Pardon me, but it's hot as balls in here.

On Friday night my employers threw their annual big bash to celebrate a large “best of” issue. Last year the party was a lot of fun, but having just been recently hired I didn’t really know anyone, and my husband and I just talked to each other and drank way too much.

Last year the party was held at a newly refurbished ice rink in town. The rink was big news at the time – doomed for closure, someone bought it at the last minute and saved jobs and for some, a vital community resource. The space was large and cool – very cool. We were standing on pro-deck over a sheet of ice. It was a welcomed treat in the August heat.

My employers never use the same venue twice, from what I understand. This year they held it in an old Coca-Cola factory. My husband could not come with me, as he was scheduled to work that night, so I invited my sister and a few other folks to be my “peeps.” Fact is, I was planning on inviting them whether hubby could come or not. The more the merrier, and it is a pretty exclusive/fun party to be invited to…free food and drinks. What’s not to love?

I spent an hour curling my hair and putting on makeup. I haven’t spent that much time getting ready for something since my wedding day! The results were rather good though. I had a Farrah-esque wave going on, and about 1/3 of a can of hairspray to hold it in place, plus a large dose of sparkles. I was donning a long, black skirt and a black top, with a nice pair of sandals. Not to fancy, but not too casual either. Damn! I looked good!

As I arrive at the party venue, my heart sinks. It’s all open. No air conditioning. It’s really humid out. This won’t be good for my hair. I then spot the 8 port-a-potties lined up in the parking lot. No indoor plumbing. No mirror with which to fix and re-arrange my drooping Farrah curls. At this point, I can’t even attempt to put my hair up as I am brush-less and hair-tie-less (why did I opt for the smaller purse???)

On top of that, someone  involved in choosing the venue didn’t do their homework. Apparently the fire marshal showed up and told my bosses that the building is only allowed to hold 350 people at one time. There were over 1,200 invited. I saw marshals roaming the crowds all evening – when they could elbow their way through, that is. I wonder how many fines were issued.

Right then and there I made the decision to leave this party early. Had I known about the conditions, I would’ve dressed way differently, and I certainly would not have even plugged in my curling iron let alone spend an hour styling it. As the sweat began to trickle down my back, I headed for the drink station for a glass of vino. Might as well begin to drown my sorrows now.

By the time my gang arrived I was sweaty and droopy and was beginning to resemble a glazed ham. Didn’t I start off this night looking like Farrah? We had fun though. The music was good, and we ate a few sliders while trash talking a bunch of skinny, scantily clad bimbos trolling for dudes with money.

I left by 9:00 pm. The joint was hitting it’s zenith by then, but the coating of sweat and melting hairspray covering my body was unpleasant, and I just wanted to get home. I envisioned a blinking neon sign hovering over my head: PARTY! pooper. PARTY! pooper.

All I know is if I am still at this company by next year’s shindig, I’m asking lots and lots of questions before I choose my outfit. And I’m bringing a couple of hair ties just in case.

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