Now-to begin.

Gentle readers-I bid you welcome once again to the mind-rending read of what some call my ‘thoughts’ on different matters of life. The difference, this round, will be that I shall actually slap this bit party onto my yahoo “Blog of Doom”! (and here, of course... Or...just here. Haven't Quite decided as of yet.)



I may actually split this into a few segments, so not to appear as random and lost as my thoughts can be at times. Just a Christmas Gift of Niceness you should not expect from me for most of the year otherwise. If there are those that question the why to this-Look to the “D*ckhead” sticker on the Mighty One’s forehead. That explains damn near everything even to the most moronic, backwater, inbred twit.



Today’s Words of the Rant will be of one subject. Work.



This one subject, mind you, has various opportunities for spewing forth just as varied thoughts, emotions and actions as anything else in this life. However, this is the one subject, which for me, is picking at what is left of an already frayed patience of a semi-sane soul. Now-Just how long the semi-sane status remains, remains to be seen of course. My only quandary for this particular subject is how to start the sub-subjects!



Should I start at the Christmas party-or go straight into the hell that has been this week? What say you, gentle readers? Funky, old people party-or hellish work week?





Funky, old people party it is.



You all love old people! The smell, the amusement, and the way they wobble when they walk. The lovely sounds of appendages shuffling over tiled floor in what could have once been hospital slippers in another life!



Okay, so they aren’t that old. Honestly-though, I do believe some qualify in that description in a few ways.



At first I had not thought to go. Why? I work with these people all week, for eight hours a day. Why the hell should I go and fraternize with them when I could be home with my lovely s/o?! I spoke with my s/o over this at length, and it was decided between us that we could…



1. Use a night out together.

2. Hell, they paid for dinner and dessert!

3. It was in a nice place, and a D.J. was on board. Dancing!

4. I get to see my lovely dressed spiffily, just for me. When my lovely dresses and spiffs up… Well, we can just leave me at the rumbling and soldier on, yes?



So, in essence-we decided to go!



We dressed, teased one another and bid the Hellhound Adieu before freezing on the way to the car. My baby looked at me with that little smirk that I adore and asked me a question. “Making sure they know you’re different tonight, baby?”



“Damn right-That, and I am making sure you like too, y’know.”



Now, this was asked for one simple reason. To the Company Christmas party… I had decided… that leather and a top hat was the flavor for my attire! Black laced, ankle to hip, with a Victorian styled and matched top to go below the straight-jacket-like trench coat that graced the frame. Black felt top hat, black lacquered and dragon topped cane and black patent leather shoes to finish the deal. Spiffy? Why, Dorothy, yes indeed.



Not to mention, once that my s/o caught wind of what I was doing-decided to go along the same line. Even if it was in a calmer, not so in your face line-it was a NICE line! I was very pleased! Lovely! As a matched set-we set forth to the trip to the part-tay.



I had gone downstairs in the midst of getting ready, hopped onto my lovely’s computer, and found the Holy MapQuest of Travelers. (Hear the Holy Choir now! “AAAaaaaaahhhh!”) Lit me a smoke while getting to the required field, slapped in the ‘from’ and ‘to’ addresses and leaned back with a squeak of leather and an exhale of smoke to await the grand decision for our path to the party.



Problem was-there was a problem with the ‘from’ address.



Okay, I know where we are. I know the address of where we are. However, the Holy Map of Morons says there was 45 other address of where we are.



The hell?





Fine. I leaned in, took a look through what they suggested as to where we were and snorted. Promptly choked on the damn fag before putting it aside to hack a bit and re-adjust the address a little bit. Okay, fine-we’ll try the apartment complex name WITH the damn address. Since, the 45 others are within a fifteen freaking mile radius-at least.

I squinted at the smoke while it protested its lonely nature in the ashtray for a second before relieving it of its lonesome position and did another lean back to squint at the monitor while the Holy Mapster did its thing. Which was to tell me it found another 25 places it could start out from for our little adventure...Bastid.



Suffice to say, I spent ten minutes down in the cellar cursing out the Holy Map and its insistance of saying we were 90 places at once until it finally gave in and did what I demanded. It came up with a route-‘lo and behold!- we were 15 minutes away from where we needed to be! Reverse route was given much easier than getting the way there-and I was offline and upstairs and finishing up so we could head out.



The drive was easily done-until the last turn. It took us two seconds to realize we passed the hwy we needed, went down a block or two, turned around and went the other way to take the blasted turn we bypassed a few seconds ago. The only glitch in finding the place! We were doing excellent! The parking was easily done-right in front and a handicapped spot just waiting for my lovely’s lovely car to put itself in its place.



Inwards!



Ignoring the varied stares and expressions while we walked to the stairwell that would lead us to the glorified version of a company party, we made it down without a hitch or trip. Once inside, the gathering of people there I at least (this year) knew if not by face alone, by name. It is a nice thing to be able to introduce or re-introduce the one you love to those you could either stand or at the very least…not kill.



Finding a seat, getting settled was easy enough! We actually found two at a table with some that I could actually call friend. One, at least. More intro’s to those that I didn’t know, and those that my s/o only met once, or not at all, and we set about getting sodas.



It was a very nice room-with nice decorations-great smelling grub on the buffet table. The settings were tastefully done, with (Gasp!) chocolate at each plate. Which I promptly unwrapped and stuffed into my mouth to chew the ambrosia of the gods off of the stick to get it turned into melted goodness and let the sugary flow go through my veins. (I was Starved!)



Now-to the interesting (at least for you, gentle reader!) part.



The D.J.



Let it be said, when one rents an expensive board room for a company party-do some damn research on the moron that is in charge of ‘entertainment’ before slapping the average idiot behind a wall of cd’s and hand him a freaking mic.



I had to sit and deal with the moronic spewings of this f**kwad as he finagled his way around the boss and other higher-ups for stories of the company, workplace, how we got there…ect. We got there at seven; it was after eight before he announced we could actually get into line to eat.



To avoid a stampede-the man decided to go table to table and allow us to get up and go that way-which was on his part, brilliance. Otherwise, people may have ended up with heel/boot marks on their backs due to the near desperation of some of my coworker’s stomachs. We sat and watched the others while this idiot tried to conversate with some, joke with the waiting staff who were almost on a panic to get the hell away from him and DO THEIR JOBS.



Our turn-go us!



Glorious food selection! Salads; Italian, Greek, ect. Warm foods, hot foods, and cold foods. Foods that tempted the senses and begged to be devoured.



I went twice.



Go me!



Oh-before I go further?



The D.J. had a brilliant plan to ‘ease the tension and let others get to know one another’.



It was a horror between a barmitzfah (however the hell you spell it) and a wedding from the down-south hillbilly counties. Circling our table, hand in hand? Conga line with the entire room-through the pitiful excuse of a dance floor, out the door and back into make a snake?



F**k you.



Shove that f**king mic into your nostril and suck until you hear feedback from your f**king *ss... you twit.



Gimme food.



Food I got. Happy my stomach be.



After this lovely dinner, me and my s/o went for a smoke, came in and settled again for conversation. My lovely went to the restroom, and I decided to head to the dance floor with a few wives of coworkers for a Latin mix. (That and the boss man decided-again-to yell at us for nobody dancing to the suck that was the D.J.’s choice of “Music”. “If you don’t dance, we’re going to a restaurant next year!” Again. This happened last year as well.) I finished the dance, slunk back to my seat amidst applause and waited for my lovely at my seat while sipping lemon water. The soda was flatter than a two bit hooker at 90. I had to hunt someone down to get more for my baby who drinks diet.



Twenty minutes go by, I start coughing. Okay, not fun but I can deal. Conversations go on around me, I get worse. Okay, this sucks, but I can deal. Ten minutes later, I’m leaving to go to the bathroom myself instead of loosing organ bits onto the table and ruining everyone else’s meal and time. My baby didn’t know about the problem until I came back when people came to hunt my hacking *ss down-I must have been gone ten minutes and had some worried.



:: Snort :: Like I can’t kill on my own and need protection? Please.



Still, I came back and sat-much to my s/o’s dismay when my face was caught. Between a near pale green and beet red; SO lovely a mix to go with the leather tonight, thanks. My baby suggested we get air-me without a smoke-and I agreed. Jacketless, I head upstairs along with and go to the night air to hopefully get my lungs to calm.



Wishful thinking, it seems. We walked into a circle of near fifteen smokers, and my lungs went on an official strike.



They picketed while I bent over and tried to get them to evacuate via mouth onto concrete. What got people worried, I suppose, was the whistle of air when I tried to breathe IN-and got nothing. So, I’m coughing, hacking out whatever air was left in my lungs to begin with, and getting nothing in return. Go me.



Luck be with us, however! One of my coworkers is married to an RN. Who promptly came to my aide and started asking questions I haven’t heard since my last attack that landed me in the hospital. She even got me to laugh, which in afterthought, was a baaaaad idea. Amusing, but bad. When it got harder for me to breathe (it was like someone decided to put steel bands around my ribs and slowly tighten them to the point it was useless to even try) she looked at my s/o and said to take me home. Me? I waved my baby inside to gather our things. I wasn’t speaking for a bit. For awhile, actually.



It took almost an hour for me (after inhaling three doses of meds) to be able to speak over a whisper.



Froze our *sses off on the way home-had to keep the window open for the cold air to breathe in-got into pajamas and cuddled while my lungs finally got off the picket line and decided to settle in for the night. I apologized to my baby-I didn’t wanna ruin the one night we’ve gotten to go out in with THIS sh*t.



Which I got the sweetest response in the f**king world…



“Do you think that a party or a night out is more important than you? I think not. You come first, baby, no matter what we’re doing.”



GOD I love my baby.



MINE.





Oh-and by the way…



I won Dove soap for our Christmas Gift Lottery.



Dove.


I have not the words.