Proooooooom! Revisited

As posted on MySpace:

I finally had time to go through the party photos from last week and I deleted 30 pics deemed too hot for MySpace.

And I'm still left with over 70 inappropriate photos.

These things are a mess. I guess that's what happens when someone spikes the punch (we done good Andrew :)

When my friends and I ventured to Aveda to get our hair done for prom, we had a difficult time conveying what we wanted:

"It's prom, but it's not."

"You can just have at it, we're not actually serious."

"The bigger the hair, the closer to Jesus."

After explaining that no, we don't look like we're in high school because we're actually celebrating my 26th birthday, they were able to get into the spirit with us. We actually invited them to come, but they all had to work that night.

Then we headed over to Lenox in our eighties' hairstyles, fully conscious of how ridiculous we looked. We had the same problem conveying our wants to the makeup counter ladies, but they also got caught up in our excitement.

It wasn't until we were sitting in the car in front of the Olive Garden--until we actually had to mingle among the non-eighties-prom public--that we began to second guess the idea, but we wore our blue eye shadow with pride. One couple arrived late and told the hostess to just seat them with the table that was all dressed ridiculously, to which the hostess replied, "The younger group or the older group?"

The table erupted in laughter at the story. "I'm afraid to ask if we were the younger group or the older group."

"We're the older group. Evidently there is an actual prom party here as well," which simultaneously solidified the cheese-factor for our prom and made me feel bad for the kids who actually chose to go to the Olive Garden because they thought it would be a good idea. To drive the point home, our waiter scooted a square table against a round one for our party. It should be mentioned that there were six more empty square tables surrounding us. And our armchairs had wheels.

Exiting the restaurant, one family wished us a good time at the prom. We couldn't stop laughing as we thanked them.

At the party D's and my date presented us each with a bouquet of flowers and his original prom invitations from high school since he never got to go. I can't believe he kept the invitations all these years and thought enough of us to give them away. While the punch was being spiked (Andrew's and my concoction, neither of us having any experience with the making of the hunch punch: you could smell its flammability before even reaching the bowl), everyone took turns posing awkwardly. Awkwardly was replaced with a fish face after the punch was had.

In the classic style of prom, there was voting for Prom King and Queen, Best Dressed Couple, and Most Outrageous Guy and Grrrl. D and our mutual date won Most Outrageous, and surprisingly, I won Prom Queen. Yes it was my birthday party, but that wasn't a widely advertised fact. It was thrown at someone else's house and I assumed she would get Prom Queen because of all the effort she put forth. That's why I voted for her.

By midnight the hunch punch was gone and we were onto champagne. This would be the point where we began rocking out to our eighties' playlist. Journey was played. So was Whitesnake. Bon Jovi was ever-present. There was singing and dancing and air guitar.

Then Bonnie surprised me with a birthday cookie cake. I've never had friends get me a birthday cake before, so I was really moved at the gesture. Save three people, everyone at the party I had never hung out with until two months ago, and I just elated that they were kind enough to light some candles and sing just for me. It was just so moving.

Crown placed firmly on my head, and tulle puckering off my hips, I slipped the Guitar Hero guitar around my neck and began rounds of the game. Heady from spirits, I did not perform very well. As in I didn't win once.

No matter though, it was the best prom birthday party of my life.


Not enough drunken shenanigans? See all of the photos over on the MySpace Account.