Because my New Year’s Eve party stylins are so fierce you might blind yourself by looking at them directly, I present the party report in quiz form.
Lady Z broke her wrist within hours of the commencement of 2008 by:
A. Pumping up the jams, as is her wont.
B. Pumping up the jams so hard she fell on her ass.
C. Falling so hard she busted the zipper of her sexy strapless dress open so that it fell off and D had to try, in vain, to put it back on in the kitchen of the club while Lady Z insisted she could and must return to the dance floor, where further jams awaited the inevitable pumping up.
D. All of the above.
D did, in fact, prevail in getting me home, where I made and ate a giant salad and went to bed. The next day I woke up with a throbbing hand, and I spent the day watching a Law & Order marathon and whining, incredulously, that I might have “actually hurt myself” the night before. The next day—today, now—I begrudgingly went to the doctor and came out with a cast on my right arm.
So, once more, how did I celebrate the new year? I partied my clothes off. I partied till I broke.