Auntie Mame’s Holiday Survival Guide

Let’s face it: from December 1st to somewhere around January 2nd, your life becomes an endless parade of parties. You must live by the gospel of never missing a moment, and channel your inner Auntie Mame—that whirlwind of sequins and bon mots who taught us all that “life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death.” That glorious force of nature who could sweep from a downtown gin joint to an uptown soirée without ever smudging her lipstick or losing her wit, who made every party better just by breezing through the door with a perfectly timed entrance and an even better exit line.

The Mame Dennis school of social survival dictated that standing still meant death (or worse, boredom), and that a good party crash was worth more than a proper invitation. She’d have scoffed at the idea of letting a little thing like bridge-and-tunnel transit drama keep her from the festivities.

The Drinks Situation: A Journey Through Questionable Beverages

Every Christmas party exists somewhere on the beverage quality spectrum. At one end, there’s your hedge fund friend’s soirée with actual champagne. At the other, there’s the school parents “do” where the punch is so lethal you might end up confessing to the head of school that you outsourced your child’s end of term paper. In between, there’s your writer friend’s BYOB meet up in the East Village at the top of ten-story walk-up which makes you wish you hadn’t given up your gym membership and the pot smell is making you feel even more queasy. 

And there’s the Great Ice Crisis of December which, as Auntie Mame knows, is not a disaster—it’s an opportunity for theatre! 

No one ever has enough ice. Not even that friend who renovated their entire kitchen around a $15,000 ice maker. By 9 p.m., guests are either drinking lukewarm Prosecco or desperately hoping the hosts will raid their Kold-Draft ice machine meant “just for emergencies”—or getting creative with frozen peas and that decorative ice sculpture that was meant to last all night.

Life’s a banquet and sometimes the best cocktails come with a splash of improvisation and a garnish of desperation. Besides, who needs ice when you’re having this much fun? Warm Prosecco just means you’re drinking it European-style!

The Great Geographic Dilemma

Your evening starts with a 6 p.m. cocktail thing on the Upper East Side, followed by dinner in the West Village at 8 p.m, and ends at 2 a.m. in a former pencil factory in Bushwick where someone’s sister’s roommate is DJing and the only drink options are warm tequila or something called “jungle juice” that’s definitely been fermenting since Thanksgiving. The challenge isn’t surviving each party—it’s surviving the transitions between them with your dignity and outfit intact.

Auntie Mame’s view on New York transportation would not be about just getting from point A to Avenue B—she would turn every backseat into a salon! 

There’s something magical about piling into a car with three of your closest friends, everyone’s sequins catching the streetlights as you swap stories about who’s divorcing who and which hedge fund just imploded. Suddenly, that $150 Uber from the Upper East Side to Bushwick doesn’t feel quite so offensive divided by four. The best gossip always happens in transit—something about the intimacy of sharing a backseat makes everyone delightfully indiscreet.

The Wardrobe Crisis

Let’s discuss the eternal wardrobe question—or “December’s Grand Costume Drama.” The Upper East Side says, “Casual festive” (which we all know means your best designer jeans, heels, and as many sparkling bracelets as your arms can hold). Then you’re dashing downtown where “creative black tie” could mean anything from vintage Valentino to someone’s artistic manifesto involving a Santa suit and Balenciaga sneakers. And when they say, “Come as you are!” in Queens? Oh sweetie, no one means that—not even the host who wrote it.

The secret, as Auntie Mame always said, is to dress for the party you want to be at, not the one you were actually invited to. 

Pro tip: Keep an emergency pair of flats in your bag. Nothing says, “I’ve made poor life choices” like trying to find a cab on Sixth Avenue at midnight while carrying your Louboutins.

The Art of the Exit

Let’s not forget the most crucial skill in our holiday arsenal—the “Graceful Getaway.” Because while getting from the Upper East Side to some warehouse-turned-nightclub in Bushwick might test your geographic genius, the real challenge is extracting yourself from conversations that have become social quicksand.

You know precisely the ones I mean. There you are, trapped by Chad from Deutsche Bank (though he’s desperately trying to rebrand as a “crypto visionary”), who’s delivering a monologue about blockchain that’s lasting longer than most Broadway shows. Your coat check ticket is literally decomposing in your clutch while he explains, for the third time, why this latest crypto crash is actually good news.

Just when you think you’ve orchestrated your escape from Chad you’re cornered by Amanda’s mother, darling Barbara, who’s apparently transformed herself into a living, breathing private school encyclopedia. She’s reciting acceptance rates like they’re Bible verses, each one delivered with the gravity of a Supreme Court decision.

And oh, you’ve made the cardinal mistake—you’ve mentioned Spence’s new building. Suddenly you’re trapped in a dissertation on “traditional learning environments” which makes you down your egg nog in one go and say, “Another drink?” 

As Mame always says, the secret isn’t in the escape itself—it’s in making your exit so fabulous that people think they’re the ones missing out by staying in the conversation: “Sweetie, I’ve just spotted someone who simply must know you—your cryptocurrency insights are wasted on little old me!” Or, “Barbara, darling, there’s a woman by the window who was just saying the most interesting things about Swiss boarding schools—shall we rescue her from that dreadful man with the NFTs?”

And if all else fails? Well, that’s why Mame always kept a spare champagne cork in her clutch. Nothing ends a conversation quite like “accidentally” popping it toward the nearest ice sculpture. As she always said, “Life is a party, darling—sometimes you just need to start a small one somewhere else!”