The Christmas Party

There are few more awkward things in the life of an employee than being confronted by the dreaded "Office Christmas Party."

Mind you, I am certain that there does exist cool and well-managed Christmas parties held by socially graceful employers where everyone is in a good mood, no one gets drunk too early and says something he or she will regret well into the new year, people don't bitch about the size of, or lack, of this year's bonus, etc. Other examples of most regrettable landmines experienced in my time have included those related to dietary needs ("Who forgot to tell who that the wife of the IT expert was a vegetarian?!"), the knowledge of a divorce or break-up that only one staff member was not informed of  ("And where is that lovely wife of yours this evening?!"), or a sensitive health-related issue ("Love that new haircut! Wait, did you just say you're going through chemotherapy? Oh my God, I am so sorry!")

I often think that the Office Christmas Party only merely edges out the other most awkward and dreaded event in the life of the employee: The Annual Staff Retreat. Another event fraught with tension where inevitably people make declarations on par with New Year's Resolutions: you start off with all the best intentions but sooner or later, you've got your face in the proverbial pint of chocolate ice cream again.

In any regard, this blog is about The Office Christmas Party. In particular, it is about the most bizarre office Christmas Party that I have ever attended. And it just so happened to have happened in December 2010.

First off, I had recently returned to a former job that I loved but left to pursue a job in Uganda. Long story short (and it isn't short if you read back in this blog): I made a slightly inappropriate career diversion that didn't work for me. Not Africa and certainly not on Uganda- both worked for me and I had some of the most wonderful experiences of my life there and made friends that will be with me until the grave. The job, however, was a misadventure from the beginning and I often found myself longing for my former job, the one I had given up. That job (or this one, as I still thankfully and happily work there) was one of the best in my life. Not only was the work challenging, I got to work with my friends. Something I still count myself as so very grateful for today. A lot of people "say" they work with their friends but, in my case, I really do. So returning was easy; I loved my work and I missed my friends.

Except for one thing...

The president of the company, and my most influential mentor for over five years, had retired.

One of the most wonderful things about my mentor and the former president is that she NEVER subjected us to The Office Christmas Party. Mainly because she was Jewish, but she still seemed to sense that making people feel uncomfortably forced into attending a holiday gathering was not a way to build staff morale. So every year for the five years I was there, she would provide a nice wine-and-cheese sort of pre-Christmas happy hour for us at the office or a local establishment and we would all enjoy each other for a few hours and then go our separate ways, unscathed.

When I returned to my job thirteen months ago, we had a new president and CEO, and all bets were off.

The new president was a nice enough guy, but he clearly belonged to a class of individuals who were becoming a dying breed in DC: The Older White Man.

A former Ambassador to some balmy but not-too-important locales, he had spent the bulk of his career as a foreign service apparatchik and it was reflected almost immediately in the manner in which he took over the organization.

Again, NOT a bad guy. Just not necessarily the right fit for our small but highly productive non-profit.

Still, happy to be back with my old company and on cloud nine about being surrounded by my friends again, I was still in bliss until that dreaded day came: The Issuance of the Invite to The Office Christmas Party.

I remember getting the colorful e-vite in my inbox and noticing immediately that he had picked a Saturday evening for the party. My stomach sank.

I commute every weekend between DC and southern New Jersey and/or Philadelphia. My boyfriend lives there and while I enjoy being back in DC, I relish my weekends spent with my friends and my significant other that have decidedly NOTHING to do with DC and its politics and constant internal bickering matches. I also know that several of my colleagues commute and/or have young children and families to take care of so I knew they weren't keen on having their sacred weekends violated. Particularly as we work for a non-profit that regularly requires much more than a 40-hour normal work week to begin with, we kind of all feel that down-time is inviolate.

Still, I am a good sport and hell, I just had gotten my job back, so I could suffer through The Office Christmas Party. Since the invitation specified that we were to RSVP for ourselves and our spouses immediately, I trudged down to the Administration office and signed myself and Chas up for the event, not giving it a second thought.

And that's where the strangeness started.

A week later, the newly hired office manager knocked on my door with blazing red cheeks and apologies from the onset.

"Patti, I am so sorry, but he (the president) is making me ask this...are you and Chas married?" she stumbled out.

I was sort of shocked by this question and got a distinctly uncomfortable feeling.

"What? No, but we're a couple and have been together for almost two years. I am not bringing a casual date, he's my partner," I reassured her.

"Well, that's kind of what I am asking. Um, so you two aren't legally married?" she asked.

"No...but why?"

"He was shocked when he saw the guest list and realized that instead of the ten regular staff, there were nineteen people coming," she blurted out.

"Helen, of the ten regular staff, only two of us are legally married, but all but one of us are in long-term relationships, so what does this mean, exactly?" I queried, stunned at the implication of what she was saying.

"He told me to tell the staff that, for this party, 'spouse' meant 'spouse' as in the marriage between and man and a woman, by law," she nearly whispered.

I was stunned.

This was Washington, DC. In 2010! Not only is marriage legal between same-sex couples, the whole idea of heterosexual couples not being considered "together" because of the lack of a marriage license was simply  archaic. 


"But, but...we've always been a very diverse organization. Gender, race, sexual preference, relationship status...how can this really be a new rule? In THIS day and age? " I spat out, getting angrier by the second.


"I'm so embarrassed and so sorry," she choked out.

I could see she was on the verge of tears, being another one whose long-term partner had been excluded by way of their failure to form a "legal" bond so I stuffed my incredulity and quickly simmering anger.

This guy was a diplomat? An Ambassador?

He was telling us that we could not bring the people we loved, the people that we, his staff, had chosen as partners to a Christmas party no one wanted to go to in the first place? What the hell kind of trust is that? What kind of respect was that?

I seethed until one of my best friends on the planet, and the main reason I was back at my former job, knocked on the door with a pleading look on her face. Our second-in-command, had arrived.

"I know it's awful. I know," she said, "But I need you to support me right now. I know how strongly the whole staff feels about this sort of thing but, please, can you just put your hackles down for one night and do this? For me?" she asked. "Besides, it is his house, maybe he just really doesn't have enough space for everyone and just wanted staff."

I had a choice remark to that but since it wasn't her fault either, and I already instinctively knew that several people would boycott on mere principle, I conceded to attend, if only for her.

Alright, so he's a diplomat but he is from a slightly different generation. And maybe these things were some sort of old-school Embassy protocol, who knew? 

Arriving at his house on the appointed Saturday evening, I immediately got the sense that my guess of "old school" was correct.

Not that things weren't beautiful, they were. And not that he and his wife and son didn't appear to be the perfect hosts, they did. But there was something so very 1960s about the whole thing, so very WASP, that the mere perfection of it all made me nervous.

And then all of my suspicions were confirmed to me by the appearance of the one guest who would ensure that the entire evening was immediately transformed into the most memorable Office Christmas Party of my life: Randi.

Randi is the wife of the organization's accountant, a man I liked immediately although I had not known him prior to my return. Bob is pure New Yorker and everything (stereotypes and all) that this represents. He is loud, gregarious, outspoken, brash, has a thick Bronx accent, and he talks freely about subject matters considered far too "working class" or "taboo" for DC. He also has a heart and a goodness about him as big and as loud as everything else. In short, I loved the man.

But I loved his wife even more.

She arrived dressed like something one could only imagine plucking off the top of the most exquisite French-made wedding cake. With her high heels, short and stylish silk dress in bright colors and bold stripes, a fabulous floor-length white fur coat, and flaming red hair and with nails and lips to match, she was a walking statement of femininity and bold fashion sense. A splash of life cavorting amongst conservative black or dark grey pantsuits and carefully concealed sexuality that is the required "uniform" of Washington DC women, even at a dinner party. I was thrilled and envious at the same time...I wanted to be able to wear such things.

Immediately sensing a bright flame in a room of tensed-up people, I sidled up to her and said, "I LOVE your coat, it's gorgeous!"

She smiled at me immediately and said, "You should have seen it when it was hanging out of the dog's ass a few weeks ago! I never thought the stains were going to come out but dry cleaning is amazing these days.Thank God that the emergency veterinary surgery to remove it from his stomach saved both him and the coat...can  you imagine? But the price of the coat and the price of the dog's surgery kind of canceled each other out, so what's a little shit?" she asked.

The room fell completely still. Everyone turned to Randi with open mouths.

Bob nudged her indiscreetly with his arm and whispered, "No one really needed to know that!! I told you NOT to tell that story!!"

But she would not be deterred. She looked at him pointedly and said, "Well, she asked, didn't she?!"

I immediately exchanged looks with my other colleague, who is also a writer, and we promised ourselves and each other silently that we would definitely want more details from this story by the end of the night....

The Ambassador's wife, in quick recovery mode, was immediately in front of us.

"Punch?" she queried.

We all looked at the proffered bowl and happily accepted, praying for some level of alcohol content.

Randi looked down at the wife, a sweet blond woman with a very thick Minnesota accent and said, "What's in that?"

"Well, a tad of champagne and a fruit juice, but don't worry, it's not strong, we don't want anyone getting too tipsy here," she said.

Randi looked at me for clarification and whispered, "I heard champagne and lost the rest...she didn't say there were a few Jews in there, did she?"

She had a wicked twinkle in her eye and I couldn't help but laugh.

"No, no Jews, at least not to my knowledge," I replied.

"Thank God for that, wouldn't want to be drinking my own kind, even on a holiday!" Randi declared.

The Ambassador's wife was momentarily frozen in confusion and looked at Randi for clarification.

"I'm JEWISH," Randi roared, slapping the other woman on the arm heartily, "It was a joke!"

The Wife smiled sweetly and then took off for the hidden bomb shelter they undoubtedly had dug in the backyard somewhere for such emergency situations and never appeared for the rest of the night.

Not really...but if she could have, she would have.

Randi pulled me aside for a minute and said, "Is everyone this uptight all the time? If so, I am going to have to keep my mouth shut because I will offend everyone and Bob will kill me."

"Yes, it appears that some of them are this uptight all the time. But don't worry about offending half the people here, they do have a sense of humor," I assured her.

She looked skeptical but didn't say anything else.

Until dinner.

Dinner, which turned out to be a formal affair with guests each having their own designated spaces announced by placards held upright by expensive crystal wine glasses filled with...water...was announced by the Ambassador's wife at promptly 6pm.

As we filed around a large table in the kitchen, set off from the dining room, to fill our plates prior to sitting down at the formal dinner table, I saw that the main course was a huge ham.

Inside, I groaned.

I have never been a diplomat and I probably never will be. (Actually, I am almost positive I never will be...)

But there are a few things I just sort of know.

The first is that you NEVER, ever, serve, as a main course a dish that is either potentially religiously offensive or comes with related dietary restrictions in a mixed crowd. Since ham and pork products are likely guaranteed to not be able to be consumed by at least three of the world's mainstream religions, I would say that is a big no-no.

An Ambassador? A Diplomat?


Randi gripped my arm in the buffet line.

"I don't eat ham," she whispered, sounding tense.

"There's a salmon appetizer over there, and I think that is a corn casserole, and maybe some green beans," I proffered, feeling terrible.

She shrugged. "It's not a problem. I can make a meal of side dishes but this is fucking nuts!!"

I agreed.

Only then did I remember that another colleague was a strict vegetarian. I hoped he would be OK.

We sat down at the table and began to eat until The Wife took notice of Randi's plate.

"Why, you don't like ham?" she asked.

"I have no idea," Randi admitted.

"Why then, you should try it, it is quite delicious! Particularly if you've never had it before!" The Wife encouraged.

Randi cast me a look of desperation and then peered at her husband before addressing The Wife.

"It's not that I don't like ham...it is that I cannot eat it. I am Jewish. My father was a Rabbi. And I don't eat pork," she said.

The Wife was momentarily startled by this revelation, it seemed, and then quickly rebounded.

"Aw, well just try it, you might find you like it!" she said.

Then, "And look, your husband's having some! See! Not so bad!"

Randi clenched her jaw and we all cast our eyes downwards at our plates.

"With all due respect," she said, "you have a lovely home and Bob and I are so pleased that you invited us here. And I mean no offense by not eating the ham. But Bob is a Protestant and I am a Jew. He eats ham and bacon and I have no problem with that. But I was raised an Orthodox Jew and that means we cannot eat pork products. I don't really care that much but if I haven't had it until now, I figure it will only add calories, and so I am perfectly happy with what is on my plate. Again, I mean no offense," she finished.

I let out a breath. What a diplomatic coup she had pulled!

And then, smiling sweetly, she looked at the Ambassador and said, "The new website you have put up for this company is simply awful. It is dry, boring and tasteless. I work for the United Nations, you know...the world class diplomats? And it is a crappy, uninformed, website, from my experience....but what would I know?"

Everyone held their breath again immediately. Jews, Buddhists, Catholics, gays, straights, blacks, whites, and vegetarians among us.

My boss, the Ambassador, sensing this was going all wrong very quickly, said, "Have you tried the corn casserole? It is delicious!"

Randi gave him a sad stare.

"I have diverticulitis of the small bowel, I cannot eat corn," she fixed him with a pointed look.

The way she said it, with her Bronx accent, made the word "bowel" sound like "bow-uhll."

The Ambassador blinked, "I'm sorry, what was that again? Your bow...."

"My BOWEL!!" "I cannot eat corn because it gets caught in my small bowel and then when I shi..."

"Randi!!! No! Stop it! ENOUGH!!" he husband hissed from across the room.

I think we all consumed our dinner in about 27 seconds flat after that.

The Wife, realizing this was a diplomatic failure of epic proportions, had another idea.

"I have a game," she announced. "And the winner will get a special prize!"

(My God, when would this EVER end?!!)

We all filed into the living room dutifully, accepting our coffee and gathering around the fireplace.

The Wife handed out photocopied sheets of images that looked oddly familiar...but not...and announced:

"This is called 'Name the Christmas Carol' and anyone who matches the correct Christmas carol to the picture will get a prize!" she said.

I saw Bob grip Randi's knee so hard I thought he would break it.

She remained silent and placed her sheet down on the table without glancing at it.

We all breathed deeply.

Then, the Wife: "Now Randi, I know you can play this game! It's fun and I have a special surprise for you at the end," she cooed.

Randi, being as diplomatic as I think she could muster, said: "I cannot play this game because I don't know Christmas carols because we don't sing them in a synagogue!"

Then, the magic words from The Wife, "Just try it!"

And then all hell broke loose.

Randi grabbed the sheet of paper, repaired with Bob to a corner, and started whispering frantically.

I don't know if Bob had ever been raped before but he was that night.

He was raped for his knowledge of Christmas carols.

Within five minutes, they were back. The sheet was completely filled out.

And, of course, they won.

The prize?

A tin of nuts.

Smoked in bacon salt.

On the way out, the Ambassador helped all of the ladies on with their coats until he encountered Randi's white fur number. The one that had been hanging out of the dog's ass a few weeks prior.

He hesitated for a few seconds before Bob snatched it off the hanger and helped his wife, still carrying her bacon-smoked nuts in her hand, into her coat and out the door.

My friend caught my hand on the way out and said, "I am so sorry, that was awful! I promise nothing will ever happen like this again."

Then...

"Just promise me you won't write about it, OK? Or not unless things change...a lot..."

I kept my promise.

And things changed. A lot.

Merry Christmas! And Happy Hanukkah!



























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