Party Girl

I'm planning a pretty big party here at work--one where alcohol will be served--and have told a coworker or two that I've been forbidden to drink during said shindig.

"Oh my God, who said you can't drink?"

"Uh, I said."

I have pre-emptively cut myself off as a way to thwart the Ghosts of Work Parties Past. Some highlights:

It all started in 1994, when as an intern in D.C. I got loaded on wine at a function (attended by Bill Clinton) that required me mixing with members of Congress and the Secret Service. I kept it together, as best as a 22-year-old drunk on White Zin and politics could throughout the event, but ended up putting a cigarette hole in my dress, and making out with a married, uber-Creepy State Senator from the East Coast later that night. Yuck. I didn't make it to work the next day, and my supervisor then (now a big wig in the Democratic Party) was quite impressed.

And then there were the publishing years, which required the occasional dinner with Smithsonian folks at the University Club. I had a partner in crime then--Mr. Bottle-a-Day Art Director--and the two of us would bail out of the boring conversations early and head to Buddy Guy's. I'd wait for his lead. He'd let out a heavy sigh, slam his glass down, and declare, "I AM OUT OF HERE!" Subtle. But it worked. And we'd get a couple of people to leave with us.

Also during my stint at the publishing company, I attended a 30th anniverary party for the first magazine my rich, eccentric bosses started. Two great moves on my part: I told my boss off, and somehow still maintained my job. And I told his boss, who was wearing pants, "You have a beautiful dress on." (It was dark, and she was sitting down.)

This list is endless. But my 6 minute lunch break is over. I have to get back to work. And when the caterer comes this afternoon, I can tell him we'll be less one for the bar.