Lights! Hair! Drinking!

OK, I guess I should get down what I remember of the office holiday party before I forget it all, for the sake of continuity, and also to show you people that I am not as lame as I have led you to think.

The wearing of the dress, heels, strapless bra and assorted girl-wear went off mostly without a hitch. Jackie made (usually unspoken) comment on how huge my boobs are, so I guess the bra was doing its trick. I normally keep the ladies hidden, but when they have a night out, man—people take notice. We—that is Kate, Jackie, my little sister and I—all looked pretty damned hot, I would have you know. [Sorry you missed it CD, but I’m willing to bet we’ll be on the cover of the next monthly newsletter.] After Jackie was (finally) ready to go, we were off. We found the place on the second try, which was an improvement on last year, where we found it on the 54th try, after two hours searching through the dark and snowfall. Yahoo Maps can bite by ass.

The food was good. Really, really good. “Happy I’d stuck to my diet all week” good. Baked chicken, red-pepper ravioli, angel hair pasta and crab cakes on a bed of spinach… man, dermatologists know how to eat. And, I’ll tell you, they also know how to drink. The barmen must have been under instruction not to let anyone get away from the bar without at least half their glass filled with hard liquor. The mixed drinks, they were not so mixed. I got a whiskey sour that was more of a WHISKEY (sour); I tried to choke it down, but gave it up after my breath almost caught fire. I had wanted an amaretto sour, but they told us that amaretto “was not available for the function”. Whatever, house bar. You can get in line right behind Yahoo Maps. I stuck to vodka, with various juices, as a bottle of beer did not go with the sparkly dress.

I really liked seeing everyone I worked with all dressed up and having a good time. I wouldn’t normally socialize with any of them (besides those I came with, of course) in any other setting, so it was nice to see that they had lives outside of the office. I met some people’s husbands, saw former coworkers who turned up to say hi, and various dates of the evening who spent a lot of time hitting on other people’s dates of the evening. The only thing missing were the catfights, which was a little disappointing—the hater in me is always happy when the pretty people’s lives are not so perfect.

Our little group managed to get a table all to ourselves right in front of the dance floor. I now know which coworkers can dance, and which are, metaphorically, fish on the dance floor—much thrashing about and trying to breathe (by the same token, I now know which are gay and which are hopelessly straight). We all danced, fast dances and slow, YMCA and the obligatory swing tune. I don’t see how so many years have gone by and I still cannot do the Hustle. Nor the Electric Slide. Does anyone know? I feel like I’m missing out. The Macarena was easy, but now it’s blacklisted because it’s not cool anymore. We need a new group dance. One that doesn’t have seven million confusing steps. (Why did the Jitterbug ever go out? Because it was impossible to do. So how do people keep the Hustle straight?) So we watched people do it, and tried to learn, but our booze-addled brains were something of a hindrance. I know when to clap, now.

We all fudged our way through the salsa and swing (mainly because we were drunk and didn’t care how badly we were doing it), until one of us was cornered by a very drunk partygoer and was forced into dancing with him. We were all laughing too hard at her plight to help her out, but I really would’ve jumped up faster if I’d have know he was grabbing her ass the whole time. Why do men think that’s ok? Why is “I’m drunk” an acceptable excuse to violate a woman’s property? That shit is just not right. If “I’m drunk” is good for groping, it’s also acceptable for “I kicked you in the balls.” Sorry… I was drunk, so my walls of acceptable social behavior were down. Also, you freaking grabbed my boobs, asshole—what’d you expect?

We danced very tightly together on the other end of the room from this guy for the rest of the night, and when the DJ announced his last song we booked for our coats and made for the car like little drunken bunnies. Except for me, who had been drinking water for the last two hours (ever since screaming the chorus to “Pour Some Sugar on Me”—I think that was two hours ago) and was playing sober chauffer. We took the opportunity on the drive home to make sure everyone was not too squicked out by Scary Drunk Man with Wandering Hands,* and everyone agreed that they had generally had a fun time.

So that’s it for the going out and the social life this weekend. Next weekend: My ex-boyfriend’s sister’s wedding. Oh yes—there will be drama.

* Not that I don’t wanna beat this guy with my shoe when I see him in the hallways.


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