Things started out well. I showed up with newly blown-out hair and tight pants, seductively sporting long feather earrings that reminded of the roach clips of the ’70s.
I started with a chocolate martini. Surely something that’s so tasty(!) couldn’t possibly get one drunk. I mean, really, it tasted just like chocolate Quik, for Pete’s sake. Oh that silly rabbit!
I wanted to be smart considering it was a three hour open bar with minimal hors d’oeuvres. (The boss was cheap.) I alternated with a ginger ale and, by the second hour, was sipping slowly on a second chocolate martini.
I got propositioned by a drunk co-worker and laughed it off. I collected comments out of buzzed mouths about how great I was at my job, but knew to take them at face value as we all know drunk people (those people) say and do things they don’t really mean when under the influence.
By the third chocolate martini, my boss grabbed my hand and swung me around the dance floor. I cannot dance; neither can he. I found my leather-clad ass rubbing against him, but surely it was all in good fun. He was smiling.
We all posed for pictures, and he announced he’d pay for another hour of the open bar. I was pretty much done drinking at that point and wondered what time it was exactly.
I had some ridiculous conversations with equally ridiculous co-workers. We then put pretty (and very French) Melanie in a cab. I asked her to kiss me: Teach me how the French do it, baby. Luckily the cab came, and she went off merrily to her home, before anything could happen.
I found out a militant co-worker who disliked me very much was no longer a Bush supporter. I drunkenly blurted out that I loved him—not romantically—because well, basically, I did not find him in the least attractive because of his sociopathic behavior, despite his pretty blue eyes. But I was feeling warm and fuzzy for him for breaking free from that Republican bullshit and voting with his heart and not his wallet. He concurred; he said he wanted to be rich and Bush helps him to be so, but he knew in good conscience money was not worth what this madman was doing to the country.
I was feeling good. I felt like I gained a greater understanding and clarity of work and the people who comprised our office. I was smiling, slurring and generally OK.
Then the open bar closed and I was relieved. I got out safe and moderately buzzed. Three martinis and I was floaty but not falling over. Until...
Well, then Ethan bought me a drink. I tried saying “no” very firmly, but there it was. He was telling me how lucky I am for having such a wonderful husband who loves me. (I was married at the time.)
So this is why I’m completely baffled. The next thing I remember is kissing hot John—a co-worker and ex-underwear model. It’s a vague memory, and for sure, there swaying with my eyes closed, I was merely having a blissful dream. I was happy to be home and having this great and very realistic dream of kissing a sexy co-worker. You know those kinds of dreams, don’t you? The ones where you feel so warm and safe and close and romantic, and then you wake up and you can still feel and taste its sweetness lingering from the night before.
But when my boss pulled my arm, and I opened my eyes (and finally shut my fool mouth), I realized I was not dreaming a sweet dream, but living a waking nightmare. My boss said something to the effect of “How could you!?” He was not waiting for an answer. Sensing its rhetorical nature, I kept quiet and looked around. Everything was blurry, and I wish I could relay here that it was blurry in an aesthetically pleasing, abstract type of way. But it wasn’t. It was in that horrible, “Oh God, I’m drowning” sort of way. The blurriness was water coming over my mouth and nose and I was drowning from the inside out.
I looked at hot John and said something inane like, “This is wrong. Oh no, this is so wrong.” I decided to get out of there, but it all started falling away. I couldn’t find my coat check tag and begged the woman to give me my shearling. After an in-depth description and interrogation, I was proud that I slipped myself into my coat, instead of onto my ass.
I walked up the stairs to the cold street and boldly announced to the big burly bouncer (thank God I didn’t try to kiss him) that I needed a cab. It was freezing and I couldn’t see. I called my then-husband, who was out partying somewhere else, to inform him that I just kissed my co-worker. He told me to get in a cab, and I would be safe at home and that he’d be home later.
The bouncer grew bored with his mission to find me a cab and luckily another co-worker who came out to smoke, took pity on me and grabbed my hand, walking me to the major avenue a block away, hailed me a cab and made sure I had money.
As I was entering the cab I was so thankful that I was going to be home soon that as my shoe slipped off my foot onto the curb, as I pulled my foot from the ground to the inside of the cab, I did not care. I actually remember sitting there laughing and pointing at it.
I sat in the cab wearing only one shoe wiggling my toes, wondering why my foot was so frosty. Oh, that poor little foot.
Wearing only one high heel really is the most pathetic thing in the world, but also one of the funniest. Especially when said foot is clad in fishnets. I walked from the cab into my brightly lit building lobby while a neighbor sat talking on her cell phone in the vestibule. She watched me limp in as I walked past the mailboxes to barricade my drunk-assed self in the elevator and then, standing inside for at least three full minutes, I tried to discern which of the dancing numbers was floor 2.
Finally, I was awakened at 3 a.m. by the flash of a camera and snapping of pictures being taken as my husband chose to document the evening. Oddly, we then had sex at 5 a.m., and I truly believe the fact that I was so docile and in a stupor made me way more attractive to him.
I started with a chocolate martini. Surely something that’s so tasty(!) couldn’t possibly get one drunk. I mean, really, it tasted just like chocolate Quik, for Pete’s sake. Oh that silly rabbit!
I wanted to be smart considering it was a three hour open bar with minimal hors d’oeuvres. (The boss was cheap.) I alternated with a ginger ale and, by the second hour, was sipping slowly on a second chocolate martini.
I got propositioned by a drunk co-worker and laughed it off. I collected comments out of buzzed mouths about how great I was at my job, but knew to take them at face value as we all know drunk people (those people) say and do things they don’t really mean when under the influence.
By the third chocolate martini, my boss grabbed my hand and swung me around the dance floor. I cannot dance; neither can he. I found my leather-clad ass rubbing against him, but surely it was all in good fun. He was smiling.
We all posed for pictures, and he announced he’d pay for another hour of the open bar. I was pretty much done drinking at that point and wondered what time it was exactly.
I had some ridiculous conversations with equally ridiculous co-workers. We then put pretty (and very French) Melanie in a cab. I asked her to kiss me: Teach me how the French do it, baby. Luckily the cab came, and she went off merrily to her home, before anything could happen.
I found out a militant co-worker who disliked me very much was no longer a Bush supporter. I drunkenly blurted out that I loved him—not romantically—because well, basically, I did not find him in the least attractive because of his sociopathic behavior, despite his pretty blue eyes. But I was feeling warm and fuzzy for him for breaking free from that Republican bullshit and voting with his heart and not his wallet. He concurred; he said he wanted to be rich and Bush helps him to be so, but he knew in good conscience money was not worth what this madman was doing to the country.
I was feeling good. I felt like I gained a greater understanding and clarity of work and the people who comprised our office. I was smiling, slurring and generally OK.
Then the open bar closed and I was relieved. I got out safe and moderately buzzed. Three martinis and I was floaty but not falling over. Until...
Well, then Ethan bought me a drink. I tried saying “no” very firmly, but there it was. He was telling me how lucky I am for having such a wonderful husband who loves me. (I was married at the time.)
So this is why I’m completely baffled. The next thing I remember is kissing hot John—a co-worker and ex-underwear model. It’s a vague memory, and for sure, there swaying with my eyes closed, I was merely having a blissful dream. I was happy to be home and having this great and very realistic dream of kissing a sexy co-worker. You know those kinds of dreams, don’t you? The ones where you feel so warm and safe and close and romantic, and then you wake up and you can still feel and taste its sweetness lingering from the night before.
But when my boss pulled my arm, and I opened my eyes (and finally shut my fool mouth), I realized I was not dreaming a sweet dream, but living a waking nightmare. My boss said something to the effect of “How could you!?” He was not waiting for an answer. Sensing its rhetorical nature, I kept quiet and looked around. Everything was blurry, and I wish I could relay here that it was blurry in an aesthetically pleasing, abstract type of way. But it wasn’t. It was in that horrible, “Oh God, I’m drowning” sort of way. The blurriness was water coming over my mouth and nose and I was drowning from the inside out.
I looked at hot John and said something inane like, “This is wrong. Oh no, this is so wrong.” I decided to get out of there, but it all started falling away. I couldn’t find my coat check tag and begged the woman to give me my shearling. After an in-depth description and interrogation, I was proud that I slipped myself into my coat, instead of onto my ass.
I walked up the stairs to the cold street and boldly announced to the big burly bouncer (thank God I didn’t try to kiss him) that I needed a cab. It was freezing and I couldn’t see. I called my then-husband, who was out partying somewhere else, to inform him that I just kissed my co-worker. He told me to get in a cab, and I would be safe at home and that he’d be home later.
The bouncer grew bored with his mission to find me a cab and luckily another co-worker who came out to smoke, took pity on me and grabbed my hand, walking me to the major avenue a block away, hailed me a cab and made sure I had money.
As I was entering the cab I was so thankful that I was going to be home soon that as my shoe slipped off my foot onto the curb, as I pulled my foot from the ground to the inside of the cab, I did not care. I actually remember sitting there laughing and pointing at it.
I sat in the cab wearing only one shoe wiggling my toes, wondering why my foot was so frosty. Oh, that poor little foot.
Wearing only one high heel really is the most pathetic thing in the world, but also one of the funniest. Especially when said foot is clad in fishnets. I walked from the cab into my brightly lit building lobby while a neighbor sat talking on her cell phone in the vestibule. She watched me limp in as I walked past the mailboxes to barricade my drunk-assed self in the elevator and then, standing inside for at least three full minutes, I tried to discern which of the dancing numbers was floor 2.
Finally, I was awakened at 3 a.m. by the flash of a camera and snapping of pictures being taken as my husband chose to document the evening. Oddly, we then had sex at 5 a.m., and I truly believe the fact that I was so docile and in a stupor made me way more attractive to him.
