Okay, so it was lame. But since I NEVER turn down free booze and food (such as it was - do a sushi station and a make-your-own taco station plus a band of roving waitrons wielding platters of weenie croissants really count as food? Survey says, NO) I dutifully put on my shiny party outfit and cabbed it into the office. Just what a New York City Girl wants to do on a Saturday night.
Now, for the uninitiated, or those who didn't have the pleasure of reading the NY Times last Sunday, yes Virginia, Saturday night IS the most "over" night of the week for New Yorkers. We are not going out on Saturday nights any more. We've ceded that night to the bridge & tunnel crowd. We stay in so the Todt Hill Express bus can drop the Red Bull and vodka crowd at the edge of the meatpacking district to slobber all over each other and hope in vain to catch a glimpse of a b-list celeb or maybe see Lindsay Lohan publicly humiliate herself once again.
Once you read about a "trend" in the Times, you can pretty much guarantee that it's either completely over or on the tipping point of over-ness. There's nothing quite like the Paper of Record to breathlessly relate the "latest thing" which we who actually live here have been quietly doing for at least five years. Or maybe they do it on purpose... you know, keep the thing on the down low until we have exhausted all its coolness, then put it in the Sunday Styles section so people from New Jersey can feel hip. Face it, once people from Staten Island and New Jersey are doing it, it's got the stink of "over" and we quietly move on to other pleasures that we diligently keep secret from the rubes. Why do you think we all moved to Brooklyn? We're actively TRYING to keep away from you people.
So anyway, back to the "party." As far as office parties go, I guess it was okay - inoffensive and bland, culturally stultified and blah blah blah. People got very, very, very drunk. But if people are getting very, very, very drunk and NOT misbehaving, what the hell kind of fun is that? What happened to "drunk and doing stupid things"? There are lots of tales of massive hangovers that have carried into this morning (my own included) yet not one whiff of bad gossip.
I liked the piano player. When I tried to bolt at 9:30 she begged me to stay because I was the only "cool person" there (her words, not mine) and we would go out after the gig. So, against my better judgement, I stayed... and stayed... Many glasses of bad red wine later, Missy PlunkPlunk of Pianoville decided to just go back to Brooklyn, meaning I had stayed past pumpkin time and gotten drunk for NOTHING. Not to mention that I observed that she is very chummy with the Retoucher formerly known as Hot, who has of late been demoted back to buck private and put back in the category, "Doesn't really exist for me any more here at the office."
Trust me, it's better that way. I've made my observations, and the coins have dropped from my eyes -- and kids, your Janey got played. But good. She fell right into the "sensitive guy" thing that she is usually immune to (how many times have I told you I'm not interested in those guys who are in touch with their feminine side and that I much prefer a guy to be in touch with his masculine side, thank you very much?). Her spidey sense was completely OFF and look what happened.
The player got played. I hate when that happens.
But again I say, it's better this way. Especially since --
Ahem. Ahem.
As I was saying, especially since I have been having some truly amazing sex with this other guy. (Not Baby Boy.) Since August.
You've heard me complain about many, many things, but have you heard me bitching about not getting laid? I don't think so.
But it does make me want to offer a little bit of advice. From a hussy to all the wives and girlfriends out there. Girlies, if you want to punish your man by withholding sex, keep this thought in mind: If you won't fuck your husband, and he is tired of trying to get you to fuck him, at a certain point, he will stop trying. And he will find someone who will fuck him. Some days I feel like I should have a tattoo on my forehead. It will say, "EXHIBIT A."
Well, a co-worker and I ended up on the LES at EmKay's bar, which was doing ROARING business, I must say, and he plied us with many more glasses of good red wine.
Let's just say, Sunday wasn't pretty. I woke up and confronted evidence that I had eaten HOT POCKETS. Not one, ladies and gentlemen, but TWO Hot Pockets. A quick check of the cell phone revealed that I somehow managed to avoid the deadly drinking and dialing, but oh, my head! And I had an brunch party to go to. Lord.
I made it to that, and the crowd was much, much more my style -- artists and fags and one very sweet dog, and not a pair of pleated pants to be seen in the whole place.
Ended the weekend with a much needed nap interspersed with old videos (the annual exhumation of "White Christmas," "Holiday Inn") followed by a "Law & Order" marathon. Is there a better way to spend a Sunday evening?
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