From my head (head) down (down) to my feet, yeah [guitar solo]

There is so much to tell, I do not know where to begin.

Last night was my office holiday party, held at the Park Avenue Pratt Mansion. It was so delightfully uncomfortable that I pulled out a pen and paper to take notes. Allow me to paint the scene:
Large ballroom on second floor of mansion.
Tall mahogany walls decorated with portraits of white male aristocrats.
Large windows with green tapestry curtains.
Dim lighting.
Fireplace.
Chandeliers.
Cover band in the corner of the room playing "Hurts So Good" as quietly as they can.

The tension was so tangible you could have cut it into slices and served it to the stiff, hungry, business-casual army.

As expected, all conversations went as follows: hi, something about work, what are your holiday plans, where are you from, how nice, blah blah blah, is so and so here tonight- move onto the next person. You can add slight variations with people that you know well, but it is dangerous and I do not recommend it.

Anyway, there was an open bar and a meager amount of appetizers, so I knew that it was only a matter of time before everyone got blitzed and started creating the kinds of embarrassing situations that I wait all year to watch. I did not have to wait very long. It was only about 45 minutes before I found myself rescuing a colleague from the inviting dance moves of the company owner. He gave me a look of annoyance for ruining his game, as if it was my presence, and not his age and marital status, that kept him from sealing that deal.

I danced my heart out for a little while to support my manager, the drummer in the cover band. He asked me to help get the crowd excited. The lead singer, a medium sized man who I am pretty sure spent all morning waxing his Trans-Am in a cut off t-shirt, recommended that I take my top off. My manager looked terribly embarrassed at the comment, probably feeling partially responsible as the lead singer is his cousin.

I did not take my top off.

I left after about an hour and a half. I like dancing by myself at someone's house, not in front of a half moon of self-conscious, slightly disgruntled employees.

This morning, I woke up to find that the transit strike had begun. I decided that the easiest way to get to work was to walk the fifty blocks. While it was the easiest, it was also about 25 degrees out, and I just never quite warmed up. My finger nails still have a purplish tint, and my hands are a little shaky. That's cool though- you can just start calling me Shaky Hands Leighton or Leighton McShaky Hands or anything else that combines Leighton and shaky hands in a way that makes me sound like a good-natured,lovable criminal who only pilfers watches so that he can support all of his stray dogs.

Whatever happens with this strike, I am getting on my flight to California tomorrow. I will rest when I am home wearing my lynx sweatshirt and carrying our hungry and frantic pug, Abigail, on a walk.