Lawyer Got Them Apple-Bottom Jeans

Before I go any further, I have to share with the world the fact that right NOW, on Fox News, they are interviewing a woman whose last name is Pennisi. PENNISI. My inner five-year-old could not be any more delighted right now.

Onward!

The firm Christmas party came and went, happily with no drama, trauma, wardrobe malfunctions, shocking pregnancy announcements, creepy coatroom trysts, or raining frogs. There was also no pâté, but I guess I can't have everything, all the time. I suppose. FINE. Geez, I get it. Whatever.

I managed to stick to some of my cardinal rules, including not getting as drunk as everyone else there, not doing the Macarena, and not having awkward conversations with people I only pretend to know. Despite the temptation, I largely refrained from dancing. Three of the four people on the floor at any given time were a former Miss Virginia runner-up, a former Latin dance champion, and a really hot chick, and as much as I love to dance, my best moves best resemble an epileptic hyena, and I knew the competition would smoke me right in front of my husband, my boss, and that guy who loves my boots. While I tap-danced on the sidelines, Lawyer Boy busily played poker at the faux-gaming tables with both his share of faux money and mine. I'm as good at poker as Britney Spears is at motherhood, so allowing me to gamble is the equivalent of using the faux money to line the cat's litter box. My laziness/apathy was richly rewarded at the end of the evening, when Lawyer Boy came in third for the evening and won a $50 department store gift card, which I immediately secreted away in my bra. Ah, I love marriage!

The one shocker of the evening was watching one of the senior partners in the firm WORK IT to that song that goes "shorty got them apple-bottom jeans (JEANS!), boots with the fur (WITH THE FURRRR!!!!)" and discovering that he knows ALL the words, which is like finding out your grandmother is pen pals with Jenna Jameson. WRONGGITTY WRONG WRONG. His dance moves were no better than my own hyena seizures, but he infused them with confidence and flair and a Rudolph tie, none of which I had included. I had to eventually stop watching, because my Freaktastic quota had been met for the next full year, and I was concerned that I was starting to look like a total creeper watching the Latin dance champ work it.

As a result of the merrymaking and hobnobbing and boots with the furrrrrrr, today I have a headache I feel like I didn't earn, and an urgent need to finish Christmas shopping. If I don't maul someone immediately upon entering the Black Death Vortex of Doom that is the mall parking lot, I hope to be done before the New Year.