LudaKris II (OR, Girls Just Wanna Have Puns)

It might have been better had I worked on Friday. The anticipation was truly almost too much to bear. Many of my closest friends and many fewer drinks and 70-degree temperatures!?!? OH MY! Did you hear me? For a brief flicker on the map of November, the thermometer registered 70 degrees, which, coupled with some sort of strange chest abrasion, totally blew my well-planned choice of outfit, but old women learn not to fret about such minor things. I had my hair lightened that day, telling myself that it was a due treat for a woman old enough to remember watching Benson, when I really just had two inches of roots that needed serious attention. And attention they got.

I loooooove me some highlights. And I looooooove the ones my stylist give me. I discovered, however, that she and I have distinctly different ideas of what constitutes straight. She, a woman of a multitude of bold curls, probably didn’t get that I indeed meant “no really” and “totally straight not like Liberace,” and instead thought “straight” translated into something kinda, sorta like “with wings.”


And that was the version after I fashioned a Saran Wrap helmet to calm it.

Friends had mixed reviews.

“I LOVE IT!” one admiring blonde shrieked as I made her pinky swear not to copy my do for school on Monday.

“Eh,” said another. Apparently the Saran headdress hadn’t done the magic I’d hoped.

“YOU LOOK LIKE THE FLYING NUN!” barked he who shall remain nameless but whom I shall refer to as He Who Wore a Distinct Wool Cap All Night. Something to hide under there, ye of apparently enviable locks? And really, did I mention anything about those 70 degrees yet?

Friends arrived on time in a steady stream, fully aware of my tendency to 1) arrive early to all festivities save my birth and therefore sit alone with the bartender (which I was), and 2) leave most if not all parties by the stroke of midnight, clearly afraid that my Sentra will turn into a pumpkin after I drop a Payless heel. One crony was noticeably late, despite repeated IMs the day prior containing ridiculous enthusiasm on my part . . . (“WOOT! We’re gonna party like it’s 1999!” and “This place is even better than Shooters, Amanda!” and/or some such nonsense.) She arrived at least two hours into the night’s festivities, and living only a hop, skip and a street crossing from the bar, I was forced to inquire out of pure selfishness: “Are you ok? Working late? Family issues? Syphilis?” Sadly for Miss Kris, she is partial to honesty, “there are many reasons that I’m late, but it all really started when the cast of Law & Order was on Jeopardy.”

(Cue Law & Order “DUN, DUN” followed by a handful of those award-winning SVU crickets.)

Lucky for her, she knows a girl loves a good face licking, and soon all was right with the world.


So there was pool playing. Someone put me in charge of the jukebox at one point; that appointment was later revoked when the group realized there were more artists than just Kelly Clarkson and Mrs. Ritchie from which to choose. Suckahs. There were attempts at speaking French with some real, live French women, which I have now placed in the “Not Smart to Do Sober, and Really Not Smart to Do Tipsy” file. And my friend Erika, in a very uncharacteristic Wear-Sunscreen-gooey-graduation-speech moment, proclaimed as we hugged that “Against All Odds” was our theme song for the past year.

There were beautiful real gifts (such a gorgeous necklace, kb) and beautiful gag gifts (you know me too well – I am truly a sucker for Easy Cheese . . . WITH MINI CRACKERS!) and shots of unknown flavor and origin (read: of this Earth?) There was also a very serious debate over Pluto “SO not being a planet anymore” and “technically being a dwarf planet, asshats” that was carried out with amazingly straight faces.

Then at some point during the night, at the same spot in all evenings when my face turns gummy and Joan Cusack-like, not necessarily because I’m intoxicated but because I’m continuously talking smack, I knew the dancing would begin.

And so it did. There was sass.


And there was shaking it. And (what I envision as very unattractive) attempts by Kris to Cirque de Soleil/Britney When She’s Cute it on the dance floor. There were clearly too many shots at it, as when I walked out of the bar, shoes nowhere near my feet, my toes were still crying. As were my thighs the next day. Oh, and my forehead. And eyes and bat wings, should I have failed to mention those. Apparently my moves aren’t quite what they used to be.

When I could finally prop myself up on Saturday afternoon I uploaded all of the night’s pictures and just giggled while the cats stared at me. I thought about how much I just wanted to love on and squeeze tightly all my good friends, near and far. And about how next go ‘round it might be better not to sing all the words to Rapper’s Delight with a glass of wine in my non-dominant hand, or for that matter interrupt that name-tagged couple awkwardly canoodling at a dating event. Or for that matter, not go to bed without combing my product-laden hair out first.


And I giggled even more, knowing full well that in 364 days I probably would.