Last night was my company holiday party at my boss’s townhouse on Wyoming Street in Adams Morgan. Holiday parties have the air of the unexpected as people get drunk and cross boundaries. That is, of course, precisely what happened.
We spent the bulk of the evening gawking at the two two-month olds and mingling with spouses and significant others. In the living room, a long table was set out with a white table cloth. We ate beef with lentils and chicken legs with the skin still on and a melt-in-your-mouth bread pudding. I drank two Sam Adams’ winter beers and was tipsy quickly. It was a long week.
At about 10 pm. an entourage of about 20 of us walked about 15 minutes up to Chief Ike’s on Columbia Street and danced. I took a tequila shot with three of my younger coworkers. About 10 minutes later, G.’s boyfriend told me to take a sip of his water and I took a big gulp and my mouth contorted with disgust: It was Grey Goose on the rocks. We danced to the rap music like “Yeah,” by Usher and took dozens of photos.
The most inappropriate highlights of the evening are:
-J., who’s gay, put his arm around me tightly and introduced me to people as his “bitch,” and I would smile and say, “That’s right, I’m J.’s bitch.”
-R. was dancing at Chief Ike’s later in the evening and fell backwards with a thud. About 10 of us circled him, peering over him to make sure he was OK, and slowly helped him up. He was fine. Just drunk.
-M., with whom I’ve never had a substantial conversation, told me that I have a hot voice and that I sound like a porn star. He sits across the office from me, so I told him I don’t know how he hears me because I talk so quietly. He said it is all in my laugh, which has no sound barrier.
What do you say to that? “See you Monday?” Ah yes. Holiday parties. Happy holidays.