An Obsessive-Compulsive Christmas Party Tally

DISCLAIMER:  The statements below do not reflect the opinion of others present at husband's Christmas party.  They also don't mean that I had no fun at all at said party.  The food was excellent, the venue was beautiful, the band is always really fun, and the staff was wonderful and attentive.  Well, except that one guy.  Anyhow, as parties go, it was a good one.  Below is more the fault of me being socially awkward.  And the funny thing is, I'm not particularly socially awkward.  But throw me into a room where everyone only talks about work that I know very little about and most have trophy wives that are either at the Peg Bundy end of the spectrum or the Jacquelyn Kennedy-Onassis one (nowhere in between), and, well....

I like to count things.

Minutes spent applying cosmetics:

15

Minutes spent otherwise getting ready:

40 (not bad, if you ask me.)

Minutes spent in hotel lobby looking like lost sheep because we couldn't remember which room the party was in and husband wouldn't ask anybody:

3.5

Awkward conversations with people I've never met and/or only see once a year that made me wish I'd feigned a migraine or appendicitis:

5

Times husband remembered to introduce me to anybody:

0

People from husband's workplace that I enjoy talking to:

5

People from husband's workplace that I enjoy talking to who actually showed up at party:

4

Alcoholic beverages (caesars) consumed:

10

Alcoholic beverages (caesars) consumed that were "allegedly" doubles from above total:

4

Minutes spent wondering if there was actually any alcohol in the bottles they were mixing drinks with or if it was all a watering-down ruse to save the company tons of cash on the open bar*:

57

More plausible number of alcoholic beverages (caesars) actually consumed:

3

Amount of tomato-clam cocktail consumed:

approx. 4 gallons

Amount of Tabasco® sauce consumed:

approx.1 gallon

Amount of Worcestershire sauce consumed:

Who knows.  I can't pronounce it, so don't care.

Meatballs consumed:
1

Meatballs that were actually meat:
0

Meatballs that were actually falafel:
1 (but delicious)

Minutes spent wishing I was way more intoxicated, otherwise having more fun, or far more inclined to take an avid interest in everybody "talking shop" around me:

335

Minutes spent in washroom texting more interesting people, tweeting, or just plain enjoying the notion of sitting down somewhere quiet (with a cupholder**):

29

Items stolen from washroom:

2  (But both were hotel lotions and just sitting there on the counter.  I'm pretty sure you're supposed to take them.)

Minutes spent lurking in foyer waiting for staff members to disappear so I could clandestinely steal a cute pinecone out of a floral arrangement:

18

Number of cute pinecones successfully stolen:

0

Number of times I made an arse of myself:

a shockingly low 1***

Notes:

* Verdict: no booze included in booze.  Came home shockingly sober.

** Handy cupholder in restroom.

*** During heartfelt speech about former staff member who tragically bit it earlier in the year, my cellphone starts ringing.  The Exorcist theme.  On a positive note, I had recently changed my cellphone ringer from Chopin's Funeral March, which would have been a horrible combination of both more and less appropriate simultaneously.

Dear Santa,

Here are some things I'd like for Christmas.

Handbag - Lux De Ville - $70 USD

Boots - Bordello / Pleaser USA - $75.00 USD (approx.)

Scarf - Alexander McQueen - $260.00 USD

1974 Plymouth Roadrunner - Vintage Autohaus & Imports - $24,900.00 USD

This House - $16,500,000.00

Love,

Robynn

ps. I know the house is a little much, but I just threw it in because it makes the $260.00 scarf seem a little less ridiculous.  Plus, it's got a stable, so it'll come in handy when I have to buy ponies for the universe.  Which, evidently, is what I'm going to have to do because I've tried everything else to get a job.

Dear anybody who has ever questioned why the doll from the Island of Misfit Toys in the 1964 Rudolph TV special is a misfit because she seems like there's nothing wrong with her,

Here's your solution.

She's a redhead.

Nobody likes a redhead.

Love,

Robynn

Dear Shopping Mall Santa from 1978,

I was digging through old photos yesterday to find a picture of my Grandpa, and I came across your photo. I started to wonder what happened to you. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only person who does this. (Not wonder about you specifically, but wonder about random miscellaneous people from my past.) Where are you now, o Shopping Mall Santa of 1978?

I’m going to put this as bluntly as possible – you look like a festive serial killer. I’m sure you’re most likely not a serial killer and I understand that’s kind of a horrible judgment for me to make based on your aesthetics alone in a 31-year-old photo, but you have that look in your eyes. (Not to mention the fact that not all legitimate serial killers look like what us commonplace non-murderin’ folk assume serial killers look like. Ted Bundy, for instance. He was totally dateable if it wasn’t for the unfortunate side effect of being bludgeoned or strangled to death.) But anyhow, let’s talk about “that look” for a moment, shall we?

I understand that look. It’s not because I’m a serial killer. I’ve never really considered being a serial killer as something that would be a viable career opportunity for someone like me. The hours aren’t so good, there’s a lot of overtime with all that cleanup, and I’m pretty sure you’d probably need to provide your own vehicle and I don’t have one. No, I understand that look because I spent a few too many years of my life working in retail.

Working in retail (and a lot of other service industries) during the holiday season is always murder (yeah, yeah, I crack me up), and you, my friend, are essentially the man of the hour every hour for the entire bloody month of December. That and you have to deal with a crapload of toddlers. I can't speak for you, but I know that always sends me straight to the baggage compartment of the crazy train.  I’m sure your look isn’t homicidal, or at least not manifestly so. And I’m sure it isn’t manifestly homicidal because I’ve had that exact look before and have somehow managed to remain relatively manslaughter-free.  No… wait… completely. Completely manslaughter-free.

In any case, I wonder what ever happened to you, Shopping Mall Santa. I’m sure by the whole six degrees of separation concept someone who knows someone I know has to know someone who knows you. If any of those people happen to read this blog, have them send me an update. I assume you’re still a man, you may or may not live in the Edmonton area, and you’re probably somewhere in your 50s. Hopefully you didn’t end up being a Shopping Mall Santa every year up until now – if that’s the case I’ll have to retract the statement that I’m sure you’re most likely not a serial killer.

Love,

Robynn