I’ve always been somewhat of a Grinch about Christmas, which is not to say that I would ever steal the presents from Whoville or terrorize Cindy Lou Who. It’s just that the insane expectations and inevitable disappointments have combined to freeze my heart just a bit. It’s not like I’m still bitter about not getting the GI Joe World Headquarters that I SPECIFICALLY INDICATED TO SANTA THAT I WANTED in the letter I sent dated Dec. 3, 1974 (I have a copy as proof). I let that go years ago. Let’s just say I breathe easier on Jan. 2.

But I’m not a complete Scrooge. There are plenty of small moments I truly treasure, like watching my kids tiptoe past the Elf on a Shelf (his name is Joy and he freaks me out), hoping he didn’t see them when they’re being naughty, or sitting around after dinner, thumbing through Christmas cards from friends I’d forgotten we had. There’s nothing like discovering your former roommate has remarried and you weren’t invited.

Then there’s the office holiday party, or as I like to call it, the seasonal barometer of job security.

There are many ways to get a sense of how your company is doing. Have you noticed a few empty chairs where there used to be people? Are your coworkers uploading resumes to LinkedIn.com during lunch? Does the coffee maker suddenly have a coin slot? Does your key no longer open the door? These are all signs to hold off on any major purchases and start stockpiling Spam. However, nothing gives you a clearer picture of your company’s health than the office Christmas party.

A few years ago when the economy fell off a cliff, many companies declined to even acknowledge the holiday regardless of what kind of year they had. The prevailing attitude was that any celebration was considered a display of excess, and no one wanted to risk bad publicity by breaking out the Cold Duck and strippers when so many people were out of work. In the ensuing years, office holiday celebrations have returned, albeit in a more reserved or scaled back fashion (strippers are rare). Still, if you study the details at this year’s bacchanal you can get a good sense of whether or not it's time to update your resume or ponder a move to North Dakota (current jobless rate is down to 3 percent).

During the high-flying '90s I was working for a small firm in Oak Brook and we had an exceptionally good year. The holiday party that year was at the CEO’s home on the north shore. He went all out: a four-piece chamber ensemble playing holiday classics, servers passing hors d’ oeuvres of salmon stuffed pastries and bottomless glasses of champagne. My co-workers were almost unrecognizable dressed in suits and slinky, black cocktail dresses. It was one of the first times in my life I truly felt like a grown-up, strolling around the century old Tudor home all trimmed courtesy of the Bloomingdales holiday catalog, arm-in-arm with this girl I met at the gym and asked to be my date at the last minute. I forget her name but she looked great.

The following year was not so good; in fact, it was a bus wreck. We opened an office in Mexico City, which failed miserably. In desperation we put all our resources into a business pitch to redesign the space for a major European retailer—we didn’t get the job. Everyone knew what was coming. It was like the Angel of Death was waiting around every corner to leap out and shove a pink slip into your mouth.

When Christmas came around, no one mentioned anything about a party—no one dared. On the 23^rd of December at 3 in the afternoon, one of our administrative assistants made an announcement that we were having a “holiday toast” in the conference room. We trudged in like dead men walking and lined up against the wall while the owner sat center at the conference table with his tie undone, chain-smoking Camel unfiltered cigarettes and drinking Wild Turkey out of a Dixie cup. Between slugs he would mumble “we’ll be alright” and wipe the whiskey sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. If crippling depression ever threw a holiday party, this was it.

I remember stumbling out of the bathroom at 5:01 p.m. and looking out the window as columns of headlights roared to life in the lot and co-workers pulled out of parking spaces without bothering to brush the snow from their windshields. I went back to the “party” and ate pretzels off a paper plate and comforted a woman from accounting as she wept uncontrollably about the job she was convinced she would lose after New Year's. I told her she was overreacting. We were laid off on the third.

After my permanent vacation from that job, I was fortunate to have been hired by a much larger firm in Chicago. We had a good year. Our holiday party was at a hotel on Michigan Avenue and the bar was wide open starting at 10 a.m. By the time dinner started most of us were too drunk to remember whether this was an office party or the wedding of a friend whose name we couldn’t recall. Rumor had it the firm spent $10,000 to make it “snow” inside the ballroom. I only remember waking up in a cab wearing someone else’s coat and wondering how all these Styrofoam flakes ended up in my hair.

Three years later the hotel became a motel, the bar was cash and I was laid off by April.

These days I work for a relatively small firm and our holiday fete is consistent if not unspectacular, kinda like us. Some years we go bowling, some years we play Whirlyball or shoot pool. This year we’re keeping it simple with dinner at a nice restaurant and a few drinks, and maybe we'll embarrass ourselves with karaoke afterward. It’s a reflection of who we are as a team. We take our jobs—but never ourselves—very seriously, and I think it’s the reason our work is so consistent.

In the 11 years I’ve spent with this firm, we’ve never hired an orchestra for our holiday party, we’ve never served salmon puff pastries as an appetizer or hired a theater company to make it snow inside the hotel. Heck, we’ve never even had a party in a hotel.

And we’ve never laid anyone off, either, which is the best present you can ever ask for.

Happy Holidays everyone!