INside Story by Michael Harold
brought out make-up and transformed officedrab outfits into sequined, sparkly holiday-wear. The first hour of the party was like an eighth-grade dance where the boys stood around awkwardly folding their arms while the girls formed gossipy cliques. After a few drinks, when everyone loosened up and mingled, the party divided into two seriously opposing factions: the Electric Slide and Achy Breaky line dancers who knew every choreographed step versus the dancephobes who remained paralyzed with fear that someone would pull them onto the dance floor. By the end of the party, two groups
The Office Party AFTER 23 YEARS of practicing law in New Orleans, I resigned from the profession and started my own business. Admittedly, I don’t look back with loving affection at billing hours or answering law suits, but there are some things I still miss. I miss the camaraderie among lawyers, the old Parish courthouses, the spectacular view each day from the 30th floor, and—I’ll go ahead and admit it—I miss the office holiday party. Well, actually, I take that back. I miss observing the office party. The firm’s holiday party was essentially a study in how offices split into two groups. The first groups developed in the late afternoon when the initial excitement buzzed through the office halls. One group consisted of holiday Scrooges working quietly and diligently in their offices like it was any other day, while the other group, the merrymakers, sprayed perfume,
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Inside New Orleans
remained that were defined, in part, by alcohol consumption: the “naughty club” and the “nice” one. Over the years, I have been members of both. Phyllis Diller was spot on when she said, “What I don’t like about office Christmas parties is looking for a new job the next day.” Every year, one employee pushed the envelope and woke up the next morning wondering what he or she said the night before. Personally, I took perverse pleasure in bestowing imaginary gold, silver and bronze medals to my colleagues who made the biggest fools of themselves. Some were justified, like the chardonnay-fueled paralegal who fancied every chair in the room a stripper pole or the secretary who was caught making out with the copy guy. I empathized with one poor lawyer whose wife humiliated him by screaming obscenities at the managing partner