Laura Stone (stoney321) wrote,
Laura Stone

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The Ghost Of Christmas Party Past... The Ghost of Illegal Substances

Oh, the best for last. Well, it was the best for me because it was the most shocking, and I do not shock easily. (And really? No comments on the One Arm and Jerry Springer from yesterday? That may be my most favorite story of ALL TIME. Ah, well.)


No I'm not. RECAP:

BEM: (say: behm) Booger Eating Moron. Office monkey. Lover of NASCAR. Buyer of mechanical arm. Favorite pasttime: making a cooler filled with goodies and off-brand soda (don't forget the jerky!), turning on the police scanner, and he and the missus heading out to watch some action. With a cooler. Of SNACKS. (Snack Attack!) Because that's fun?

NB: Nerd Brigade. The majority of employees in my office, which was home to all of the software engineers. Incapable of throwing their hands up in the air, and waving like they just don't care. Good lot, but you know: nerds. ASCii jokes can only be just so entertaining on a dance floor, you dig?

HN: Head Nerd, fun guy, in that gets my two Star Trek jokes kinda way. Can speak Klingon. Often intermixes Klingon and ASCii and makes the NB laugh, while I sit there, smiling, remembering all of the SEX I HAVE HAD.

OB: Overbragger. Deigns to make an appearance. Thinks he's better than everyone else. Talks about how much things cost. Has a hard time accepting that he works in HELP DESK. Okay, nothing wrong with help desk, it's how I got my start years ago, but JESUS. You are not a millionaire. Quit telling me how much your shoes cost in order to impress me. It won't. Because they are SHOES. Tries to "cut a rug" on the dance floor, makes an ass of himself.

...and the most colorful of all in the office:

TB: Tall Blonde. Hoverer at free bar. Shover of hors d'ouvers into purse when no one is looking. Elaine-dancer of dangerous proportions. Wearer of tight dresses that do not fit her 6' frame. Frightening abuser of the "no-panty" wearing. Loooooooves me when she's drunk, haaaaaaates me when she's sober.

Which is not tonight. Okay, this is my last year with the firm. I've had Emily (my youngest), I've been off-site for almost a year now managing the server farm in the Real Nerdery, and have blissfully avoided OB, BEM, and TB for the year. It's a mini-Stoney-send-off tonight, in addition to the Holiday Party of regularity. Somehow, she's decided that my leaving is Sad. That it requires Even More Drinking and Loud Talking than usual. There must be arms flung about my shoulder and talk of how we didn't always get along, but she loves me. Riiiiiight. I feel like Hermione under the weight of Hagrid's arm at this point.

This year is a Tight Red Mini-Dress. By the time a disco tune hits the dance floor, she has it up to crotch level. Oh, dear god. Since it's my last time with these people, I decide to be benevolent and head out to the floor and give her skirt a discreet tug-down. She yells out, a la Mike Meyers' Austin Powers, "YEAH, BABY! WHOOOO!" and while I'm clutching my bleeding ear drums, begins to writhe on me. AHHHHHHH!! I do a Kung-Fu move and swing under and around her upstretched leg (oh dear GOD would you put on a friggin' THONG at least!!) and do a nervous finger snap/shimmy off the dance floor. Where the NB is standing and applauding me. THANKS. Glad to be the entertainment, jackasses. HN hands me a drink, clinks glasses with me, and says there's only one thing left to happen so he can go home and know that all is right with the world. He points to the dance floor.

A percussion intro, bass guitar line, and "Brick House" comes on. The Anglo-Saxon battle cry of "WHOOOOO!" can be heard from the dance floor. TB is hearing her SONG. And as scheduled, "she's mighty-mighty, just let-" SLIP. CRASH. Flat on her back with a drunken laugh, quickly staggers to her feet and gets back to it. HN turns to me, smiles, says, "Merry Christmas," and leaves. I grab Mr. S and decide it's time for us to go. Hugs and kisses to most everyone on our way out, hand our ticket to the valet, wait for our car. Here's where it gets... interesting.

There is a metallic crunching noise, coupled with squealing brakes. There's a parking garage behind the hotel we're at with one of those spiral driveway exits? You know how all traffic goes in one direction up or down, right? It seems TB has decided to head home as well. Remember how drunk she was? And she's driving her car the WRONG WAY down the spiral exit. Hugging the concrete the whole way down. One of the valets runs to her, trying to turn off the car, get her out, and she grabs his face and tries to kiss him. He looks at us in a panic. My car pulls up, I tip the valet, Mr. S hollers to TB that's he's driving her home, she slumps across the front seat.

The valets look at us in relief (they can get sued, after all), I follow behind in my car, Mr. S driving TB, and after an hour of driving in circles, she remembers which house is hers. We help her inside and she grabs my face, holds it, tells me how much she's going to miss me (this is the person who - on my first day- told me that I was an idiot for not knowing how to set up a network on an NT machine - I didn't know the IP addresses because HELLO - first day! - loudly so the entire department could hear her, then turned around an hour later and asked ME to help HER set up a network on her NT machine because she didn't know how). Sorry. Got lost back there.

So. Holding my face. "Laura, I want you to know how much I've loved working with you." *oh god oh god don't kiss me my lord she has an iron grip oh god* She let's go, opens the freezer, pulls out a BRICK OF WEED and gives it to me. Slurs: "Merry Christmas." Uhhhhhh.... "I got it in the Carribean last time I was there. I have some more in my purse, don't worry. I'm going to miss you!" Uhhhhhh.... "Mr. S? You enjoy." Uhhhhhh... "Oh, wait. Here." She gets a ziplock baggie, rips off a hunk for herself, hands it back to us. "Okay now. I think I'm going to be sick."

We have laughed for years about what she must have thought when she went to her freezer, sober, and couldn't find her stash. That was a hell of a stash, too. Or what she must have thought when she saw the side of her car. Idiot.

The upside is: I've been TB crotchless for 4 years now. I'll always miss the dance floor fall-down, though... Good times.

In other news... I re-read an old story of mine that I wrote last year for Christmastime, The 12 Gifts of Christmas From Someone Beneath Me, about how Cecily became Halfrek, and I still think it's pretty good. If you're looking for gen-fic with a twist, there you go. And finally, WHY IS MR. S COMING HOME WITH THINGS THAT I BOUGHT HIM FOR A PRESENT ALREADY??? He's getting an envelope of cash, the bastard. EVERYTHING. Everything I've gotten him, he's come home with. Or socks. HE IS GETTING SOCKS. Thing is, he'll probably like it.

(OH!! I got a card and HILARIOUS fridge magnet from smashsc!! Oh, I loooove it! And I also got a card from an LJer I haven't heard from in a while: spikefan! Glad to hear from you, Didi! I didn't have it in me to get organized for cards, so I suck, but I loove hearing from all of you, THANK YOU!)
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