Dresses, Dances, And Dalliances

It happened innocently enough. I was going to the showroom with some paper work for the order desk. El Presidente held the door open for me. Then summoned me to have a private word.

In my head, I was jumping off the building thinking, "Fuck my life this better not be about the office romance rumors because I do not want to know who is fucking who and where in the building they are doing it and I do not want to know because he is disgusting and she is the type who gives men a reason to call women bitches and ho's. I just do not want to be a part of drama.  And I do not want to have to lick a dog's ass to get the image of them humping out of my head."

I started praying to baby Jesus. Who I do not believe in.  Well maybe the part about the hippie running around the countryside rapping about cool ways to get along in the world but not the virgin birth messiah guy.  It is too far for even my imagination to stretch.

*Inhaling my last breath, bracing myself*

You know, I'm upset with you.  You better come to the Christmas party.

I'm not.

Come and get drunk with me.

I don't drink. (For really.)

Then come and smile.

Fuck my life.

No I did not say that. And I am not going dress shopping to go to some melodrama at a country club in another town.  Yes, another town.

Here's why I really do not want to go to this annual gong show.

On a daily basis, there is too much drama in where I work. Add alcohol, alleged ingestion of any number of contrabands, and we leave the realm of soap opera and head straight for shitty late night drama.  Think Jersey Shore but with mostly over thirty and snow banks instead of beaches.

Where I work is full of cliques.  And they get tighter when spouses and glitter are involved.  It is not fun for me to go sit in a room full that and be given the cold shoulder for most of the night.  Last year, my table was great and the random crazy punk rock girl in the bathroom that helped me pour myself back into my sausage casing with my Spanx was awesome, but most of them were, for the most part, indifferent and uncouth lushes on a binge paid for by The Company.  I did not exist on their planet.  Until I was leaving.  Then the drunken, "Haaaayyyy wur you going huh?  Ya can't leave yet." crap started.

Can somebody tell me what happened to the two drink maximum at the office party rule?

It is like having four hours of your life stolen from you.

Having said that, this year would be the year to go to the office Christmas party. There is a secret office romance that is about to become very public. Same guy as before, different idiot girl. She was warned and he is just a drunk prick with a hard on for anything with long legs.  I do not feel sorry for either of them. The shit is totally going to hit the fan when upstairs finds out. And I would not be surprised if it happened over dinner.

Maybe I need to rethink this dress thing.