strongly cautioned politely informed in advance that Christmas parties hosted by my husband’s work have a reputation for getting a little crazy.
As the last real corporate Christmas party I attended involved several dozen of our store’s finest getting good and plastered on a dinner cruise in the harbor, the drunken (and somehow unnoticed) theft of an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels from a bar by one of the new cashiers, and one of our full-time deli girls threatening physical violence against the coat check girl at a strip club (don’t ask), yesterday’s event had quite the precedent to live up to.
Ah, disappointment, we meet again.
I don’t get it. Champagne and sangria shoved into our hands at the door. Wine glasses topped up after the smallest sip. Reminders every two minutes that, “It’s open bar, guys, so go nuts!” There was every opportunity for alcoholic excess and lowered inhibitions.
We saw maybe one drunken wobble all night.
C’mon guys, it’s like you weren’t even trying. Responsibly tipsy? What kind of entertainment value is there in that? I was promised pure inebriated chaos, dammit!
But I guess that’s just the kind of letdown you can expect from from a Christmas party held in freakin’ November.