noticing the tables/chairs/tent had already been delivered), and decided to knock on the front door. No response. We heard someone talking around back, so we headed around the house. That's where we met Laurel for the first time. She was a 20-something gal, with a large(r) build, busty, and barely dressed (a tank and "Skyler's boxers," she felt proud to inform us several times throughout the next hour or so). She proceeded to share how the rental truck had shown up so early they woke her up. We could tell she had been doing something back there (the legs on the tables were out. She apparently didn't know it's much easier to move those round tables with the legs closed... she needs to come hang out at a Relief Society activity or two), and she informed us that she had already read through the instructions on setting up the tent.
The tent. A story in and of itself.
Since the dinner following the tour (of The Life Cycle of Beef) was outdoors, a tent had been ordered. That morning, after closely following the weather, The Boss said she was canceling the tent. But since the rental company had already delivered the tent (waking Laurel up), we tossed around if we should go ahead and use it. At the time it was hot. Shade was limited. We needed to seat about 40 people for dinner somewhere in Skyler's yard. After conferring with The Boss, we decided to go ahead and set it up. You may be asking, "Doesn't the event rental place do that?" Nope. Sometimes they just drop it off with a single page of instructions. As I had mentioned, Laurel had already read them, and seemed to think she was in charge of this gig. At the top of the instruction sheet it said two men could set up this 40' x 20' tent in 30 minutes. But we didn't have two men. We had two event planners and a girlfriend in a tank and boxers.
At times like this, I think about something Marjorie Hinckley once said.
"Is THIS what I was born to do?"
To Laurel's credit, she called in some recruits (some ranch hands and such), and the tent was finally up as good as it was going to get. Manual labor, that tent set-up.
Then we started in on the tables. Rolling them to their spots in the grass with their legs open was tricky. (Silly me, I thought they had been delivered that way... you know, like damaged goods or something.) Laurel started in on where the tables should go. Wait a minute... isn't that our job? She was ordering us around like her hired hands. The conversation got a little heated as we disagreed on table placement. Finally, Laurel said, "Well, I'm going in to put on my dress and do my hair and make-up. Isn't this YOUR job anyway?"
Julie and I breathed a sigh of relief to see her disappear into the house. We set up the tables and chairs in between texts and calls to confirm the number that would be there for dinner. Skyler had invited some of his ranch hands. And then there was Laurel. We had to improvise some seating. We cleared the decking on the back of the house, cleaned the glass patio table to a shine, and set up for the food that would be arriving soon. Laurel had a nice pile of tablecloths that we looked over. Mostly wrinkled and stained, we were relieved to find a few small white tablecloths that would do the job, and fit in with the overall aesthetic. We moved a couple of Skyler's wood tables to the grassy area by the rounds, and added two of his wood chairs to the ends.
Laurel came out, dressed to kill in a strapless ultra-mini sundress and some metallic high heels. She seemed surprised that the yard looked so good. She glanced at the glass patio table and said, "This needs a tablecloth."
"We couldn't find one that would work so we just cleaned the table really good. We probably won't even need it, but we'll have the extra seating, just in case."
"Well, it needs coverage," she said. She headed back into the house and brought out a wrinkled off-white-with-plaid number, and placed it on the table.
"I think we need flowers," she said. After some brief negotiation (would that be at our cost or Skyler's?), Laurel headed off to a local store in her Mercedes to buy some. Once she got back she placed them on the tables, changed the two wood chairs for some black folding chairs (trust me, the wood was so much better), and went into the house to hunt down some candles. She seemed exasperated that we were obviously not creating the mood she wanted for her party. She came back with over a dozen random house candles (the big smelly ones in the jar), and placed them on the tables. Some had dust, some had gunk, several had dead moths, mosquitos or flies mummified in the wax. Yummy.
You see, Laurel thought this was her party. Since it was at her SugarDaddy's boyfriend's house, she surely would be the hostess with the most-est, accepting her guests, greeting them in her party garb. Julie and I couldn't wait to meet Skyler.
The ranch hands arrived around 6pm, when the dinner was scheduled to begin. The tour, however, was behind. They wouldn't arrive for another 45 minutes. Julie and I had been chatting with the CSU Professor and graduate students (two really cute girls full of useful information about beef) that were there preparing the dinner. Laurel was infuriated that we were relaxing. She saw the ranch hands and said, "Our guests are arriving. Try to look busy. Be on pointe!"
Julie and I headed over to my car to take a breath, and Laurel headed in the house for a cocktail.
The bus finally arrived, the tired tour-goers were ravenous... for beer. They ripped open the boxes that the two graduate students had run to the nearest liquor store to acquire once the demands (via The Boss on the bus) had been made. The sky was getting dark (no need for that tent now), and the heavy scent of perfumed candles was in the air. The dinner (best beef I've had in a LONG time) was served and enjoyed. Once the tour-goers had served themselves (buffet style), The Boss told us to go get ours. Laurel started mumbling about how we should be serving the guests, and began to hand out peach cobbler like a maniac. The Boss had confronted her a little earlier, and told us just to ignore her. Once Laurel was finished, she looked around, couldn't find a seat, and ended up eating her now-cold dinner at that "overflow" table with the wrinkled tablecloth, shivering away in the cool Colorado evening air.
And lest you think we are terrible at customer relations, Laurel was NOT our client. She was merely the girlfriend of the ranch owner whose backyard served as the venue. Nothing more, nothing less.
And Skyler? He was in his late 50's or early 60's. No Little Joe. More like Hoss. But older. Much, much older. The poor guy was getting an earful as Julie and I were stacking chairs and rounding up tables in the dark, after the bus had departed back to the hotel. Laurel was outraged. Upset. He didn't save her a seat. He doesn't open her doors. Yadda yadda yadda. We couldn't wait to get out of there.
My only regret? Not getting a picture of Laurel. I could have taped it on my mirror to look at every morning. It would have made me smile for a good long time.
