Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Night I Tongued My Boss
I went to the company Christmas party on Monday night. It was held at Mulligan's, the pricey "Irish" bar by the mall. What do I care? They have Guinness on tap, and while I have to sit through Oprah and her special guest, I tough it out and wonder what the evening will have in store. I am celebrating Christmas with all of the ladies that I work with and they are an interesting lot, let me tell you.
The barmaid brought me a Guinness that looked like the beer of my dreams. I was determined to enjoy myself whatever came, but I was going to try to keep my mouth shut this evening, as I am blessed with the uncanny ability to put my foot in it long before I have considered what it is I'm saying. Apparently this isn't an uncommon gift, as I have met several people who are just as blessed.
Perhaps you have been to a few company Christmas parties and know the etiquette. I haven't, and I don't. I even had to look up the word etiquette to make sure I was using it right. After all, the only thing I know about company Christmas parties is how they can go horribly wrong and I learned that from cartoons in Playboy as a teenager. I am the only man amongst six women. Any faux pas I make will be repeated to perhaps two hundred people. My professional reputation could be at stake and I'm a little shaky in that department anyway. Stay-at-home dads don't carry a lot of street cred around here anyway, and it doesn't help at all that I talk funny anyway compared to the locals.
But I shut up and dinner goes just fine. The waitress seats us and asks for our drink orders. I have another beautiful Guinness and order the variety appetizer plate. Let me just say that the ladies I work with aren't small and they have healthy appetites. This was not something that any one of them would have ordered, but it almost came to blows when only the last few pieces were left, and even when it was gone they insisted that the rude waitress leave the dipping sauces.
I had a steak, baked potato and a salad. I was thankful when they brought the salad as it gave me an opportunity the stuff my mouth and just listen to the conversation. "Tell Doc the gum story," insisted my boss over dinner, but the girl declined. "Oh come on Flo," another joined in, "You've told everyone else!" And at that she conceded.
She began, "Well my husband and I were just climbing into bed and he asks me for a blow job, so I do. The next morning, he gets up and takes a whiz and comes back and asks me if I've lost something. "No, I don't think so..." she says and then he shows her the glob of bright green chewing gum that is caught in his pubic hair. All the ladies laugh and titter like school girls.
At the end of the meal, my boss asks the waitress to put in a carry-out order so she can take dinner home to her husband. The waitress informs her that it will be a thirty-minutes before her order is ready. "Well let's have a drink while we wait. My treat," I volunteered. We had a round of martinis and even the ladies who didn't drink had one.
The boss shared a chocolate martini with a friend and kidded me that I had a rich wife who could well afford to pay for my extravagance. (I don't.) When our rude waitress brought the carry-out order the party broke up, and since I was sitting by the aisle, they all wanted a hug goodnight. I put this down to the vodka working and decided to give out hugs, even though I am not a touchy-feely kind of a guy.
The boss was first in line and smiling sweetly. Now I have mentioned before that I weigh in at about 180 lbs, and she is twice my size. She clasped me firmly, she turned her head slightly and pecked my cheek. This kiss was as sexually charged as two elderly French men smooching, kind of like the kiss your great aunt might give out. The hug lingered and as it did I caught some of her long hair in my mouth as I breathed in. I turned my head away from her hair so that I didn't cough, but I had turned it to her face and she took this as an invitation. She planted one on me.
I was dumbsquizled. So I tried to make light of the situation, and here is where I made my most grievous mistake. "What? No Tongue?" I said jokingly.
When she kissed me again she used her tongue as if she was looking for her car keys.
I returned immediately to dumbsquizled, but just passed out "polite" hugs from there on out. I realize now, at the tender age of 37, that the Playboy cartoons I read years ago were right. Company Christmas parties can go wrong, and it's best to never speak of them again.
happy new year,