You know how you aren’t supposed to feed Gremlins after midnight or bad things happen? Well, that’s BW and I at any function with an open bar. We are no longer fit for public consumption and should not be allowed out unsupervised.
We had his company holiday party over the weekend. As always, they got us a hotel room, at the party location, so we don’t have to worry about transportation or drinking and driving. Which I think is the most amazing and generous thing a company can do. Not to mention responsible. Plus, it makes for a more festive environment when party-goers don’t have to worry about getting home, relieving the babysitter, driving, and what-not. You just call for the valet and they come take you by golf-cart back to your room. Easy peasy lemon squeezey.
So, we jammed our bodies into holiday appropriate outfits. I went with a vintage boat neck, green and black, A-line dress with a petticoat, fishnets, and 3″ mary-jane heels. I flipped my hair up at the ends in an attempt to match the style with my outfit, but I think I was off by a decade on that one. Not 100% sure, and don’t really want to google it to confirm.
BW went with slacks, sport coat, tie, beautiful cufflink’d shirt, and crappy shoes. I liked the slacks on BW, they showcased both his ass, and his package, beautifully.
My dress was already a tiny bit tight around the chest area. Not my boobs, but my chest area directly below them. Some people like to refer to that as your stomach, but I prefer chest. It’s always better when your dress is tight at the chest, than at the stomach. But, that made it a tiny bit uncomfortable.
What I failed to realize is that spanx + stockings + petticoat + dress is a lot of fucking stuff to have going on. Luckily the spanx were the kind you can pee in or I would have sat in the bathroom and cried. I’ve never worn a petticoat before, and while it’s great when standing, once you sit down, you spread, everywhere. So, be sure to only sit near people who want to be partially covered by your dress. (Still, I’ll probably wear it again with my other vintage like dresses.) But add all that stuff, with a dress that is a tiny bit uncomfortable, 3″ heels, and an open bar . . . well . . . let’s just say I was damn lucky I didn’t topple over without the ability to get back up again.
The thing(s) that BW and I failed to bring with us, that lend to our social unsuitability, were our filters. Otherwise known as common sense. Or that little part of your brain that stops your mouth from speaking when it wants to go balls to the wall and let it all hang out. In my defense, I almost always leave that thing at home. So BW is usually the one to reign me in, or literally cover my mouth with his hand if all else fails. When it’s both of us that don’t give a single fuck, it can be disastrous.
The only way to save ourselves was to make a hasty exit a few hours after dinner, and retreat to our hotel room where they only people we could possibly offend were each other. While there’s no need to go into specifics as to what we said, suffice it to say we covered all the potentially explosive topics: sex, politics, love, religion, fashion choices, and bowel movements.
BW went in to work on Monday worried about his behavior and subsequent backlash. Lucky for us, a large group of his co-workers were even bigger assholes than we were. So, woot woot, totally safe for another year.
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