My stomach is going to orchestrate a violent attack against me if I continue to mistreat it so. It's only a matter of time. I will never again combine pate and crantinis. And vodka, and wine, and rare tuna, and whatever those little filled pastries were. But really, how much fun could a Christmas party be if you don't have a throbbing headache and nausea the next day to remember it by? The Greatest Husband in the World made me bacon for breakfast, which fast settled the party that was still going on in my tummy, but smelling noxious pork fumes an hour later makes for an unpleasant experience. The leftover liquor in my blood mixed with thick bacon air and the anxiety of waiting to hear if I got this job is not a good combination. Granted, this is all self-imposed suffering, but suffering none the less.

Highlight of the night: A horse drawn carriage ride around our city and seeing my husband sit on Santa's lap.

Souvenirs of the night: A terrible hangover, a bra shaped purse and a cowboy pig piggy bank.

Tip of the day: All of your coworkers will remember you being a belligerent drunk at the Christmas party. Keep that in mind when ordering your fifth martini. And don't call everyone "Fukker".