Every year, at Christmas, my workplace has its annual holiday party.
How much do you hate me for that redundant-ass sentence up there? I should really write a book.
Last night was my workplace Christmas party, and yes they call it “Christmas party,” as opposed to when I lived in LA and it was the annual gathering of winter or something we could all agree on.
They let us go at 3:00, because the party started at 5:00 at the country club, which by the way is fancy. It’s one of the fancy country clubs, not the dodgy country clubs you go to.
The point is, we were allowed to leave early so we could get our families ready and so on, and I know you’re wondering right now how does June do it all, with the high-powered executive career and her many children who are always turned out in their Christmas finery on the regular. Annually. At Christmas. Every year.
The first thing I did after work was scream over to the glasses store, because my new not-worm-color glasses were in, which 15 times now I typed “gasses.”
Do you know what annoys me? On Instagram, when you read the comments, and someone comments about how they either misread something or thought a celebrity was their friend.
“I misread that as dick ass!”
“I thought this photo of Clark Gable was you, @myfriendisanasshole!”
Who gives a FUCK what you thought if it was wrong. Other than you and old Clark Lookalike, your close friend, who probably didn’t want to be tagged.
After I got my glasses, my gasses, I was in my old neighborhood, where everything seems so nice and not sketchy-neigborhood-y now, so I went to my old grocery store and got supplies. We’re allegedly getting like 52 inches of snow this weekend, a fact that delights and thrills me, except that my old boyfriend from high school will be in another part of the state and that will shoot any get-together plans all to hell.
“I knew when I heard 13″ were coming that you were on your way,” I texted him, and the hilarity never stops over at Text of June.
But here’s the thing. It’s a snowstorm in the South. TRY FINDING AN ONION. Because not only does everyone buy up the goddamn bread and milk, they also all make chili, as I was doing. I had to buy a white onion and I can only hope my chili survives.
So I got home right at 4:00, because the line at the grocery store was like the line for the end of time. You know how THOSE lines are.
When I got home, my Chewy box had come, not that I chewed the box. So I had to open cat-food bags and dump them in the cat-food tin, lug litter, and generally curse the animals. MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Then I had the groceries to put away.
And everyone had to get fed.
I took The Poet as my date, and it’s like this whole event was set up to convenience us. First of all, we both live five minutes from work. She probably lives three minutes from work, as it took me two minutes to drive the mile to her apartment.
She invited me in and I admired her brains.
Anyway, then we got in the car, drove across the street, and we were at the country club. I’m not even making this up. It was one minute to her house, one minute to the club, and you’d think we’d both be avid members and all, it being so close.
The first person we saw was Boss, crnt.
The food was delicious, and someone noted that I selected all the options for children, such as the macaroni and cheese and the chicken tenders. Look, they were excellent chicken tenders.
At the end of the evening I saw The Poet putting rolls in her purse. I mean, I AM out of bread. And a storm IS coming. Apparently, you need bread. “I wish I had some kind of napkin to put them in,” I kvetched.
And that’s when The Poet whipped out 79 country club napkins, just for taking home rolls. Then when we searched our purses for our coat check tickets, we had to remove said rolls and did not at all look like doddering old ladies. Which, come on. How far off are we?
Anyway, it was a good time, did I mention? And I always like to see everyone in their finery. I wish I’d taken a photo of Wedding Alex’s sparkly skirt. You’d have all died and then who would read me.
When I got home, I put the rolls on the counter, and Edsel promptly ate them. Then I took him to the all night euthanasia drive-thru.