Giuliana Sunstream outdoes Martha Stewart for her holiday party!
Her toy Maltese, Vegas, was looking at her dubiously, dismayed as he was with the pungent smell of marijuana in the air, but NoMa lifestyle blogger Giuliana Sunstream knew this was the next step in growing her fan base--which had doubled last summer after her arrest outside the FBI building (for guerrilla gardening) had given her massive publicity and unwarranted credit for the rogue marijuana plants that sprouted shortly thereafter. Everybody needed something that distinguished them from the competition, and Sunstream finally had it: the best ideas for being the perfect pot party hostess. The secret, she had decided, was never to make the party about the pot: the party should always be about the hostess. (Some people would say "the guests", but this was patently absurd!) And so, like last year, she was charging $100/head for people to experience and learn from the perfect holiday party.
Outside Sunstream's loft, Bridezilla approached nervously. She had purchased two tickets several weeks ago, planning to bring her lover, Paul, but he had turned out to be bisexual and was now back with his other lover. She had been a junior partner at Prince and Prowling at the time of ticket purchase, but was now out of the partnership and working as a contract attorney in P&P's SOTA-Bunk (state-of-the-art review bunker). She had thought about giving her tickets away, but she had nothing better to do today, and had always enjoyed learning new lifestyle ideas from Giuliana Sunstream. She was wearing a sexy red velvet mini-dress which usually made her feel very festive, but looking around at the H Street corridor under a gray sky, she was finding it hard to believe there was a jolly world to enter there. The members of Sense of Entitlement Anonymous (DC Chapter) had treated her so differently the last time she attended their meeting, and now she wondered how she would be treated here?
The first time she had entered SOTA-Bunk, she had expected to be revered like a star-crossed lover (Juliet, Maria, Guinevere...), punished for breaching the social barrier to date a contract attorney. Soon she discovered that one thing nobody wanted to know about their fellow contract attorneys was how they had also ended up in the dungeon. No past, no future: there was only the NOW. And so people distinguished themselves based only on NOW. There was "The Town Crier", constantly checking his contraband cellphone for communications from the outside world, rushing to be the first to announce to the room mass shootings, celebrity debaucheries, or candidate foibles. There was "The Legend", famous for finding the best smoking gun in P&P history: the "I vote for shit" email of 2004, never dethroned since then. There was "Helen Keller", who pretended to have light sensitivity so that she could keep her eyes closed behind dark shades, clicking over and over again on the same document to prevent her computer from going to sleep as she dozed a half-brain at a time (like a dolphin). There was "The Bartender", who had hidden liquor bottles in all the rest room toilet tanks. There was "Pablo", who sold coca leaves to reviewers who had trouble adjusting to an atmosphere with 60% less oxygen than fresh air has. There was "The Hacker", who had not only broken through P&P's security shields to access the Internet from his work computer, but also successfully blocked his web-surfing from network scrutiny. (Sometimes he was seen watching dirty movies at his desk, but becoming "The Snitch" on a review project was professional suicide.) There was a small number of "Scorned Ones", who actually worked hard and followed the rules, but got paid the same as their lazy coworkers--because contract attorneys all earned the same money for Prince and Prowling from the idiot clients.
Bridezilla, like the others (or at least those without contraband), had entered SOTA-Bunk in a sterilized jumpsuit, with her personal belongings left behind in a locker. She was a nobody, plopped gently but unceremoniously by staff attorney Laura Moreno at a uniform work carrel. Bridezilla had been given sixty pages to read about workplace behavior, signed a dozen different forms stating she understood and agreed with client confidences and ethical requirements, then read another fifty pages about a case being run by idiot associates she used to laugh at upstairs--before being told to code sixty documents/hour and left to her own devices. No more secretary, no more associates, no more partners, no more fancy coffee machine and catered meals. All she had left was knowing that, as a former pageant queen, she would surely be the prettiest girl in the room! But she had not been the prettiest girl in the room, and nobody noticed her at all. And now, heading into this party, she was starting to think, maybe it's a good thing not to be noticed?
"You look beautiful, mamasita!" said the international petroleum expert (spy) known as "Condor". He bowed to the astonished Bridezilla, then offered her his arm. "If you need an escort up to the party, I would be delighted!"
He was tall, dark, and handsome, with a face and accent she could not quite pinpoint--an international man of intrigue. She hooked her elbow gracefully around his without a word, deciding to keep herself equally mysterious as long as possible. For him, she could be anyone!
A few minutes later, they were showing the dread-locked hostess their tickets and entering her Tropicoliday party, where she quickly adorned them with necklaces of hemp. The Christmas tree was decorated with seashells made from re-purposed milk cartons, and jellyfish made from re-purposed plastic wrap. Fruitcakes cut into starfish shapes adorned every flat surface. A reggae trio handed out margarine tubs full of rattling pinto beans to anybody who wanted to join the band.
And there were brownies--lots of funny brownies....
In the kitchen, a valiant Vegas tried to defend his home from the encroachment of Ghost Pippin and his evil pack of feral feline ghosts, but everybody knows that ghosts can't resist reggae music and weed....
*************************************************************
COMING UP: Good and bad New Year's resolutions!
Outside Sunstream's loft, Bridezilla approached nervously. She had purchased two tickets several weeks ago, planning to bring her lover, Paul, but he had turned out to be bisexual and was now back with his other lover. She had been a junior partner at Prince and Prowling at the time of ticket purchase, but was now out of the partnership and working as a contract attorney in P&P's SOTA-Bunk (state-of-the-art review bunker). She had thought about giving her tickets away, but she had nothing better to do today, and had always enjoyed learning new lifestyle ideas from Giuliana Sunstream. She was wearing a sexy red velvet mini-dress which usually made her feel very festive, but looking around at the H Street corridor under a gray sky, she was finding it hard to believe there was a jolly world to enter there. The members of Sense of Entitlement Anonymous (DC Chapter) had treated her so differently the last time she attended their meeting, and now she wondered how she would be treated here?
The first time she had entered SOTA-Bunk, she had expected to be revered like a star-crossed lover (Juliet, Maria, Guinevere...), punished for breaching the social barrier to date a contract attorney. Soon she discovered that one thing nobody wanted to know about their fellow contract attorneys was how they had also ended up in the dungeon. No past, no future: there was only the NOW. And so people distinguished themselves based only on NOW. There was "The Town Crier", constantly checking his contraband cellphone for communications from the outside world, rushing to be the first to announce to the room mass shootings, celebrity debaucheries, or candidate foibles. There was "The Legend", famous for finding the best smoking gun in P&P history: the "I vote for shit" email of 2004, never dethroned since then. There was "Helen Keller", who pretended to have light sensitivity so that she could keep her eyes closed behind dark shades, clicking over and over again on the same document to prevent her computer from going to sleep as she dozed a half-brain at a time (like a dolphin). There was "The Bartender", who had hidden liquor bottles in all the rest room toilet tanks. There was "Pablo", who sold coca leaves to reviewers who had trouble adjusting to an atmosphere with 60% less oxygen than fresh air has. There was "The Hacker", who had not only broken through P&P's security shields to access the Internet from his work computer, but also successfully blocked his web-surfing from network scrutiny. (Sometimes he was seen watching dirty movies at his desk, but becoming "The Snitch" on a review project was professional suicide.) There was a small number of "Scorned Ones", who actually worked hard and followed the rules, but got paid the same as their lazy coworkers--because contract attorneys all earned the same money for Prince and Prowling from the idiot clients.
Bridezilla, like the others (or at least those without contraband), had entered SOTA-Bunk in a sterilized jumpsuit, with her personal belongings left behind in a locker. She was a nobody, plopped gently but unceremoniously by staff attorney Laura Moreno at a uniform work carrel. Bridezilla had been given sixty pages to read about workplace behavior, signed a dozen different forms stating she understood and agreed with client confidences and ethical requirements, then read another fifty pages about a case being run by idiot associates she used to laugh at upstairs--before being told to code sixty documents/hour and left to her own devices. No more secretary, no more associates, no more partners, no more fancy coffee machine and catered meals. All she had left was knowing that, as a former pageant queen, she would surely be the prettiest girl in the room! But she had not been the prettiest girl in the room, and nobody noticed her at all. And now, heading into this party, she was starting to think, maybe it's a good thing not to be noticed?
"You look beautiful, mamasita!" said the international petroleum expert (spy) known as "Condor". He bowed to the astonished Bridezilla, then offered her his arm. "If you need an escort up to the party, I would be delighted!"
He was tall, dark, and handsome, with a face and accent she could not quite pinpoint--an international man of intrigue. She hooked her elbow gracefully around his without a word, deciding to keep herself equally mysterious as long as possible. For him, she could be anyone!
A few minutes later, they were showing the dread-locked hostess their tickets and entering her Tropicoliday party, where she quickly adorned them with necklaces of hemp. The Christmas tree was decorated with seashells made from re-purposed milk cartons, and jellyfish made from re-purposed plastic wrap. Fruitcakes cut into starfish shapes adorned every flat surface. A reggae trio handed out margarine tubs full of rattling pinto beans to anybody who wanted to join the band.
And there were brownies--lots of funny brownies....
In the kitchen, a valiant Vegas tried to defend his home from the encroachment of Ghost Pippin and his evil pack of feral feline ghosts, but everybody knows that ghosts can't resist reggae music and weed....
*************************************************************
COMING UP: Good and bad New Year's resolutions!
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 1:30 PM
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