
So I'm home from the Annual Christmas Party.
Me, I'm in good shape. Some people are going to
be seriously hurting in the morning. Some folks
are going to have some explaining to do. Some
people are going to be apologizing to their
husbands and wives and girlfriends. For a
longtime. (You may remember me talking about the
one
last year.)

There was some
serious drinking going on. Me,
I brought my usual bottle of Jack Daniels to
contribute to the decimation, but I stuck to
the cranberry-raspberry juice myself. I have
slept on the bathroom floor. I have kissed
the porcelain. I have hoisted a beer in Los
Angeles and awakened in Las Vegas. Been
there, done that.

I was climbing a basement stairway from the
downstairs half of the party to the upstairs
half of the party, and as I reached the
kitchen my level eyes came upon a man's
hand down the back of a woman's jeans.
What impressed me was that I know them
both and their separate spouses. I later saw
his wife doing the same sort of thing in another
room with another dude. I guess they have
what one might call "an understanding."

I saw a woman in impressive raccoon eye makeup
that I liked a lot. The makeup, not the woman.
I mean, she's not my type, but her eye makeup
was definitely up my alley. And somebody else's
wife was explaining to me that her thick hair
came from her Italian background. But, she
explained, she had Italian in her growing
rump, too. She patted it to emphasize the
point. I really didn't have much to say.
It was a great little package, of course.
And she knew it. But I wasn't going to make
some dirty old man comment about it, no matter
what she did. I may be a
guy-type dude at times,
but I'm
not freaking stupid.

In any case, several people were much too young
and much too drunk. And some of the less-drunk
spouses and girlfriends looked somewhat
alarmed at what was going on. So I escaped.
And I'm home and safe and dry and warm and
not in jail. And there's nothing for me to
apologize for on Monday. Which works for me.