At my old company, we had an annual holiday party. This party usually was a luncheon at a swanky downtown restaurant, meaning it included a great meal and loads of wine or beer. I attended this party every year for six years, which equals six opportunities to teeter on the bridge of termination.
This story will be more of a compilation of me being a drunken fool. And no, unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like I learn anything from one year to the next.
I had only been employed by the company for one week when my first holiday party took place. I was nervous, didn’t know what to expect and didn’t know anyone.
Within a few minutes of entering the luncheon, clad in my requisite red sweater, a small mustached man pointed at me and gruffly said, “You’re sitting at my table.” I had no idea who this man was, but he seemed to mean business. I almost saluted him and said, “Yes sir!” I looked at my manager in confusion and she looked back at me comically and said, “That is the president.”
Awesome. Not only was he the president, he was also a wine pusher. I would take a sip and, I swear, within seconds he was re-filling my glass. I had no idea how much I was drinking. Did I mention I was nervous?
No real crazy stories came from this luncheon unless you count the party I went to after. It was my high school friend’s annual party. I showed up wasted and proceeded to dress myself in bows and almost knock down the tree. All while giggling.
I mean, I find myself absolutely hysterical when I’m drunk. I’m my own drunken best friend!
The next year, I again was summoned to the president’s table. Apparently he didn’t get enough of my red-stained teeth and giggling the year before. This year, I was somewhat more established and knew more people in the company. After the luncheon many of us grabbed a table at the bar downstairs to continue our imbibing. Things got pretty blurry.
From what I was told, I pointed at a handsome, married VP at the other end of the table and shouted, “You’re HOT!!” Then I shook my head sadly and said, “Too bad nothing can happen, though, cause you’re married.”
Sigh. I blushed when I would see him for years later.
I found out I said this when another VP joked to me in the lunchroom the following week about me not thinking he’s hot even though he’s married. I tried to crawl into the refrigerator and cover myself in expired salad dressing so the discussion would end.
Fast forward to the following year. I once again could be found at the president’s table. Apparently he liked to pick the newbie young girls and sit them at his table for his viewing pleasure. Knowing my days of being young and especially new were limited, I opted to go incognito wearing a push-up bra and wig. The girls are perky, I swear!!!
This time he gave me the very important job of working on getting the new Japanese intern drunk.
She didn’t drink and would nervously giggle and look at the floor every time I suggested she have some wine, beer or perhaps a buttery nipple shot? Little did she know I was, in fact, buttering up my areola. Can’t hurt to ask, people!
I did not succeed in my task. But at the bar afterward, I did manage to show everyone my underwear. Yep, that’s right. Another co-worker of mine was going around telling people I wasn’t wearing underwear. This drunkenly infuriated me, so I proceeded to lift up my dress and pull my underwear out of my tights and yell, “I am TOO wearing UNDERWEAR!”
Keepin’ it classy.
But seriously. I went through a brief period of going commando in my early- to mid-20s, but quickly got over that after worrying too many times about my dress flying up. So perhaps it’s not THAT classy to wear a dress and no underwear. Perhaps.
Seems to bring the boys to the yard, though? Isn’t that right, fellas?
Also brings herpes to your genitals, apparently.
Anyway, the following year I thought it best to stay away from wearing dresses. Instead, at the afterbar, I was apparently going around to random men telling them I liked their ass and giving it a big whack for good measure. After like 8 hours of drinking, can you blame me? I also lost my purse and shoes (?), which were thankfully recovered. How does one lose shoes at a bar? Ew. Gross.
Again, I may not be the epitome of class, but I seriously don’t like being barefoot in public. Ever since that broken glass/hepatitis issue, I mean, I’ve learned my lesson.
After another of the holiday luncheons, I made it out way into the night with some people I barely even worked with. We ended up at a dive pool hall. My last memory is befriending some New Zealand lesbians who were hanging out at the pool table next to us. When I woke up the next day I discovered I had lost my jacket. Not my winter jacket, but the red jacket I loved (purchased in Australia, unfortunately) and had worn as a top. So basically that meant at some point in the evening I was wearing only a black, lacy camisole not meant for the eyes of co-workers, let alone lesbians.
What. The. Fuck.
God only knows what I had done that evening. I walked as if I had been riding a horse for several days after that night.
Thankfully, I have somewhat wised up and usually hold off on getting blackout drunk until I leave my co-workers and go on to the after party. This past year I was the first one to arrive at my friend’s holiday party and had major problems even finding the house. Little did she know the destruction she was in for. She should not have picked up the phone.
I grabbed my friend’s TA and informed him we were making out as I pushed him on the bed of coats (allegedly). I also (allegedly) took hostage of a strange small dog at the party and proceeded to take pictures with Mr. Tiddles in front of the Christmas tree.
No idea who has those pictures.
When I found out that it was not, in fact, my friend’s dog, I said, “Wait, this isn’t your dog?! Oh, I see, I’ll take care of it.” At that, I proceeded to walk the dog to the door and open it. I was planning on putting it outside! I mean, it was wearing a sweater. Did I really think it was a stray???
Moral of the Story:
In a nutshell: Don’t invite me to a holiday party unless you want me to grab people’s asses, lift up my dress and throw your dog out on the street.