Surviving the office Christmas party

I haven’t been very good at attending the work Christmas party. I went once a few years ago, where my then manager got a bit too excited about the bar tab and decided that even though we were sitting outside, it would be a good idea to go back into the pub to vomit. On the floor. Right by the door. Like a champ.

Last night I made my second appearance at one of our Christmas parties. My manager felt obligated to go, and talked me into accompanying her with the following three points:
1. There’s a bar tab.
2. Tab = free beer.
3. Free beer is good.

So the Christmas party was at a pub by the river. I only had one drink on account of having to drive, which really wasn’t enough alcohol to deal with not remembering the names of people from other sites, being reminded of just how many years of my life I’ve spent working for these people, or awkward conversations with one of the company’s slightly intoxicated owners:
Him: ‘How are you? Good?’
Me: ‘I have beer. Beer is good.’

Manager lady has a massive amount of Grinch-y-ness in her tiny, blackened heart.

This has been a recent source of amusement for the two of us who work under her, as we’ve been entertaining ourselves by slowly building up ‘Operation Christmas Bombardment.’
Next week I’m starting the carols, and yes, I’ve got Mariah Carey. And Wham. And Celine Dion. I know I can’t force cheer down her throat, but since I don’t like to lose, I plan to lose in the most annoying way possible.

Manager lady’s initial anti-Christmas comments of ‘I’ll stay for an hour at most’ and ‘One drink and I’m out of there’ were a big, fat fail. I left before her and received some slightly scrambled text messages later in the evening. She stayed about six hours longer than planned, proving that the spirit of Christmas is alive and well after all.

Or the spirit of Jack Daniels.