What a weekend.

I survived the work retreat. In fact, it went better than I had hoped when I headed out to it. Fucking A, there is not more work in the world then trying to herd together 20 odd intellectual types, emphasis on odd.

But I did it, and I happily headed the fuck home to my bed, M. and no work for two whole weekend days. Oh joy.

Better yet, the plan was to head out to M.’s office X-mas bash. I looked forward to a company function in which I did absofuckinglutely nothing to coordinate. And, it was at the home of Hangar 1. A party at a vodka distillery the day after I finished getting inundated with my own workshit? Count me the fuck in, and I’ll take a dozen cosmo’s to go.

I ain’t been to a fancy ass holiday function in forever, and M. had been to one exactly never. So, we got ourselves ready. I even wasted a couple hours beautifying, no doubt a hangover from not getting enough spa action over the work retreat, so close and so relaxation not for me in spa-land.

I got the extra deluxe “crystal” nails by the local Vietnamese entrepreneur down the street eager for me to upgrade. I figured it would be a good thing for M.’s colleagues not to see me with the bloody chewed stubs retreat-planning anxiety had left me.

Surprise, surprise both my fancy party-going type frocks fit, and they looked pretty good with the right foundation garments. Why the sweet young’uns at the local malls and nightclubs getting all hootchie don’t know about the importance of quality underthings, I ain’t never gonna know. It’s like knowing about that shit has missed a generation.

He wore black on black on black with his nice suit jacket. I wore makeup. Foundation, eyeshadow, mascara, blush, lipstick, the whole drag queen kit and kaboodle. (I totally don’t know shit about girly things, but if I play drag queen in my head, I’m as hot as Patrick Swayze as a woman every day. I’m no Julie Newmar, but I cleans up real nice.)

Rock on, we left the house looking good, fucking real nice, speaking for the man, anyway.

Approximately, three and a half, long, trapped, claustrophobic hours later, we were still no where near completetion of what should have been a one-hour ride.

Apparently some douche with a past and no interest in the future thought whipping out a gun and shooting a CHP dude would be an awesome idea. We got near the closed off exits just in time to literally have no fucking exit. Cars ahead of us, cars behind.

We got there in time to hit the bar just as the woman running it was announcing enough and couldn’t be swayed to squeeze one last lemon or pour one last drink.

For dinner we were the best damn looking couple at the all night local eatery. Carrow’s saved our lives.

M. declared that the aforementioned douche deserved to die.