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,
Doc

Why I'm Wearing Leather Pants...

I get a catalog from an outfit called The Sportsman's Guide that sells hunting, fishing and camping gear and I have been ordering stuff from them for years. I have been able to complete my Christmas shopping from home for several years now, as they sell everything under the sun, not just camo clothing and boots, but home furnishings, jewelry, toys, and girly stuff too.

Well about eight years ago I purchased a pair of leather pants from them. I am not much of a leather wearing kind of a guy, as most of the leather I own is in the boots and holster category, but they were incredibly cheap and I figured, "What the hell?" I had just seen the movie The Doors and watched Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison strut from scene to scene in these leather pants and I wondered why he never wore anything else. Then it occurred to me that these pants would last forever and would never need to be washed, two qualities that appeal to a lazy cheap bastard like me. So I bought them. The ones I own look exactly like the ones pictured above.

The ad for them did advise that the legs would need to be hemmed at the bottom, but that was easy enough with Superglue. I tried them on and they fit like they had been tailor-made for me, roomy but not baggy, and the satin lining made them very soft, not to mention they are very warm when a winter chill is in the air. The only thing is, I never got around to hemming the legs as I could never seem to remember to purchase the Superglue when I was at the store, so I hung them in the closet and promptly forgot about them.

Eight years later, I remembered the Superglue.

I put them on last night and they still fit great, even though my waist size has grown by one. I asked Flannery to roll up the cuffs and mark them so that I could finish the job I should have done eight years ago. "The legs are tapered," she pointed out, "they are only going to look right if you tuck them into your boots. They don't need hemmed." Alright, I could have been wearing them for eight years now but it takes a loving wife to point that out to me. Okay, fine.

"Besides, they look too new. They look like a mid-life crisis happening. They need to look old and worn, not fresh off the shelf." Okay, so now I need to break in eight year old pants so I don't look like a dufus?

"Alright, I'll wear them around the house until the look run in and then I'll wear them out in public."

"And you had better let them air out occasionally so they don't smell like sweaty ball-sack all the time," she warned. It takes a loving wife to point these things out.

So now I'm spending my time puttering around the house, washing, cleaning, cooking and chasing kids, wearing leather pants in an effort to make them look well worn.

But even when they look run in, I'm afraid I will still look like a dufus.

Doc