Interpretive awesome, that's what.

Two Fridays ago was the summer party for the agency where I work. The agency gave us the morning off (yay!) but I had to come in for a conference call anyway (boo) so I was a little late to the party. 


The party was on Parc Jean-Drapeau. A big ass park in Montreal that is made up of two islands. They hold festivals there and sporting events and general shenaniganery. There are swimming pools, and a pretend lake and a pretend beach and people who wear fanny packs. If you're a non-Montrealer, that's where they hold the Grand Prix. An event where the fanny-pack lovers get together and watch race cars. 


One of the party organizers at work sent everyone an email with directions. "Get off the metro and follow the signs for the Jamaica pavilion. It's about a 15 minute walk from the metro station." Easy enough, n'est-ce-pas?


N'est-ce-non! There are no signs for the Jamaica pavilion (leftover from Expo '67) when you get off the metro. I had to ask the information guy, who gave me a map and told me to take a navette for 20 minutes. Whaaaaa? I took my map and went to talk to the navette driver (that means shuttle in French. It also happens to be one of my favourite words). The navette driver told me to take a different navette. So I walked over to THAT navette stop and waited. Until that very same navette driver came over and said "Wait. You can take my navette. It'll be faster." Geez. So off I went to take this guy's navette and then there was a groundhog just hanging out at the navette station which was really weird and random and I'm sorry I don't have a photo to show you of the groundhog. 


Anyhoodle, after I got off the bus and macheted my way through some wilderness, I found the party location. And here is a story, in photos, before I died my hair brown, of how the party went down. With some creative license, of course. 

The party started out innocent enough. I watched a little volleyball. I had a few cocktails. And I wore a flower thing around my head and picked my nose. 

Then I heard some crazy office gossip. And I could hardly contain my shock. 

To get over the shock, I felt it was necessary to awkwardly insert myself into an otherwise lovely group shot of these lovely girls I work with. 

After cocktails, it was time for dinner. Here was our delicious beet salad. Which oddly looks exactly like salmon. But it wasn't.

After dinner there were some awards given out. I was nominated three times (loudest, something something fashion related and I forget what else), but did not take home the coveted dollar store tiara. Instead, because I'm new(ish) at the agency, I had to sing karaoke for initiation. As IF that's some kind of punishment. Pffff. And would you like to know who won the karaoke off? Uh huh. Yah. I did.

But obviously my performance did not stop there. When all the guys got up to to sing a Queen song, do you think I'd let the opportunity for interpretive dance pass me by? Of course not. My co-worker, Mathieu, decided to join me. And it's hard for me to say this, but I think he out interpretive danced me. He took his shoes off and rolled on the floor and everything. But I dare say, our performance was magical. Just magical. But sweaty. And also, magical.

P.S. That I posted these terrible, sweaty photos of myself just to make y'all laugh is a little bit sad.