Holiday Office Party

They were getting drunk, my two best pals, and told me to start a blog, damnit.
"And don't tell your husband," said Sylvia.
"Yeah," said Angela, "don't tell him," then she took another swig of her take-no-prisoners cosmopolitan. She meant it, too.
She had chosen the bar, ordered for us, and we were doing as we were told. Even the fried calamari had us on our knees all Kean-eyed. And we were eating it, which goes to show you how balzy the calamari was. Who was I to put up a fight?

Sylvia offered her graphically inclined husband for a little graphic panache. Now they were drunk. That part was my fault. When the mynxy waitress with enviable posture returned to our leetle square table I told her they would have another round. And they mewed, grinning a half-assed, "No, goodness, another round? I simply couldn't." But I knew they wanted it. Like prom night they wanted it. I would have had another but I was only half way done with my first. Slow drinker, fast driver, cold hands, big mouth. So they drank on and waxed about my blog and the conversation boiled down, in essence, to "for chrissake, what the hell."

"Where's my balls?" Angela said with just the perfect pitch and nuance of Horny Truck Driver meets Larry King. We laughed and agreed that that would have to be the tag line. More slurps and another bowl of high falutin' popcorn, please.

This was my office Christmas party. Just my two best pals in The Big City drinking fancy drinks in a fancy bar in my dumb clothes because it was more important for me to be warm and cozy than hip and now. My shoes were horrifyingly comfortable. My slacks were flannel-lined for crying out loud. I'm not even going to tell you who makes flanel lined pants, but suffice it to say, it aint Seven for All Mankind. Even my hair was dumb, all flattened down by the new hat I just had to buy because of my interminable fear-of-bitter. (There is a warm hat and mittens on just about every surface and counter in my home, just laying about waiting for me to put them on and be warm once again. In every bag, in the way-back of my car, just in case, everywhere.) But here in this bar, I was toasty.

It was a low lit, steamy affair, this speakeasy-esque back-alley type joint. When we arrived in our big puffy coats and me laden with shopping bags, there was nary a soul at the 15 odd tables but a seasoned couple making out on a banquette in the corner. I suggested we sidle right up and plant ourselves next to them but the girls didn't think that would make for very funny. So we snuggled in elsewhere and deferred to Angela. She'd gone to this particular bar for ages with her husband back in The Day.

You know, The Day. Back when we all lived in Manhattan and had no kids and waited over an hour for the priveledge of eating in loud, overpriced restaurants and regularly bought expensive poorly built shoes. Angela explained, "Richard and I used to come here after shopping all day and spending too much money." She glanced around. Was there another couple doing that very thing here tonight? Were they pickling their regret having spent too much nest egg by ordering drink after drink the price of a medium sized ham? Could they have ever imagined that they might need that money some day for corrective shoes or gutter cleaning? Did any of us? Are you kidding? If we had, we would have been savants. Aliens. Friendess and most certainly boyfriend-less. So we shopped up and we drank up in dark, luxurious places like these. (Have I mentioned dark?) Sylvia and Carl had theirs. My husband and I had ours.

Alone together in a dimmly lit lair, candy-coated by alcohol, in a three man huddle with his wit and shoulders, Jim and I shut out the world, the future, the check. "Another round," I said back then. I drank faster then, surrounded by background extras cast in our movie beautiful enough to make me feel like one of them, but not too much so that I felt goofy. Those were the days. And being here now with my girl peeps made me happy because it brought me back. Not to the exact spot, I'm not delusional, you know. But close enough that I could get a good look, a sneak peak. If I craned my neck and stood on tippy toes, I just might be able to catch the faintest whiff, cup it's soft face in my hands. Of what. Of hope? Optimism? Slack-jawed wonder? I know it sounds sappy as hell, but would you believe me if I told you-- Ah, youth.
Truer words were never spoken.

So Angela and Sylvia and I drank and laughed and spoke in hushed tones about our complicated marraiges and not-so-solid futures and I had a ball because I am a stay at home mom and for my kind, there aint no holiday office party unless you cowboy up and git yerself one. The kinds of companies my husband works for can't afford to invite the spouses along, so i'm outta luck and so are the girls. Angela works out of her home and Sylvia is on an extended maternity leave. So this was our party. A day in the big city with three very funny women, a little shopping and lots of stops for tea and scones and changing tampons. And the lovliest tryst with my youth in a steamy, dark bar (where I couldn't have looked a day over 32) and later on, a delicious dinner in a loud, overpriced restaurant, where we waited an hour to be seated and then towards the end of our meal, were asked to vacate our table with still a half a beer in my glass. Perfect.