Monday, December 21, 2009
Attack of Frizzyface
Larry and I arrived at 8:00 for the annual Long Island Christmas Party.
It was pretty much the same exact guest list as their summer party, which meant a whole lot of boring. Then there was Katrina, who sat in her usual spot - on a chair next to the entrance to the kitchen. This would guarantee that she would be first up when the food was ready. I had to wonder if this would be the case.
A few other people whose names I couldn't remember also showed up. Cue the awkward re-re-reintroductions.
Within 10 minutes, three people all confessed to having been sick. I almost dropped from fright at this. I refuse to get sick this winter. Fuck that.
When the two fugly, generic lesbians arrived, I was happy to see that they were more forgettable than I was. A few people remarked that they didn't remember their names either. Anna and Marie? Or is it Janet and Blair? Nobody knew and nobody cared.
In the living room, I watched with delight as someone tried to clean up a spill on the white carpet with a red paper napkin. The sudden addition of red ink into the carpet caused a panic. I was close enough to watch, but far enough away that I didn't have to get involved. I pretended not to see, but it was like a car wreck. I just couldn't look away.
Larry was in the kitchen talking to Linda, so I hovered near them. Not too close to get sucked into the conversation, but not too distant as to appear aloof.
I really am a social misfit, aren't I?
In walked a woman I'd never met before. She had ridiculous frizzy, black hair and reminded me of Andrea Martin, but she had a cane and ugly clothes. We'll call her FrizzyFace.
She didn't come close enough to me to force an introduction, so we were never introduced.
When Linda walked away from Larry, he let out a sigh and rubbed his temple.
"Nothing. Just that it was great to hear every - last - single - detail of the story of her son's divorce."
"Oh!" I said, smiling.
Would this be the millionaire son I put a curse on a few summers ago? Such a shame. Not.
Larry went outside to smoke a cigarette and I headed for the bar. I saw John talking to a small group of people and wandered over. A few key words stuck out and I was able to glean enough to know that John was talking about his recently deceased dog. This afforded me the ability to make evasive maneuvers and keep on walking right out the door to join Larry in the freezing cold.
FrizzyFace was sitting on a chair in the kitchen as we walked back into the house. "Thank you for smoking outside!" she yelled to Larry. This hag is just fucking weird.
Dinner was served and Katrina was first. Is anyone shocked at this? It's sad, really, that this is all she lives for - to be first to eat at every holiday party and BBQ. She's so fucking big that she waddles in, finds a seat, and then people have to come to her, as if she's on her deathbed. Keep shoveling it in, Katrina, here's a fork.
Larry and I ate while balancing white hot plates in our laps. This arrangement forced me to eat much more carefully than I normally would, so as to avoid dropping meatballs and lemon chicken on the carpet.
After dinner, Larry and I were sitting talking to John when the depressing Christmas music gave way to laughter. We turned in tandem to see that, on the TV, the yule log DVD had vanished and was replaced by insult comic Lisa Lampinelli's face.
Yes, the hosts actually thought, "You know what? Rather than let everyone mingle and enjoy each other's company, let's trap them all in the den and force them to watch TV - because none of them have access to cable or DVDs at home."
At first, I was happy, because this party was about as exciting as picking the lint off your coat at a funeral. I also find Lisa Lampinelli absolutely hilarious. But then I realized, "Shit. They're making us watch the whole show. All 93 minutes."
Larry was not having it, although I tried to enjoy the show that I had already seen last week.
I was delighted to discover that most of Lisa's act made the people in the room squirm. This made it worth it, for me, at least.
The DVD finally ended at 11:00 after a good hour of Larry threatening to leave and John convincing him to stay for dessert.
What annoyed me about the whole "force-fed, hour and a half of TV" was that there really was no reason for it. I could understand if the room was full of ADD afflicted toddlers or something, but there wasn't anyone under 35 in the room.
And what's worse, there was no other room to escape to. The official "living room" on the other end of the floor, is, and always has been, "off-limits" to everyone and nobody knows why. No one is allowed to set foot in it. Ever. Did someone die in there? Is it haunted? Structurally defective? What are they saving it for? And if none of us are good enough to go in there, then who the fuck is? To look inside, it's really not worth preserving: teal carpeting, outdated furniture, faux Art Deco embellishments. It's 1987 all over again. Maybe they're just embarrassed.
We headed into the kitchen for dessert. By now, neither of us cared for dessert. There wasn't really anything on the table that I just had to shove into my mouth, so I headed over to grab a cup of coffee.
At the coffee station, Fugly Frizzyface took her time making her coffee just so. It was like being at Starbucks. The manly, know-it-all lesbian with the stupid, frosted spiky haircut finally asked if they could "switch sides."
Now the lesbian was taking forever, so I turned around and made a face at Larry. This would be my "Is it time to leave?" face.
I couldn't help but think, This would go a lot faster if I had a gun.
Larry noticed that there was a french press with espresso coffee on the table, so we helped ourselves and headed back to the living room.
We sat in the window seat and sipped on our cups. FrizzyFace walked over and sat down on the end of the sectional.
"Now you..." she began, wagging her finger at me, "Don't you put my shoes on by mistake!"
The sound of her shrill, witch-like voice caused the volume in the room to drop immediately. All eyes turned in our direction.
Confusion mixed with embarrassment and formed a deadly cocktail. I merely stared at her, looked down at the shoes on the floor, then looked back at her.
"Oookaaaay," I said to her. It was as if we were playing a game of Embarrassment and I had smacked the Bitch Ball right back in her face, breaking her nose.
I could not believe that I did this. Undeterred, I stared at this freak until she became uncomfortable, looked away and said, "Okaaaay," to the person sitting next to her.
Did this fugly frizzy freak think she was suddenly funny because she just watched a Lisa Lampinelli stand up special? And why the fuck did she single me out for such ridicule? We have never met, so it was even more bizarre.
I turned to Larry, who looked at me and mouthed the words, "Be nice."
"No." I said, defiantly, like a petulant child.
Again, I looked down at her shoes on the floor between us. They were ugly patent leather flats. I thought about stomping them on the way out, or at least kicking them under the Christmas tree, but there were too many potential witnesses. This is why you should always have a drink in your hand at parties: in case you spill something "accidentally on purpose."
I'd like to end with my Holiday Party Conversation Guide
DO keep it light and airy.
DO let the other person speak, for fuck's sake.
DO keep it short.
DON'T talk about your family trouble
DON'T talk about your health issues.
DON'T talk about your job.
DON'T talk about your recently deceased pet.
DON'T piss off the blogger you know nothing about.