Tis the season where I pretend I am not broke and undo all the hard work of paying down credit cards that I've been doing for the past year. Why? Well, first I need a dress for my office holiday party. And really, first-first, I should mention that this is no Office with Michael Scott & Dwight Schrute party with streamers and a punch bowl. No no, in private equity land there is no recession. Our parties are insane. The catering alone costs more than my life is worth. Like we rented the Academy of Sciences one year (yeah, the whole thing) so had cocktails while admiring the albino alligator. The decorations are ridic, food amazing, gifts fucking phenomenal, and so forth. It's like something out of a movie. Though I suppose this year may be downsized, since "we" are still in a time of economic woes, so we'll see. They did in fact downsize our damn suite at the Giants stadium. THAT'S RIGHT! I FORGOT THIS IN MY RANT YESTERDAY! Wait, this should be a sidebar.
SIDEBAR: reason #5 from yesterday's list: I used to like going to Giants games because we had a pimp ass suite. My first year at the firm it was debauch. Endless bottles of Patron, Stellas, Goose, warm cookies, taco bars, finger foods, leather couches, plasma TVs, and yeah, if you wanted to, you could go out the little glass door and watch some guys running around on some grass with masses of poor people yelling for them and singing songs. Whatever. It was like my personal Diddy VIP party. We got dressed up for these parties. We were sexy and Very Important People, with our own entrance so we didn't have to go through turnstyles with people from like Oakland or the Mission. If you wanted a beer, you walked five feet and poured yourself one for free, not wait in line and shell out $47.50 like at the concession stands. There was not an annoying large man carrying 500 boxes of ice cream Nibs yelling at you about their cost and that you could get them right there. The bathrooms were glorious and you rode unicorns to and fro your suite to them. I loved the Giants that year. But alas, when the great depression of last year hit, such magical times were no longer part of my life. The firm got a smaller suite and shared it with another firm, which translates to like 10 tickets for the season, further translating into "these golden tickets will not trickle down to the likes of you, Cinderella, and uh, don't you have a phone to answer?" So now when I see fancy rich people leaving work to go bask in the splendor suite-land, I am reminded that I am POOR. Pooooooooooor.
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| Happy place. |
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| Poor people. They are eating on their laps, on their laps, I dare say! |
Annnnd so we come full circle to where I am poor. And now I need a party dress. If you had never had the pleasure of looking for a party dress on tha interwebs, you are in for the treat of your life!!! I went through the usual suspects -- Macy's, Nordstrom's, blah blah - but then I ventured off into the wilderness of "dress sites" -- generally meant to cater to prom goers, quinceanara chicas, and apparently fully fucking mad-dog crazy-ass bitches. Perusing dress after dress, squealing at them, sending the links to coworkers, receiving OMGs in return -- this went on for hours. Fave Co-Worker says "You know you have to write about this." To which I responded, staring into the distance, stone-faced, "There are no words."
But it's meeeeeeee, so of course there are!!
Turns out, I have much to say on this issue. To be continued....
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