The Deerhunter

It's a rare blog entry where I'll write about an event where I wasn't there. I'm making an exception here because:

1. It's about Deb.

2. I laughed so hard when I heard it I nearly peed myself.

3. It's got great visuals.

4. It's just that good.

So Deb's husband Greg (forever immortalized here after giving me crap about calling my beloved husband "The Varmint") has the sort of high-profile job where attending company holiday parties is good for your career.

You know the sort of shindig I'm talking about: Where wearing suit and tie is a must. You attend and schmooze the higher-ups, try to drink responsibly (and if that fails, at least sneakily), and everyone scopes out one another's spouse.

It's the kind of unspoken thing where, if you managed to land a hot one, you get secret brownie points: "Oooh! Look at Jim-from-Accounting's wife! How'd he score her?!? Must be something we don't know about ol' Jim, nyuk, nyuk, nyuk." You know the stuff.

Anyway, Deb and Greg hire a sitter, throw on their gladrags and hit the company holiday party Saturday night. Deb's glowing, sporting a sultry-chic ensemble, including some fancy purple heels she scored from me. (Pregnancy fattified my feet and sent me up a size. My gain = her gain.)

Now, I'm not saying whether it was the new heels or, perchance, the single martini she is purported to have imbibed, but suddenly, smack in the middle of the party - and just after scoring a nice bowl of squash soup - she loses her footing on some uneven terrain. In slow motion, she can feel herself, once all elegant and sexy, flailing about like an eel in ice skates. The soup flies through the air.

Desperate for something to grab to keep herself from going ass over teacups, she throws out an arm and clutches the first thing within reach ... Which in this case would be the company's lighted reindeer decorations. Smack in the middle of the glowing deer herd, their heads rocking back and forth in motorized unison, she manages to grab Rudolph's antler. She hears a snap, and never fully hits the dirt.

Quickly, she manages to right herself, but it's too late: Everyone's looking. Even the shoes survive without scuffs or abrasions, although like the rest of her, they are covered in squash soup.

The deer was not so lucky: That snap was the sound of his head being ripped clean off. It is now hanging limp, totally unmoving - though still lit. In Deb's defense, she laughs at herself (along with the rest of the party) and quickly pulls herself together, not even once throwing up from embarrassment.

Sadly, despite the ongoing attempts of several partygoers to reattach the reindeer's head to its' body, the patient never recovers. Their efforts are futile, as the deer gears whine away at its broken neck, without a head to turn.

I guess I can't blame them for trying. It'd be tough to throw back tequila shots with a headless deer hovering behind you the whole time. It doesn't exactly shout "holiday spirit" or anything. It's more like "go ahead and laugh - but you're next."

In my opinion, it was good of Deb to give the office party a little kick in the pants and give people something to talk about. Greg sure raised his profile - there's no chance the big bosses didn't notice him. Not to mention, I got a worthy blog entry.

From my perspective, the sacrificial deer was an excellent social investment.


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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >