Last night's thinly veiled holiday party at the office

Mind you, it was in no way a Christmas party. Boss-Lady pointed this out last week as I balanced precariously on a swivel chair to wrap lights around one of our two non-holiday-specific trees complete with non-holiday-specific red stockings dangling from their branches. This directly followed the ceremonial steaming of a non-holiday-specific Santa costume to make it smell less like beer from last year's party. And it directly preceded my sojourn into the empty corner office where I wrapped 20 children's presents in non-holiday-specific red and green paper. But hey, that office! Windows! Daylight! Come to think of it, that was probably the best part of last week despite ending the day with stiff, gnarled fingers covered in more paper cuts that the Massive Envelope Stuffing Incident of late October.

Our efforts to conceal the true purpose of the party were not in vain. My office is particularly sensitive to issues of social inclusion considering the staff is predominately white, male, and Christian and thus easily blamed for all manner of societal problems. We have our token black temp and Jewish editor (for whom we had one lame blue, tinsel-covered Star of David hung above the photocopier) but who doesn't?

At 4:15 yesterday, lured by the sweet smells of catering and the hope of booze, Bell (one of my dozen or so managers) and I wandered into the kitchen to find that Wish #419 on My Official List of Wishes had been granted: the wine had been uncorked and we were permitted to begin drinking before 5 on a workday. But, offended by the tiny plastic cups designated for alcohol consumption, Bell found her way into the kitchen cupboards and produced honest to goodness wine glasses. Mighty big wine glasses. I was determined not to repeat what happened the last time I drank at a company event (i.e. have a heart-to-heart with the VP on the patio of a local bar, fall on my way to the bathroom, and then take a $35 cab ride around Cambridge when I forget where I live). And I don't mean that in an "I'm only having 5 rumanddietcokes tonight" way. This was fo' real. So after my first gigantic glass of wine, I excused myself to the ladies' room where I did that thing where you look at yourself really hard in the mirror and try to convince yourself that you don't feel it. Then you splash water on your face because they do it in the movies but afterwards your cheeks are still flushed, just moister.

When I was a teenager, Bologna got me drunk at our cousin's wedding and told me that I would know that I was drunk when I sat down in the bathroom and began thinking very normal thoughts like "Hey, look at the graffiti" or "There are 2 rolls of toilet paper in here. That's nice." I found this to be helpful advice after my third glass of wine last night. Perched on the toilet, wiggling my toes, and thinking "My shoes are pointy" is dangerous territory when there are superiors running about.

I had switched to soda by the time Beau arrived in his dapper little black and gray getup (of which I am clearly a big fan). We continued to socialize even after Bell made a raunchy joke about hand cuffs and I blushed in front of the COO. The final degradation came when Boss-Lady told me that our non-holiday-specific Santa couldn't carry all the presents that I had lovingly wrapped for the kiddies. She then slapped a Santa hat on my head and herded me toward the corner office where You-Know-Who was sprawled on the couch, looking a little more sauced than he should have been. It was with my head held high that I marched him back to the kitchen, plopped him in a chair and then escaped to Beau, who was giggling in a corner with a plate of shrimp. Sometime after that, the Editor in Chief was overheard saying "Merry Christmas" at which point the charade collapsed around us in a frenzy of well wishing and politically inappropriate relief. We joined in the bedlam and Merry Christmased our way right out the door before the clean up started.

In completely unrelated news, Beau left today for Florida. He'll be there on business until Saturday because he works for an evil, evil corporation that doesn't care that it's the weekend before Christmas. If his company was a chick, I'd punch her right in the face. Incidentally this means I will be left to my own devices for the next two days. Stay tuned for reports of building blanket forts in my sitting room and attempting to feed myself in his absence.