Last night mothered a nonsensical evening of card-playing, wine-drinking, insanity. Tara and I had resolved to go see The Starlight Mints play in town with Jessie. Of course, all of our promising plans were made before we came to the realization that we are undeniably destitute college students, and our ability to support anything other than our own bodily necessities is non-existent. After shifting through my anorexic wallet, I decided to abandon hope for any activities requiring monetary payments. As fate would have it, Tara’s good friend from high school, Joy, and I know each other. Apparently we were both Satellite nerds back in the day when the only cool thing to do was fight over assignments before going to AP workshops. (I also have some vague memory of piling into her car for a photograph in the Tulsa World parking garage. I think this was for a promo add or some other journalistic cause making use of free, teenage, labor/advertisement.) So, once we had established the severity of our mendicant resources, we all agreed that playing cards at Joy’s house with her family, Tara’s family, and me would be the most viable option.

Once we arrived at Joy’s lovely home, and, having thoroughly greeted her spastically-adorable dog, we congregated in the kitchen and lusted after two, voluptuous pies. As gargantuan slices were being distributed to eager mouths, I politely pointed out that I had already eaten dinner twice and was not exactly ravenous for nutritional substance. I poked out my stomach for emphasis with excessive skill, and at that moment, was positive, that, if needed, I could definitely make it in life by modeling for those “before and after” weight loss pictures. Unfortunately, my clamoring desire for sparkling Italian wine wrought a dangerous contradiction. “So you don’t want pie, but you can drink wine?” “Um. Yes.” “That’s just not going to work.” Thus, having succumbed to sugar, I endeavored to smoothly transition from bites of German chocolate to sips of Spumante. Three glasses later, and sporting a tasteful whip cream-adorned mouth, I found myself seated around a table wearing reindeer antlers.

Before playing cards, fate had meticulously guided us to our millenary destinies. This epiphany commenced after I curiously donned a pair of felt antlers at the same time Tara tried on a festive sombrero. Joy and her mom ripped out their “Ya-Ya Sisterhood hats,” the towering straw so interwoven with odd layers of décor that I was inclined to view their heads as extensions of an Aztec temple. Tara’s dad was decked out in green foam and henceforth termed “Lady Liberty.” His wife reveled in her velvet Russian cap, while Joy’s brother, Andrew, dashed back and forth between breakable objects in black Zorro attire.

Now settled down –somewhat-- and seated, a quick poll revealed that I was the only one who had no knowledge of card games past nostalgic years of “Go Fish.” Whatever we played was lovingly nick-named, “Oh, Hell!” Although a good fifteen minutes was spent trying to explain the rules to me (while others fought over what exactly the rules were) I still had no concept of this foriegn hobby. I surveyed the players and the cards with great perplexity until someone finally dealt the first hand. Oddly enough I won, but this was subsequent to laying down my card at the wrong time and surreptitiously consulting Andrew, my masked mentor.

The game had progressed for approximately half and hour, when Joy and I decided we needed to imbibe a subtle form of alcohol and simultaneously alter the English language. Thus we concurred that the noun “beverage” should double as an admirable verb, and constructed sentences to test out our linguistic alterations. We sauntered into the kitchen to “beverage,” and the result of our “beveraging” yielded two kahlua and creams. We continued to play -- the table intermittently resounding with the sonorous clapping of high-fives. (It quickly became custom to high-five anyone who had the same card as you.)

Arms and hands criss-crossed in human spider webs and the small dining room clashed together in triumph like an oriental gong. Despite our small, psychic successes of throwing down twin cards, “Oh Hell!” is a sluggish game tending to drone on far past the patience of those who are losing. Upon a unanimous recommendation the game was abandoned, and Andrew and I indulged in the superior art of chasing each other around the house.

One by one our hats came off, though I was apprehensive to relinquish my newly acquired seasonal ornamentation. Tara and I insisted heavily that we did not need to take home the rest of the pie, as I was almost compelled to improv a mental power point presentation on cholesterol. Good-byes were made in the context of hospitality, and I laughed as Andrew yelled out the door “Jen, come back! I’m not mad, I still love you!” (Humorous footnote: Teenage boys who have college-aged sisters are often exposed the seductive delights of one too many older women fawning over their cute, “full-house” quality.) After kissing the dog and waving farewell, we walked out the door. And so, Tara and I climbed stealthily into her car, sighed into the night air, and drove away. Her, lost in the memories of a country childhood, and me, with a pie in my lap, profoundly aware of my missing antlers.