Pretty Parties

"There's no going back when you turn 25." My sister shared this bit of flawed wisdom with me as we prepared to celebrate her twenty-fifth year. I call it flawed because there is never any going back but also because this statement challenged me to take her back; back to rollerskating, Xanadu, and Waterloo.

Monsieur Bonaparte failed to show that night, but the Club Red Ball party was a hit nonetheless. After frantically searching for a theme to break my sister's "I'm growing old" funk, a trip to Hobby Lobby, a sale and and an impulse buy defined this quasi-80's themed birthday party.

Hobby Lobby, the mecca of all that is crafty, had a sale on Christmas lights in early August. I loaded my cart with large, cheap red lights, still unsure of where the idea was headed. Being an unemployed recent college grad made it easy to stick to my budget. I grabbed 3 packs of red streamers and ran for the register before I could convince myself that making my own paper, with the the help of a hundred dollar kit, would eventually be cost effective.

Looking over my purchases at home, I realized I still didn't have a clue. I had picked a color but that didn't seem like enough. Fortunately, my room held the key -- the Red Ball. A 3 foot cherry-colored ball, typically used for yoga and, in my case, alternative sporting events such as Red Ball Tennis, the Red Ball became the center of my event.

Using what I learned from Whit Stillman's Last Days of Disco, I settled on Club Red Ball, which required a transformation of my sister's suburban apartment into a rockin' red nightclub.

It was too late to send invitations, so I got a friend to make some phone calls and let people know. I consulted the sale ads to find I could make quesadillas and spanish rice-stuffed red bell peppers without breaking my bank. I hit close out stores for left over Fourth of July items -- plastic cups, plates, and more. When pulling together a last-minute party, it helps to have connections. I enlisted the help of my cake decorating future mother-in-law. My future husband, happy to see me stop pulling my hair out trying to pick a theme, blessed the vaguely retro shin-dig by using his vast company resources to create a welcome sign for the club's door.

Careful placement of the Club's proprietor, Mr. Red Ball himself, decked in a felt tux, added character to what was essentially nothing more than holiday lighting, crepe paper, and cafeteria-style Mexican food.

In retrospect, I realize we didn't need the sign on the door because the wafting sound of ABBA and the hellish glow of my sister's apartment windows made the party's locale unmistakeable.