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.

Donger's here for five hours, and he's got somebody. I live here my whole life, and I'm like a disease.

Party people, I’m proud to say that I’m 33 today. Ahhhhh. I’m not sure what to write about the day itself, other than I’m grateful for a moment to celebrate with friends and wine, glad for a date on which to reset the timer, in love with the fact that I’m savoring my 30s rather than sitting uncomfortably in the skin of my 20s. And I’m loving looking forward.

This is the second birthday I’ve celebrated while writing on this site. I’m commemorating the day with said wine and referenced accomplices as well as an eye toward the 33 things a 33-year-old would be proud to accomplish by age 40. It’s closer than you – and surely I – can even imagine.

A few beautiful things I’d like to do in the next few years . . .

1. Own more than four bras. And buy those really kick-ass, expensive, gorgeous ones. Like Anna Nicole probably wore before she started the crack.
2. Ride a roller coaster for the first time.
3. Spend at least a week in the Greek Islands. Preferably on a private boat.
4. Get the operation I’ve been putting off for 16 years.
5. Purchase an apartment that despite its cracks and peeling paint takes my breath away.
6. Run a 5K without panting or hallucinating.
7. Visit the Egyptian pyramids in all their splendor. Fight tears while taking in said grandeur.
8. Meditate regularly.
9. Attend two home Florida State football games in the same season.
10. Learn to cook five dishes that I can make with my eyes closed. At least one must be a dessert. At least one other must involve vindaloo. All five must wow ‘em at dinner parties.

11. (Oh.) Have a dinner party for which I make everything from scratch.
12. a) Touch a koala bear. b) Hold koala bear if it doesn’t try to scratch my eyes out after 12a.
13. Find an accepting home for my spiritual beliefs.
14. Trace Jack the Ripper’s literal footsteps through London.
15. Fall in unguarded, spectacular, ridiculous, magnificent, hot, mushy love. And when I find him, kiss this man regularly as if my life depended on it.
16. Have more than half of my furniture bought after leaving graduate school.
17. Give a speech to more than 200 people. Without backing out early and/or hyperventilating.
18. Read the remainder of the canon of world literature I somehow missed.
19. Sing karaoke with wild abandon.
20. Keep a personal, hard-copy journal for one full year.

21. Own a car with bum warmers.
22. Spend a month without television. I’d like to keep it in the room and put plants and my nail polish on it, but choose not to watch it.
23. Make an international volunteer trip, likely to Central or South America.
24. Publish somewhere other than this site.
25. Make my SCUBA open-water dive on Grand Bahama Island.
26. Become an expert on one topic not related to my degrees.
27. Learn as much as I can about blues music.
28. Observe an autopsy.
29. Get my groove on. Take both salsa and ballroom dancing lessons.
30. Make amends with my parents. Even just a few weeks of Texas Hold ‘Em, shared mystery movies and unabated laughter would be worth all of this.

31. Stop my M.O. of keeping people around so I can have my Christmas card numbers up.
32. Wake up 4/5 days with a passion for what I do for a living.
33. Learn to forgive. Learn to treat people well on more days than I don’t, doing so without an intentional thought about any part of it.

Thanks for celebrating each and every day with me. Or those days that I actually post.

I raise a glass to you.

I wasn't going to speak of today, but don't want to be a poor sport.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HUGH DOWNS!

Merci, mes amis.

French folks, did I write that correctly?

In other news, MANY thanks for your wonderful, creative, effervescent - let's face it, FABU! - messages yesterday, and for indulging my narcissistic twin without question.

Today I have put her back in the closet and will be paying all of that good karma forward. See you at your blog.

“I can't believe I gave my panties to a geek!” Times two.

Today is my birthday. Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, I hope you will find it in your loving heart to leave good wishes (read: may your breasts not continue to sag toward your ankles*, **) to appease the comment/attention/gift/monetary remuneration whore you know I am.

Birthdays tend to go by without much to do for me, but the years they border have always been significant. Age 6. I can’t remember what I did for that birthday, but I recall spending the year attending an American school in London and being reprimanded for planting a kiss on a female classmate’s cheek. Within the year I would first play doctor while at a dinner party, utilizing miniature toy kitchen utensils. An adult walked in on us and I stood there incredulous while my patient zipped up his Healthtex pants. And thus began my undying quest for booty. (Strangely enough, this early sexual encounter lived well beyond our time as tykes living in England; we ended up attending the same New Jersey high school and frequently ignored each other in gym class, plagued by what could have been . . . )

Age 16. I’m lying. I remember this party well. A surprise that didn’t end up being quite the moment my family had hoped thanks to a freak snowstorm that revealed 30 pairs of teen footprints leading up to my back door. Someone brought a copy of Eddie Murphy RAW to the bash and my mother made an array of disapproving, I-wish-I-was-Catholic-to-smack-down-the-extra-guilt-on-you faces from the kitchen while Eddie talked about $*@!ing hos. We played Billy Joel songs on my Casio keyboard and a few friends played ping pong on the full-size table my parents erected in our den. God, we were dorks.

Age 22. My parents moved overseas. My sister and I regularly shared holidays huddled alone like orphans and comforted ourselves by eating heartily at hotel buffets. Upon moving in to my first home in the area, I immediately drove my 1987 LeBaron around the block five times because I couldn’t believe you could see the Washington Monument from the top of my street. I had sex one day and didn’t think much of it; clearly I didn’t know it would be four years before I’d do it again. (Don’t obsess over it; it’s a whole other post and you’ll be thankful to know that the streak is long over.)

Age 28. My first cat found me at a dive restaurant in rural Florida and I became a life-long dog person now bordering on feline obsession. He peed in the back of my ex’s Subaru and I got a teeny bit of gratification from it. I took Benadryl for the first time at my friend Kim’s house and passed out so hard I had to be carried to the car. I defended my thesis, left Florida, and Mom and Dad became my roommates for the first time in a decade. I had sex in a twin bed. Several times.

Ages 29, 30, 31. I drank my first Irish Car Bomb. I had a dream about marrying Dave Grohl and moving to rural Virginia, however the bubble popped when I realized I am vehemently opposed to both polygamy and rustic living. I fully embraced my love of crappy pop music by buying my first Britney Spears and Kelly Clarkson CDs. I was promoted. In a drunken Caps game moment I introduced my soon-to-be beau to my ex by saying, “This is Ronny. We used to have sex.” My best friend scared the crap out of me by going out and getting herself some blood clots. I saw a real mountain, mountain, went to California, and blogged for the first time. I told the beau I loved him for the first time in the feminine hygiene aisle of the CVS. I revealed my irrational fear of cyborgs to a coworker and she covered my Sentra with pictures of the Terminator and other metallic men. I didn’t see the borg on the side mirror until I was on the highway driving home. I almost ended up in the Potomac when I discovered it. (Sweet Jesus, I’m still a dork.)

Age 32. I’ll keep you posted.



*(Asterisk courtesy of Jordan Baker) Unacceptable birthday comments include, “Gee, you don’t smell a bit like Betty White!” and, “Are you 29 AGAIN?” and don’t forget about, “How did you used to celebrate birthdays without electricity?” or the ever-popular, “You shouldn’t take your osteoporosis pills with so much wine, should you?”

**Extra points will be awarded for any message involving crickets and/or a pun, cat humping, Shakespeare, haiku, New Jersey, your dog, Chardonnay, Democrats winning in VA, a movie involving a Jennifer Aniston we've never seen, the crisis of Christmas music starting right after Thanksgiving, or pizza.