The Scented Lotion of Blog Posts
The gift that says “I don’t know what the fuck you like, but you certainly could afford to smell better.”
Yeah, so that is the gist of the blog post you are getting today. I’m busy, I’m scattered, I got a completely unreasonable four-ish hours of sleep last night, and although I SO WANT to have a polished and well thought-out post for you today, I’m just flinging some random bullshit at you and calling it a day. But I fling with love! With love!
So, let’s see…what is there to tell? Well, last Friday we went to Brad’s workplace holiday party, which used to be here in the swank club level facilities, and which used to feature:
- A full bar with top shelf liquor;
- A DJ and dance floor;
- Acres of food, including one entire table dedicated solely to A PASTA BAR (yes, you read that right);
- Desserts in such numbers that they had to actually clear all the other food from the serving tables in order to accommodate the ricockulous variety of cheesecakes, pies & cookies;
- A very drunk and bloated and happy Jive Turkey. I mean, PASTA BAR, my friends. Two of my favorite words and things, coming together in convenient adjacent fashion to create something truly wondrous in the most holy season of miracles.
This year, however, the party was taking place here. Fancy! That’s where Obama and all the world leader types had their big G20 dinner back in September, which is cool and all, but my main concern was more along the lines of “will they be able to move enough of those damn plants to make room for the Pasta Bar?”
Somewhere along the line, I heard the words “limited budget” mentioned in conjunction with this party, so when we walked in and saw that the full bar had been reduced to just beer and wine, I wasn’t that surprised. I mean, OK, fine. I SUPPOSE if I was Baby Jesus, I’d still go ahead and be born this year. But when I saw the very-much-pasta-less food table?
Internet, the food was highly lame. If you’re going to hold a party from 6-9pm, people are going to show up hungry and expecting some fucking DINNER, yo. The food table offered only blanched vegetables and bread cubes, which were to be dipped in some seriously separated, lukewarm beer cheese.
I’m sorry, but I’d rather eat “pasteurized prepared cheese product” than “real cheese that looks like orange oatmeal doused in baby oil.”
There were also waiters and waitresses wandering around with some fancier hors d’oeuvres on plates, but there were a limited amount of these more substantial foods, and seeing as how we arrived at our usual time of one-hour-late-because-we-have-a-baby o’clock, supplies were dwindling. I actually watched the same waitress mosey around for about 30 minutes with ONE LONE FUCKING SHRIMP on her serving dish. I’m talking a straight-up, plain-ass piece of shrimp – no sticks or leaves or sauces in sight. She couldn’t unload it because she kept approaching groups of MORE THAN ONE and offering THE LONE FUCKING SHRIMP. And who wants to be the asshole who takes THE LONE FUCKING SHRIMP? Not I.
I noticed that there was a dessert table that had some sort of cheesecake-y looking things, but by the time I made it over there? At the ripe old hour of eight o’clock? As in, A WHOLE HOUR before the party was scheduled to end? There was nothing left except four pathetic chocolate chip cookies on a plate.
So, basically, I got all dressed up to go eat baby carrots, cubes of bread, cheese, and a cookie. In other words, I totally could have had the same evening IN MY OWN FUCKING HOUSE. So we did what any reasonable pair of adults would do: we ditched the party with the free booze to go get hammered on overpriced drinks somewhere else.
What else…hmmm. Well, on Sunday I discovered that the most remarkable change that has happened within me since the baby was born is that after YEARS of insisting we get a real Christmas tree (even when we lived in NYC! We dragged a fucking seven-footer ten blocks and crammed that bitch into a one-bedroom, oh yes we did), I suddenly have no further interest in erecting a $60 needle factory in my house. It’s expensive, it’s a mess, the damn thing always kicks it while we’re visiting family, making the removal of the lights such an aggressively scratchy experience that one year we just chucked the entire tree AND the multiple strands of lights therein. So we up and bought ourselves an artificial tree that was assembled in ten minutes (lights included!) and never needs watered. Seeing an artificial tree in my house made me sad for about 4.3 seconds, and then I remembered the day last week when neither of us remembered to FEED THE CAT and thought HEY, maybe we don’t really need another living thing in the house after all.
And that’s about it, I guess. Sorry for the lack of, well, EVERYTHING. I’ll be back soon with something more, I promise!
*Guess who got to see those impossibly chubby cheeks last night at 11pm, whenever they woke up randomly and FOR NO REASON, all smiles and ready to play? And guess who struggled to put those cheeks back in their crib for two hours? And guess who saw those cheeks again at 5:20am?
Entry filed under: Gobble-gobble.