Tom's or John's or Steve's or Mike's Friend

The house was lit up inside and out. A ten foot tall Santa stood moored to the front yard, inflated and lit up from within. He was surrounded by a ring of 24-inch wooden elves, each one raising both arms skyward, as if they were worshiping this guy who wore a strange red getup, trimmed out in white fur, who stole into people's homes in the dead of night. He must have been in cahoots with the man who drove the ice cream truck in the summer or some creepy guy in a white panel van who cased neighborhoods for unsuspecting children. How could this red-dressed giant know where all the children lived? But here he was, enshrined on the front lawn of the party house. Of course, Santa wasn't just for children.

The front door was open behind the glass storm door, and the glow of Christmas lights, porch lights, kitchen and living room lights splashed all over the walkway to the porch, inviting just about anyone, anyone at all, inside. The light and all the bodies promised warmth, friendship, good cheer, food, and drink. Indeed, mice and predators alike wanted to find a special place inside.

The Uber driver dropped me off when I indicated I had found the right house. I had had to explain that I typed the address in wrong and sweetly asked if he could just drive on a little bit more to get me to where I needed to go. And I promised cash. He agreed. So simple. I found a lively house, and was on my way up the drive to the front door. People entered just before I did, and they didn't ring the bell. The party was in full swing where guests wandered in, and I did, too.

Over the years, when I made my way into someone's home, I would say I was John's or Mike's or Steve's or some other common name's friend. This time I was going to be Tom's friend. My name was usually Jennifer or Stephanie or Melissa. Tonight I was going to be Susan or maybe Karen. Probably Susan. Some years I could be in someone's house for a good 90 minutes before anyone realized no one there knew me. The key was finding the right party--lots of people, lots of square footage.

This year, I entered the home on the heels of the people I had followed up the driveway. I took off my coat, leaving it on the floor behind an occasional chair. The importance of not having to search through a heap of coats on the host and/or hostess's bed could not be stressed enough.

First stop was always the food table. A plate of food signified belonging, comfort being in someone else's home. Basically, a plate of food said, "This person is known by someone here, friendly, and a non-threat."

Soon enough, someone approached me while I was putting some cookies on a Christmas plate. "Hi! Wait. Don't tell me. Are you Katie? You work with Jan at Dr. Jacobson's office?"

"I would love to tell you 'yes,' but I'd be lying. I'm Kim. I work at the Lancome counter at the mall. You may have seen me there," I answered, giving a warm, friendly (always friendly), disarming smile. When someone thought they recognized me, I had to divert them and give them a different path. I didn't want to take a chance they'd want to get a photo with me that they could send to 'Jan,' or whatever other person they may have in mind.

"So how do you know Tim and Barb?" asked the woman who thought I was Katie.

"Oh, I don't. I'm Tom's friend," I answered.

"Ah. Gotcha. Well, I just wanted to tell you that I love your outfit," she said and began to pinken with the embarrassment of mistaking me for someone else.

"Thank you," I said because it was always important to acknowledge the compliment and to be humble, too. "You know," I confided with the woman, "you're not the first person to tell me I look like someone they know. I must have one of those faces." The woman's countenance seemed to brighten with my admission. The reprieve gave us both permission to fade into our respective parts of the evening's background.

With a plate of food (not too much, not too little), I roamed into the great room and looked for a group of people standing together, deep in conversation. The deeper the conversation, the less they paid attention to a random person joining them. They were commiserating on the escalating cost of car repairs and the pros and cons of this or that dealership who did or didn't provide a car as a loaner while the vehicle was being repaired or not repaired because, duh, the escalating cost of car repairs.

When there was a natural break in the conversation, I moved on to another group deep in discourse. Ah. This group discussed the escalating cost of veterinarian fees.

And then I heard exactly the person I had come to this party to find. Everyone has a friend who is completely lovely. The friend is usually a female. Someone kind, with a big heart. Someone with a laugh signifying they are always and only laughing with you. Someone who would drop everything to whip up a casserole because they heard you had COVID. Someone who talks you down from the ledge because do you really, really need to drop $300 on that knitted hat when you both know they had the same one at TJ Maxx for $35. This wonderful friend, however, has the worst taste in a partner, usually a male.

Who is the male of the duo? Loud, boisterous, blustery, barrel-chested. He seems red in the face because he is hypertension personified. He cannot read the room. He insults everyone within moments of meeting them because if a thought enters his head, he is compelled to broadcast it. His parents love him, and that poor, dear and darling woman loves him, and everyone hopes his kids are nothing like him. Everyone assumes he must have some redeeming quality, otherwise, how was he able to ensnare his delightful life partner?

I heard him first, then, sure enough, there he was in all his glory. He sucked up all the oxygen in the room. People laid eyes on him, and they furtively looked for the nearest path to a detour or group of people talking--anything to avoid being on a collision course with the Blowhard. There was a murmur near where I was standing, having made it to the fringes of a group who were astonished by the escalating cost of plumbing repairs.

These plumbing complainers were aching to scatter like cockroaches in daylight. The Blowhard could disperse a crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. This was the part of the evening I trained for every year, walking in stilettos, tripping just a little, and landing on the Blowhard's foot. My stiletto released a dose of...hmm...they never told me exactly what was in the needle within the heel of my shoe. I do know that whatever it was did one of a few things, and there was usually a sufficient amount of time that passed that the effects weren't connected to the party or the chance encounter.

Sometimes the Blowhard went home, fell asleep, and didn't wake in the morning. Sometimes the Blowhard's personality underwent a complete overhaul for the better. Sometimes the Blowhard needed to go to the ER for stroke evaluation. There were a number of different outcomes I had seen over the years, and this year would be no different. The outcome was always a surprise to everyone, and a guilty relief to the friends of the lovely partner. After my successful stumble, I casually made my way back to my coat, put it on and left the party. I would walk anywhere from one to four blocks from the party house and get an Uber, after giving the giant inflatable Santa, the Great Elf, a nod.

Once in the safety of the Uber, I sent a text.

Me: Done. Naughty List is complete.

SClaus: Come on home. Good work.