Bar None

Right now I have alcoholic vapors emanating from my pores. I haven't been home since yesterday morning. No wonder my phone is dying. Anyway, last night was the office Christmas party. Still hungover from Wednesday, I had decided that I would skip the festivities in favor of a quiet night watching "Grey's Anatomy." But at the eleventh hour, I rallied, threw on the requisite amount of make up necessary to mask the overall feeling-like-shit appearance my coworkers (at the broadcast PR firm) had commented on all day.

Bad move. There was not only an open bar but wait staff circulating with all sorts of alcoholic concoctions making it difficult to keep tally of my drinks and, consequently, my sobriety. Seeing HPG was oddly awkward and I can only attribute this to a series of passive-aggressive emails that had transpired in the days preceding this event. For some reason, our mutual decision to be friends was completely lost on me given that he was a.) offering to set me up- not cool and b.) I'm just annoyed by the whole thing in general. The other issue was Howard with whom I had started a flirtatious text play that was going to end badly especially in light of the copious amounts of liquor at my disposal. And, I had a cold. The above mentioned factors combined to create the perfect storm of drunken mayhem.

My boss. Very sweet and very happy to see me but my attempt was to avoid her at all costs once I had downed my first sangria. My dangerously low tolerance and gravitation towards inappropriate remarks when buzzed (i.e. "I need to get laid") had taught me to steer clear of embarassing myself in front of the person who delved out my freelance assignments in perhaps the only newsroom left in America with any real integrity. Unfortunately, my friend whom we shall call Gladys as in Gladys Kravitz, the meddling neighbor from "Bewitched" had not learned the lesson about loose lips at work functions. Gladys is a very gifted and talented writer who early on recognized that I, too, was a great storyteller even if they were harrowing accounts of loves lost... or found, then told to get lost.

Several weeks ago, Gladys sent me an email telling me that she missed my "stories." I responded by giving her access to this blog. She was amused and shared it with her boyfriend, who was also entertained if not shocked by my candor. Fast forward to last night when her boyfriend who is a staffer at this network, cornered me and demanded, "Who's HPG?" Shit. I knew this day would come when a vague acronym would lend itself to an uncomfortable reveal. I told him that I would position myself in front of HPG and then step on his foot to single that he was behind me. This plan, when combined with liquor on both our parts, failed miserably. Apparently, subtlety is a trait we both lacked. And Gladys is no exception but I will get to her in a moment.

I did as I had promised but before I could stomp on his foot, he craned his neck around me, zeroed in on HPG like a sniper his target and declared, "He's not all that." Loudly. Fortunately, HPG was out of earshot but I'm sure it was obvious we were talking about him. Am I right, HPG? We all know you read this blog. But that was minor compared to what would transpire at the "after party." Why do we call it that? Let's call it what it is: the "I'm-too-drunk-to-go-home-and-have-lost-the-mental-capacity-to-cut-my-losses place." OK, after party is much more pithy.

I walk in and am first and foremost informed that the man on the make is no other than HPG. At this point, I'm too busy trying to figure out how to convince Howard I'm not as drunk as my latest texts reveal. (Me: R u up?/Howard: It's 8:30. R u OK?) Then, to my horror, Gladys decides to confront HPG. I'm not exactly sure about what was said because I was hiding behind her, she's 5'10", and praying that by some miracle the ground would open up and swallow me whole. I finally pulled a Clay Aiken and covered her mouth with my hand to stop the horror that was unfolding before me.
"What did you say?!" I asked after I had physically turned her to face away from HPG. This was beyond embarassing. I can't even find an adequate metaphor.
"I just asked why HPG thought he was too good for you," she responded with the confidence of a loyal friend who had just defended my honor. In reality, honor was the least of my problems at the moment. Not only was my blog being discussed openly but with HPG no less who already resents me for cutting and pasting our texts. What was his response, I wanted to know.
"He said I'm not and then I said, 'why are you pulling away?' and he said, 'because you're freaking me out'." Lovely.