I’m not going to attach a picture stolen from the interwebs to this post – simply because a cursory search for “Gay Christmas Party” brought up enough images for me to get fired.
I wanted to share with you a story about the very first time I got drunk.
It started innocent enough…my neighbors “S” & “D”, who we lovingly refer to as our “Gaybors” throw two parties each year. A summer party and a Christmas party. Both are a total hoot and both can get you into equal amounts of trouble. Even if you’re straight. And a chick.
Since we live across the street, we are usually one of the first folks to arrive, so we try to help set up as much as they’ll let us…which they rarely do. “D” usually escorts us to the basement and pours our first (of many) cocktails for us to get us started.
Hindsight Rule #1: Never let a gay pour your drink.
The cocktail of this particular Christmas party was Vodka Cran. They usually have a drink theme for the Christmas party. The summer party? The sky is the limit. I’m surprised they don’t have a Scotch Fountain set up in their backyard, to be quite honest with you.
As the evening progressed, it seemed that “D” had this weird Spidey sense when my drink was getting low. I’d take the last little sip and the ice would clink in the bottom of my glass and when I turned around – there he was, “Honey…YOU need another COCKTAIL!” and he’d grab my hand and off to the basement we’d go.
Hindsight Rule #2: If you like throwing parties, don’t set the bar up in the basement of a circa 1920’s house.
To say that “D” was a little heavy handed with the vodka, would probably be the BIGGEST understatement of the century. It was like, “Ice, VOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, *cran*. ” Not. Even. Kidding.
So let’s say, for arguments sake, that we arrived at their place around 6. And let’s also say that “D” seemed to be following me around for 3 hours – consistently filling up my glass whenever the dreaded ice made that clinking sound when there was no more liquid to stop it from seemingly slamming into the bottom of the glass. And let’s say that I was walking through the house with the hubby and I’m pretty wobbly but feeling great. Then we go downstairs and “D” sees my empty glass and said *again*, “Honey!! You need another cocktail!!” At which point my hubby as all, “I really think she’s good, D.” and then D was all, “Hey! This is MY fucking party and if she LOOKS like she needs another cocktail, then I’m gonna GIVE her another cocktail. Now, shut the hell up!” I should say that if you don’t have any gay male friends of your own, that most gay men – the loud and proud ones, anyway – mean no harm whatsoever when they talk like this and their comments are met with side-splitting laughter. And with that, the next 1/2 hour was sort of a blur.
Hindsight Rule #3: Always trust your spouse when it comes to your threshold for consuming alcoholic beverages.
I knew that I was certain my glass had floated from my hand to D for a refill. Hubby had grabbed my hand, in what I can only assume to be his attempt to get me upstairs and out of the basement before my next cocktail was poured for me – only, unbeknownst to him, it magically floated through the crowd behind his back and landed in my free hand as we started up the stairs. And…I’m not sure if he knew it or not, but all I can say is that it was gone by the time we reached the top of the stairs. And I know this because I remember my husband exclaim after he heard that little *clink* of the ice cubes: YOU FUCKING DRANK THAT ALREADY?!?!?!?!
The next few minutes went by rather quickly.
I somehow decided that it was a good idea to show a room full of gay men how I could take my bra off without taking off my shirt. Someone snatched my bra and I had no idea where it went.
The room started spinning and I remember my husband calmly finding me a chair to sit on – in the formal living room – the one with all the nice furniture. And then…
I puked. I puked so hard.
The next few things I remember clear as day. I remember that it’s like the gays are so used to this type of thing happening that they have, what I call, the “Puke Patrol”. There were a team of people that just spring into action and are there to take care of everything.
We had 2 people show up with towels almost immediately to clean up, someone to help ME get cleaned up, someone else showed up with a plastic bag in case I kept puking, someone to comfort my hubby – naturally. Then after everyone had swooped in to clean up the mess it was time for someone else to help the hubby walk me back across the street and back home.
The thing is? I was fucking PROUD of myself. I had waited 35 years to get Puke-Drunk for the very first time. I had no shame.
I spent the next two hours at home cleaning out my system., I’ll leave that process up to your imagination…all I’m going to say is that my husband must rrrreeeeeeaaaaaaaaallllllllllyyyyyy love me.
When it came time for the actual Christmas Holiday, we were trying to figure out what to get “S” and “D”, since we figured we owned them something.
I got this crazy idea to get them a really nice bottle of scotch. And along the same lines and to sort of make a nod to my party foul, I thought it would be funny to get them a can of Scotchguard.
We wrapped the presents and put them on their doorstep one night. Being the cool people they are, they waited until Christmas morning to open the gift.
On Christmas morning, our phone rang and all we could hear on the other end of the line was HYSTERICAL laughter. Apparently, they opened the gifts…and they got the joke.
That’s the beauty and unconditional love of friendship. I totally barfed all over their beautiful living room and never ONCE did they make me feel bad about it. Not. Once.
S & D came over later that day with a gift of their own. A pretty little bag that contained: My bra. Ever since then, I only wear my PRETTIEST bra to their party…you know, just in case.