K's Guide to Holiday Parties

Holiday party season should be in full swing right now. Whether it’s your boring office event, a friend’s holiday party, or a crazy new year’s party, we’ve all got something we’re going to (and hopefully more than one if one of them is the office event). So I decided I’d put together a handy little guide to party etiquette, Bitchy Words style.

This shouldn’t be anything you haven’t heard before (for the most part), but they’re things I clearly needed to remind myself before M’s big party last weekend. So, using my sad self as an illustration, I’m going to give you an anecdotal guide to What Not to Do At Parties (and sometimes, What To Do). As a prefatory note, Boyfriend stayed at home so I was going stag at this particular event – partially leading to many of these rule violations.

So once upon a time / last Saturday, M’s Christmas party occurred. I was scheduled to party hop that night, ended up having a minor emotional issue that turned into full-on hairbrush-and-shoe-throwing mode, and decided to fuck it and just go to M’s. Who the fuck wants to go all the way out to Clarendon anyway? Not me. (AN: While “Don’t be a hot mess” is also a rule, it’s more of a general rule and I’m not putting it on this specific rule. I am absurdly guilty of violating this rule.)

So I arrive around eight, and M hands me a cup of pink stuff, about which I immediately remark that it “tastes like pink.” Dumb remark, but the drink really was good. BAD IDEA. In this case, pink equals lots of gin. Lots and lots of gin. I don’t remember the exact formula, but I know it included champagne and some kind of pink juice, with said gin. Which brings me to the first Rule –

Rule: Don’t Drink Gin. Ever.

In addition to the fact that gin smells like feet and is really an old man’s drink, it’s also deadly. Like vodka, its taste is easily masked by fruit juice and will fuck you the hell up if you drink more than say, one or two. I had, say, three or four…plus. In addition to mulled wine (which I don’t remember the taste of at all, M, so you’ll have to make it again).

Anyway, continued drinking of pink drink accompanies standing at the kitchen counter and making conversation with people around me. Pink drink plus one incited two awkward conversations that I’ll not forget now for a long time. Conversation number one was a bizarrely long conversation about two NBA basketball players that my conversation partner (girl) went to high school with. I discintly remember talking much more enthusiastically about sports than I actually feel, as well as eating way way way too much soft cheese. So, second Rule –

Rule: Watch what you eat at parties /while drinking.

This is right up M’s alley, because it involves healthy eating. This is something I should remember in particular with my weird-ass triglyceride issues and tend to forget frequently. I think I ate like an entire round of mysterious soft cheese on those thin circle crackers. HELLO CHOLESTEROL. I tried about three mini quiche things, but switched back to the cheese quickly. What saddens me most about this (besides the staggering amount of fat I consumed) was that this prevented me from eating the Chex Mix I desperately wanted. M had graciously promised to set some aside for me from the leftovers (and please tell me you did that…!), but I still unfortunately skewed my eating to that night entirely to the “fat-ass” side. Oh, and did I mention that this was my dinner?

Conversation number two was actually with M’s boyfriend and one or two other random guys. I remember that it was about Tiger Woods and that it went on for like almost two hours (of the three or so that I was there). If there’s one thing you should know about me in addition to my charming sarcasm and sense of humor, it’s that I like to argue. When I’m drunk, I like to argue to the death. Unfortunately, this always has one of two very bad side effects. It either a) offends people or b) makes them think I’m flirting with them. Option b was the unfortunate result of my arguing last Saturday, leading to the next Rule –

Rule: Don’t let boys think you’re flirting with them when you’re really just mocking them.

Mad props to M’s boyfriend for knowing me well enough to understand that I was just being stubborn, but major eugh points to other guy (forgot his name, M) for thinking me arguing vehemently against his “family man” advertising premise means I have any interest in him. Also, at what point in a conversation where I KNOW I drunkenly mentioned Boyfriend like seven times does another guy think, damn, she wants me. Although, the supposed drunken dancing/swaying that M insists I did in front of him may have helped, but to be fair I don’t remember that. Also, he looks like this, only rounder, and…no.

But anyway, somewhere in between these two conversations I found time to talk extensively to M’s boyfriend about video games, during which enthusiastic explorations of Mass Effect I spilled said pink drink ALL OVER my wonderful dress. Remember that dress? Woe is me and my dry-cleaning bill. Next Rule –

Rule: Be careful with your clothes.

A rule none of us EVER follow because girls like to look nice in fancy/expensive clothing and all drunk people spill. Whether you’re the drunk one or someone else is, alcohol will be spilled on your clothes at some point, with like a 90% probability. We all know this, and we all ignore it. I guess the Rule should actually be –

Rule: Set aside a fund for post-party drycleaning.

So after spilling on myself extensively I decide (or M decides and I agree? I remember thinking going home was a good idea) it’s time to go home. I vote Metro and M says “don’t be a moron, take a cab” and she walks me outside. I remember none of this time, so this is according to M. Something about muttering incoherently and loudly insisting on smoking a cigarette RIGHT NOW and only IN THAT EXACT SPOT. At least we were outside…so no rule out of this. As an on and off and former frequent smoker, I don’t regret doing that, as long as I don’t find any burns on my dress later. The next rule will come from me coming home.

This I remember even less of. My last memory is getting into my apartment building, and all is black after that. But, I woke up at 6:30 am in my pajamas with my dress hanging up, my makeup off, and my shoes back in the box. So I decided to wake Boyfriend up (who was asleep, but I was still drunk) and ask him extensively about it. So between 6:30 and 7:30 on Sunday morning he recounted to me my antics, which I’m sure were charming. In addition to physically removing me from my dress and unstrapping my heels (which Boyfriend says I had no chance of getting off on my own, as my attempts to undo the buckle apparently consisted of a half-hearted flicking every ten seconds), Boyfriend also managed to get me into pajamas and brush my teeth. My conversation post passing out also consisted of a variety of three sentences repeated cyclically – one of which was a question about one of the NBA players conversation partner #1 mentioned. I will never forget this man. Eugh. Longish story made shorter, Rule –

Rule: Thank your roommate/boyfriend for all they do for you.

Did I mention that the pre-party shoe-throwing was at Boyfriend? And he still brushed my teeth?

The rest of the story involves being drunk for the next 7 hours or so, a horrific hangover, and a heartburn lasting three days. Gin gives you heartburn…who knew?

So having come to the end of my personal drunken odyssey of the weekend, I’m losing interest in coming up with other rules. After New Years Eve, I will update with the new rules I’ve discovered and broken.

Remember kids, stay sexy and stay bitchy.