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anatomy of an office holiday party

As most of you know, I haven’t held a traditional job in nearly two years. My income stems mostly from freelance work, residual checks and royalties from Lizzie McGuire. It’s nice work if you can get it, but every December, there’s a palpable void that lingers, a void that can only be filled by

The Office Holiday Party.

However, the last two years this gap has been filled by the incredible, edible A. His company held this year’s party at one of our favorite restaurants. High above the Los Angeles evening, a group of animators and support staff got together to partake of the open bar, dance to the terrible music, and puke on the bathroom floor.

Every time we attend an office function I’m sent straight into girlfriend mode. Dress, shoes, makeup, hair, I’m part 50’s-Housewife and part Yuppie-Power-Couple. I firmly believe that being witty, charming and intelligent can only reflect well on A. at his place of business. It just takes me some work to get there.

A benefit with working with creative people, and visual artists at that, is that the lines are blurred a bit when it comes to fashion sense. Women aren’t relegated to the little black dress with the male in the blue-suit counterpart. A. wore a sparkly red button down shirt and black pants with a paisley texture and a belt with a skull buckle, which he summarily dubbed his magician’s outfit. I wore a pink halter dress with black lace skull trim, a black shrug, fishnets and black patent leather boots. I ratted out my hair, added a lot of blue sparkly eyeshadow and decaled myself 80’s prom trash.

And we were out.

The brilliance of the Office Holiday Party is that it’s always predictable. Sure, there are those who are shocked at the behavior displayed, but the equation of co-workers + free alcohol = good old fashioned fun. And everyone has a role that that they fulfill.

The Maintenance Staff

A. and I always make the deal before we attend a social function that we will always re-introduce anyone that we think the other may have forgotten. It’s always safer to ask you remember x? than to watch as our partner’s eyes glaze over with the effort of attempting to recall the name of the person you met over the shrimp dip. This party was no different. As we ascended the steps to the restaurant, we ran into a woman and her date. She looked familiar, but not familiar enough that I was willing to hazard a guess. I gave A. an eyebrow. He jumped in.

You guys have met, right? he said to us.

I smiled. Um, I think so. I looked to A. I silently willed him to give me a name.

I think you’ve met, he continued.

Apparently my mind powers needed some work.

The woman looked at me and smiled. I was pretty sure she was a member of the maintenance staff, and I was pretty sure I had met her at one of A.’s parties about six months after we started dating. And I was pretty sure that I was just going to have to go out on a limb.

M., right? I’m Nina.

We shook hands and went inside.

Thanks for the help, A.

He pulled me inside. Hey, you got her name right. Let’s get a drink.


The Ex

I should state for the record, she’s not really an ex. She and A. didn’t really date. They just hung out and she flirted a lot and then she decided that they weren’t dating. Which would be fine, except that after he and I started dating, she needed to start flirting heavily with him again. It was a perpetual game of I-could-have-had-this-but-I-chose-not-to-but-I-could-again-if-I-really-wanted-to. At one point, I used to think I was imagining it until another friend of ours approached me and asked does it drive you crazy that she’s always hitting on A. in front of you?

I dealt with the situation early on by being nice. Like really nice. Like insanely, horribly, cloyingly nice. Every time I saw her I complimented her on her dress, her shoes, her hair. I laughed at her jokes; I showed no signs of being annoyed by her giggle-hairflip-touch A.’s arm routine. After about a year of this, she decided to include me in her club. At a Christmas party last year, she made comment about how men were unromantic, feared commitment, and were jerks in general.

I giggled-hairflipped-touched A.’s arm and said, actually, A. isn’t like that. He’s really the most incredible guy I’ve ever known. It’s so weird to be so completely obscenely in love with someone that it makes your entire being vibrate. Then I grabbed A. and we got a drink. I've been pretty much done with the situation since.

So here we were again, at the bar waiting for our drinks. There’s a touch on my arm. The ex.

Hi, she said. I love your dress.

Thank you, I responded. And same to you. You look great.

She did. But I was done playing reindeer games. I smiled, told her to have a fabulous evening, and moved on. Life’s too short.


The Rock Star

His name is Judd Winick, and he’s not really a rock star. You may know him as the cartoonist guy from The Real World: San Francisco. I know him as the creator of the comic book Barry Ween: Boy Genius. L. introduced me to the comic while we were dating, and while my relationship with him didn’t last, my relationship with Barry Ween did. I actually even penned a fan letter to Mr. Winick, something I’m not prone to do, but the book is so freaking funny that I thought it merited an email.

He started working at A.’s company a few months ago, and I’ve been trying to wrangle a meeting ever since. We had been at the party for about maybe an hour when I thought I spotted him, deep in conversation. I knew the woman sitting next to him, so I leaned over and whispered in her ear.

Can you introduce me?

She smiled and shrugged. I don’t know him, she said.

Someone else called me over. I promised that I’d simply introduce myself in a few minutes. When I was done saying my hellos, I spotted A. He waved me over.

This is Judd Winick, he said. This is my girlfriend, Nina.

I smiled and shook his hand. This was my chance.

Do you have a minute? I asked him. We’re about to have a moment.

He smiled and looked confused. Sure, he said.

I told him about how I was a fan, how I loved his book, and how I wrote him a fan letter. I’m not drunk, I told him. I wasn’t. I’m just one of those people who doesn’t have a lot of censorship going on between my brain and my mouth when I’m embarrassed, so instead of trying to cover and be all suave, I’ll simply state that I know I’m being an embarrassing goofy dork. And somehow that makes being an embarrassing goofy dork slightly charming. Or at least, I like to think so.

He thanked me for my kind words. I shook his hand again. He stopped me.

Did I write you back? he asked

You did, I told him.

I usually wrote the women back, he admitted.

Of course you did, I told him. You’re smart.

I whispered in A.’s ear. Thank you.

So you want to make out with him? he joked.

Nah, I want to make out with you. You're my rock star.

Good.


The French

They were sitting with my friend J. on the smoking patio. Meet X., Y., and Z., she said. They’re from France!

I smiled and held out my hand. Je m’appelle Nina.

Z. took it and shook my hand weakly. Z.[i], she said.

I forgot how to say it’s a pleasure to meet you, I told her.

She shrugged and puffed at her cigarette. I looked toward X. and Y., who looked over their martini glasses at me with a mixture of boredom and disdain. I smiled again.

If you’ll excuse me, I have to find my missing boyfriend.

They went back to talking in accents. I reminded myself that when A. and I hit the In-n-Out Drive-Thru later that night to order Freedom Fries.


[i]The DJ

I know that this party is for a bunch of nerds, but we really don’t want to dance to a remix of the Grease soundtrack. K.Thnx.


The Friend and his Girlfriend

They’ve been on the verge of breaking up ever since they got together, but some sort of codependent-drama-loving-tractor-beam keeps them together. We’ve heard about the disagreements, the arguments, and the full-on fights. Of course, these are all secondhand, as the only people who see him see him at work. That’s right, he doesn’t socialize with anyone anymore, because she might get angry at something someone might say. So instead, they sit at home watching girlfriend-approved videos – nothing with boobs, and we’re not talking porn but things like Fast Times at Ridgemont High, getting stoned and threatening to break up. The first six months, we were concerned, the following six months, we were worried, and in these past six months, we realize that our friend is choosing to stay with her. The sad thing is that we all really like him and we miss him, and there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it.

I spot them across the bar. They came, I told A. They actually came.

Weird, he said.

You stay and get the drinks, I told him, I’m gonna go say hi.

I give them both hugs. I haven’t seen you in a million years, I tell them.

They smile, and we chit chat.

I should state for the record I don’t hate her. I don’t even dislike her. I just hate what they do to each other. I’ve said to A. that this is going to end in a baby and a marriage, probably in that order, because they won’t break up.

We head out to the smoking patio. She sits down. I have our Friend alone for a second.

We miss you, I tell him.

She’s just being really cool right now, he says. It sucks.

This is everything wrong with your relationship, I tell him. You shouldn’t be amazed when she’s cool. That shouldn’t be the sucky part.

I know.

I go to find A. We drink a little more, dance a little more. Suddenly it’s 11:30 and we’re all being ushered out. I pass them on the way out, and they’re having an animated conversation. A. and I wait for the shuttle by the valet. Suddenly, she comes running out of the restaurant, hysterically crying.

You have to take me home! she wails. You have to drive me! Can I go with you guys?

He comes out. My girlfriend is drunk, don’t listen to her.

You’re drunk! She screams and walks off down the hill.

He turns to me. I don’t know what to do, he says.

I look at him. You make sure she has cab fare, I tell him. Put her in a cab and end this now.

The shuttle comes and I get in.

It’s your choice, I tell him. It’s your choice.


Some Guy

We’re in the shuttle, being driven to our cars. A. is slightly intoxicated and calling everyone dude. One person wants to know about the drunken hysterical girl. Everyone gives their impressions of the evening. The Network Executive asks if anyone used the Men’s Bathroom.

Why? I asked.

Because Some Guy puked right in the doorway.

Now it’s a party, I declared.



Merry Christmas, each and every one!