Check Your Dignity At The Door

Amigos, I apologize for my absence. I’ve been off doing big important things, like decorating the cat for Christmas, and trying to get in the holiday spirit without getting any on the rug. Related to both getting in the spirit AND spilling it on the rug, tonight is the Law Firm Christmas Party. I’m so excited! I love getting dressed up, making fun of the festive outfits of my coworkers while challenging them to tequila shots, and watching the drunken receptionist karaoke. And also drinking till I am capable of talking to my boss.

For all the flack they receive, company Christmas parties are really pretty predictable: If you work for an uptight, structured company, you’re going to have an uptight, structured Christmas party, with two drink tickets apiece and a cheese centerpiece shaped like Santa (the nausea factor inherent to man-shaped food is apparently lost on mid-brow caterers). It’s also probable that the secretary whose workday outfits most closely resemble a blood clot will make a splashy entrance in a holiday outfit most closely resembling a sequined blood clot. The two-martini-lunch CEO will inevitably show up five martinis into a seventeeni-martini-evening, hobnobbing with all the eligible cleavage in the room. Really, there are never surprises. Just Kodak moments for future reference and blackmail.

If there’s one wild card factor in the whole Macarena-infused evening, it’s the Shocker Drinkers of the party. Every company has at least three—the mousy individuals who look like the hardest beverage they ever kick back is WILD Berry Crystal Light, who morph into hard-swilling martini fiends (not vampires) under the mirror ball and down enough liquor to KO Ted Kennedy. Then they do such delightfully festive things as leading the conga line (being sure to include the waitress with the shrimp cocktail), raising a Christmas toast in jolly limerick form, and in an act that would make PETA proud, puking in the coat closet on the boss’ wife’s 67-pound mink jacket.

Ah, the Shocker Drinkers! How I love them! They bring joy, surprise, and hilarity to any holiday gathering. They’re also my people. I love them because I am one of them. Because I’ve never worked for a company that didn’t have an open bar Christmas party, each year has afforded me the opportunity to drink like I stole fourteen coworkers’ drink tickets at a tamer party. (If I were to attend a tamer party, damn straight I’d steal coworkers’ drink tickets. I don’t get dressed up for free, people.) So this year, to try to keep myself a bit more in line than Pauly Shore at a keg party, I’ve come up with a list of Do’s and Don’ts for myself.

Don’ts
Drink so much that a heartfelt chat with the Chairman of the Board seems necessary and appreciated
Drink seven glasses of champagne before realizing that there is actually food at the party—then eschew food in favor of seven more glasses of champagne
Ask the bartender to screw the “wimpy” champagne flute, save everyone time, and just serve yours in a beer stein
Do the Macarena, under any circumstances whatsoever
Stalk the waitress carrying the bacon-wrapped scallops until she gives you the tray
Tell your boss that “everyone would love you more if you just chilled the eff out. And I just love your shoes!”


Do
Not drink so much that all chats become “heartfelt,” then “emotional,” then “completely incoherent”
Not drink so much that the Macarena seems de rigueur
Not, under any circumstances, talk to your boss, the Chairman of the Board, or that fierce-ass divorce attorney who hates all people worldwide
Not tell the rotund attorney that if he just sat down, you’d spread the word that he was playing Santa that evening and find someone to sit on his lap

So with me largely (hopefully) sober and not picking fights and/or causing mayhem, calamity, and frogs to rain from the sky, this should be a pretty tame evening. I did get one awesome challenge for a party activity, which some well-hidden part of me had enough common sense to turn down: My friend Gray told me he’d give me $100 if I could eat a pound of pâté in an hour. This seemed like a good idea for two reasons. 1) I LOVE PÂTÉ, and 2) I would love $100! I could see myself smoothly cruising around the party, chatting with all the nice folk while nibbling pâté off a cocktail plate. Then! Every ten minutes or so, I’d do a lap back by my table, where a bedazzled poinsettia discreetly concealed my brick of animal mousse, refill my plate, and continue around the party circuit till an hour had passed, my pâté had been eaten, and Gray gave me my victorious $100 right before my heart screeched to a halt, my abs exploded, and an entire pig leapt, squealing, from my stomach. It was a foolproof plan! Then Gray had to go and rain destruction on my plan, when he said the only way he would agree was if I did it while seated at a table by myself, behind a velvet rope. It never even occurred to me that he probably couldn’t procure a velvet rope, but despite his offer of letting me keep the rope if I won, I had to turn it down. How could I hobnob effectively if I were stuck at a table by myself???

It should also be noted that Gray told me he once ate a fried seahorse only because “I for some reason thought it would taste like a cracker.” Apparently it did not, unless your usual crackers taste like salt and King Triton’s armpit. Maybe I should not take Gray’s money. I will, however, take another glass of champagne!