In an unfortunate twist of events, I just received a disturbing phone call.
Last year, I attended the Gymboree Christmas Party, held at Bimbo's. Due to my roommate's responsibility over the drink vouchers, I got exceedingly trashed and hooked up with one of the photographers hired to capture the event. He proclaimed his undying love for me as we stood in the rain and called a few times after the party, but we never hooked up again. Bonnie got word that he'd never be hired back because he got drunk and ditched the party to make out on street corners with me. And his name, believe it or not, was Jimmy Valentine.
Last night was the Gymbo Christmas Party, again at Bimbo's. I didn't attend because a) Bonnie's in Mexico and b) I wanted to see Pork Chop. Not 5 minutes ago, I received a phonecall from Joe, owner of the photography company. He and Jimmy wanted to know where their favorite "party girls" were last night.
First of all, I can't believe they still have my number. Second of all, I think it's both awesome and sad that we're remembered as the "party girls." Somehow, they envision us as a real life version of "Girls Gone Wild; Corporate Christmas Party Edition." Third, I find it depressing that these guys have had a year of photographing parties and events, and we're remembered as the hardcore "party girls." Yikes.
I will say this: I've been a serious nerd my entire life, both in personality and appearance. And I've been waiting 26 years for some straight men to think of me as a wild and crazy late night party vixen. I'm thrilled, even if it is a bunch of lonely camera geeks from Sacramento. Now that I've established myself as a "party girl", and have resumed my practice of uber sophistication and grace while inebriated, please lose my number...