Okay, okay. So I got lazy and extremely behind on my whole 365 days of post-graduate blogging. Sue me (Actually, don’t. I’m trying to save every cent I make for my move to New York as I’ve said only about five million times on this blog).
Let’s just fast forward to where I should be in my post-grad blogging and forget this whole being lazy thing ever happened. Deal? Thanks! You’re the best…whoever you are that might read this. Internet high-five.
Not much has happened in my life here in this existential redneck hell known as a summer in the Midwest. The weather has been getting hotter, which unfortunately means the town white trash thinks they’re at liberty to wear as revealing of denim as possible, leading to the poking out of my eyes during trips to Wal-Mart. The winery is still sucking up my weekends. Though I took a fun, brief trip to Tulsa to see my BFFs Caitlin and Hassan about two weeks ago, I was hit on at a gas station on my trip home by an imposing black man who looked like a cross between Snoop Dogg and Antoine “Hide yo kids Hide yo wife” Bedroom Intruder rapper (I swear I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried…okay, I could, but I swear I’m not.).
Last weekend I went to the wedding I discussed in one of my more recent posts. What I thought would be an impromptu high school reunion (I was already prepared to reenact the scene from Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion with the interpretive dance to “Time After Time”) actually turned out to not be a big deal at all (except for the fact someone forgot to mention it was an OUTDOOR WEDDING IN JULY so I sweat my ass, tits, and all other appendages off.) In fact, I barely knew anyone there, and the people I DID know were all people I like/am good friends with still/can tolerate. I spent most of the evening with my long-time friend, Claire, and her new boyfriend. Though I realized later I might have been kind of third-wheel-ing all night, I don’t think they minded because I provided a lot of witty, snort-into-your-free-but-shitty-liquor quips about some of the other guests aka I provided plenty of laughs at other people’s expense (which is what comedians/comediennes do, right?) Though of course we couldn’t get through the whole reception without some good ole high school gossip and obviously a drunken sing-along to Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places” (which I am a little embarrassed to admit I have ceremoniously performed drunk AND sober in many a bar in Oklahoma City in college). When the groomsmen started singing along to old frat-house standards (rap crap and Journey songs) and getting teary eyed about it, I knew it was time to leave, so Claire, her boyfriend, and I snuck out, and I nearly sprinted for my car so I could get some A/C on my almost-as-sweaty-as-the-sweat-villain-Moist-from-Dr-Horrible body.
Thank god for car A/C and Frank Sinatra. I couldn’t stomach one more generic rock song from one more generic rock band (I’m looking at YOU, Nickelback) or “Get Low” rap at that reception (Applebottomed jeans and boots with the fur went out a LONG time ago, rappers. Don’t you read VOGUE?!). I mean, actually, I was impressed by all their indie choices for their ceremony: Damien Rice, Ingrid Michaelson, etc. Their first dance was to Adele’s version of “Make You Feel My Love,” but after that, the shit music started, and I had to bail. I mean, where were the wedding reception standards like the to-the-left-take-it-back-now-y’all “Cha Cha Slide” and the B-52’s “Love Shack”?! I was all ready to bang-bang-bang-on-the-door-baby!
Whatever. I just put Frank Sinatra on in my car and let Ole Blue Eyes cleanse my sweaty, sweaty soul all the way home.