Retro Sports Tees at RedBins.biz, and I am in love.

When I like to gush, I freakin’ like to gush. And that’s pretty much all I wanted to do when I received a very generous package from RedBins.biz.

So here’s how it works: Red Bins received closeouts from several of the most stylish, most notable sports apparel companies and sells them at a steep discount. The great pricing makes it affordable to purchase multiple shorts, sweaters, and hats at once. They have NFL, NBA, NHL, and college teams, so there’s bound to be something that you (or someone you need to purchase a gift for) will love.

The other neat thing about these shirts is that they look so vintage-y and cool, you’ll find yourself wanting to buy items for teams you have no allegiance to!

It is a closeout site, so once something is sold out, it’s gone. If you see something you like, be sure to order sooner rather than later.

Check out a few Retro Sports shirts I received:

photo (2)I’ve been a Pats fan since I was a kid, so this old-school t-shirt was right up my alley. The shirt (size small) was fitted without being too clingy. It’s a great shirt to wear when you want to be comfy, but not look sloppy. Pretty much, it’s the perfect Sunday football tee.

I also received this tank top and this t-shirt, both emblazoned with the retro Patriot mascot. I can’t wait to wear this these babies this fall!

Red Bins also generously send me a few Dallas Cowboys t-shirts. I’ve already pledged my allegiance to one team that constantly breaks my heart (OU), but my boyfriend is a die-hard fan so I thought I’d show my begrudging support during last Sunday night’s game…hence the awkward face.

But the minute I put on the three-quarter length baseball style shirt, I was in love. That shirt is insanely soft, and was a size medium, making it perfect for laying on the couch and munching on pizza. It was so cozy, I slept in it that night! (Okay, there’s a joke in there somewhere).

Anyways, a huge thank you to Jonathan from Red Bins for hooking me up with some swag. Next time you need a great gift for men or women, casual or serious sports fans, or even a little treat for yourself, remember RedBins.biz. You won’t be disappointed.

 

Posted in Fashion and Culture | 7 Comments

Check out these awesome collegiate jeans from OCJ

Sometimes, being a moonlighting blogger has its perks. For example, my Twitter following has increased tenfold since I started writing for the Lost Ogle. The subtle pressure of being a blogger for College Fashion ensures that I look awesome before I leave my house. Plus, you know, everyone thinks I’m hilarious. That part is pretty cool too.

The best part of being a part time blogger though, is the cool free swag sent to me on occasion. Sure, I’ve gotten hiking vests and laptop cases and a free bar tab on New Year’s Eve, which are all pretty sweet things–but holy schnikies you guys, this one takes the cake.

A rad company called OCJ Apparel just got the license for OU, and send me a pair of soft, stretchy, skinny, perfect-fitting designer jeans with–get this–OU embroidered on the back pockets. And then I fell in love.

Seriously you guys, I’m not one for selfies, but just take a look at these babies:

The deep denim looks classy and works all year long. The skinny cut makes them perfect to pair with high heels, ballet flats, or everyone’s favorite gameday essential, cowboy boots. I will wear these from everything from tailgates to basketball games to alumni events to just regular casual days. They’re that awesome

Every time I wear them out, I’m flooded with compliments. People want to know where I got them, or if I embroidered them myself. A relatively large number of guys comment on them too, so I know that they must make my backside look good :)

OCJ Apparel jeans come in well–pretty much every college worth tailgating at. They even have a nifty retail locator on their website–check it out here! They make awesome Christmas or graduation presents–and are totally worth the splurge to treat yourself.

Thanks so much OCJ for this awesome gift!

Posted in Fashion and Culture | 1 Comment

The Los Angeles trip, or the craziest weekend of my life.

Last week during a routine business trip to Vegas, I realized pretty fast that the particular trade show we were at was going to bomb worse than a recent M. Night Shyamalan flick. Sunday School the morning after prom had a higher attendance rate than what was present at this particular convention. Gary, my dad, has never been the type to stick around bored at a fruitless venture just to appease some faceless authority figure, so we packed the show up early and decided to head west the very next morning.

Plane ticket exchanged, friends in the area contacted. Three full days in La La Land was just what I needed to cure the Tulsa doldrums I’ve felt as of late. Don’t get me wrong—I love Tulsa, and my friends there are the shit. I’ll elaborate later, but point being, I was ready for an exciting weekend. Based on the wild anecdotes my friends living in El Lay have told me, I was pretty sure that’s what I was going to get.

How things work in Los Angeles…if you’re young and pretty.

After the four hour drive across the Mojave desert, my dad and I got lunch with my friend Chris who had just graduated from USC. Immediately after, he dropped me off at my friend Brooklyn’s apartment in West Hollywood. Brook and I have been friends for several years now. She moved to El Lay about a year ago.

So, new bars, clubs, and lounges are constantly opening, and they all are competing to become the next “it” place. Celebrities bring publicity to the venue, and publicity creates hype. Hype draws in rich people willing to drop a couple thousand dollars on bottle service, because of the prospect of hot girls and celebrities being there. This happens for a few weeks, and next thing you know, paparazzi are camped outside of the place hoping that Paris or Lindsey will accidentally flash their ladybits while wasted trying to get into their town cars. None of this will happen though if someone important is coaxed into going to the said venue and it’s dead.

To ensure that Liam and Miley (or some sleazy rich guy) don’t walk into an empty lounge, venues hire promoters (usually handsome working actors waiting for their big break) to help fill the place up with pretty and tipsy girls before the actual crowd shows up. Promoters organize a group of twelve to fifteen ladies (mostly models and aspiring actresses), take them all out to dinner, park them in a centralized area of the venue around 10:30, provide top-shelf bottle service for the pack, then sit back and let the night unfold. This happens every single night of the week. If you’re a pretty girl and “in” with the promoter crowd, you could literally get dinner, drinks, and VIP access to the newest and hottest clubs every single night of the week if you wanted. The promoters need the girls as much as the girls need them. Nice arrangement, huh?

My friend Brooklyn who models in L.A. is completely stunning and one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and promoters all but beg on their hands and knees for her to come out with them. This is pretty much the only reason why anything exciting happened to me this weekend at all. Me, Brook, and my friend Alisa met up with my friends Max and Stu for dinner and planned to meet with the promoter pack before they hit the lounge. The promoter took us to a place called Vignette in West Hollywood that I guess was so new and hip it didn’t even need to have a sign outside.  It’s a relatively small venue, but is lined with a catwalk and had a pretty cool DJ playing.

Man, bottle service is awesome. No waiting in line for a drink, no misplacing your credit card, and no creepers brushing up against you while you fumble to stuff your wallet back into your purse. Despite the raging party all around us, I sat on top of a booth most of the night and caught up with Alisa, while the waitress manning our table constantly refilled our glasses with Grey Goose and whatever mixture she had in her hand at that moment. At one point, Brody Jenner and his friends who I didn’t recognize occupied the table directly behind us, but unfortunately they didn’t really do anything noteworthy. Around 1:30, a parade of waitresses waving sparklers in the air brought several bottles of Veuve Clicquot to the tables in our area. One of the promoters gave an entire bottle of the champagne (AT LEAST $500 at this place) to me, Brooklyn, and Alisa to split between us. The rest of that night wasn’t particularly memorable, but let me tell you—the hangover I fought the next day was something that I definitely won’t forget any time soon.

Russell Westbrook and the Bon Jovi midget cover band.

Brooklyn raved all weekend about some place called Beacher’s Madhouse at the bottom of the Roosevelt Hotel. I caught the tail end of the Notre Dame game with my friends Alex and Jack, and ended up hanging out with them later than I planned so Brook and I didn’t get to Beacher’s until after her promoter friend already escorted his army of lithe models inside. While waiting for him to come out and retrieve us, Brook and I decided to just wait in line, on the off chance that we would filter in before the promoter made it outside. And about 10 minutes later, I saw him.

Russell Westbrook very casually strolled out of Beachers, fist bumped all of the bouncers, and began walking past the entrance with some older looking people (maybe his parents?). I quietly gasped and pointed him out to Brooklyn, and glanced around at the girls nearby me in attempts to exchange knowing glances or maybe a subtle high five.

NO ONE IN LINE EVEN NOTICED HIM.

Here I am, stuck like a peasant waiting in line, one of the greatest basketball players in the league right now strolls past us, and not one of the skanky idiots I was surrounded by even looked up from their iPhones. I, on the other hand, was a blushing hyperventilating freak show. Because I was the only person staring at Russell like a crazy person, he pauses directly in front of me and throws me a “Hey what’s up?” Why is no one around me freaking out and seething with jealousy! Russ is talking to me! We are in the presence of greatness! I stammered back some sort of greeting and found out he’s just running upstairs and will be right back. Then I fainted and was rushed to the emergency room. Just kidding.

What actually happened is five minutes later, Derek and Julianne Hough strolled right up to the entrance and all of the skanks surrounding me in line shriek and start snapping Instagram photos of those two clowns. There was a fleeting moment when I considered that maybe they all recognized Russell Westbrook, but just tried to act blasé and cool about it because that’s the L.A. thing to do. Apparently that wasn’t the case. They genuinely just didn’t realize that Russell Westbrook was Russell Westbrook.

I couldn’t be happier when Brook’s promoter friend finally appeared, scooped us out of the line, and told the bouncer to let us in. He told us that some Saudi Arabian prince was picking up the tab for the VIP section he was taking us to. And yes, I realize how ridiculous and contrived that sounds. The prince purchased bottles of probably every kind of expensive liquor that rappers like to rhyme about, plus six or seven bottles of Cristal. That’s what I call wiggity wack my friends.

Brooklyn told me that Beacher’s Madhouse was crazy and that I would love it. In actuality, no verbal description could ever do this place justice. I felt like I was at one of Michael Alig’s club kid parties. The venue was on the smaller side, maybe a maximum of 200 people could fit in this place at once, and set up like a dinner theater. Midgets and strung-out model types in 90’s garb danced and chain smoked cigarettes on tables. Sesame Street mascot characters bobbed around the venue, taking pictures and downing shots with partygoers. Every twenty minutes or so, an “act” would perform onstage. I watched a lady with watermelon sized (and shaped) boobs karate chop a board by slamming one of her boobs on to it Mr. Miyagi style. A midget rapped a Kanye West song, a transvestite sang a Chaka Khan song, and a trio of cute girls did some sort of jazzercise routine. I thought the Max and Barcadia was cool, with the skeeball and life-sized Jenga. This place takes drunken entertainment to a whole new level.

It was right about time when a full midget rock band playing a Bon Jovi cover that I noticed Russ was not only back in the venue, but in our oh-so exclusive roped off portion of Beachers speaking with said Persian prince. He walked up and stoodthisclosetome, probably to get a better view of the stage. Why are none of the models and famewhores I’m surrounded trying to talk to Russell Westbrook?! I introduced myself and mentioned meeting him a time or two at Rok bar before—the perfect ice breaker! Just as I was about to tell him how gorgeous our babies would be, a guitar-playing midget with an impressive mullet suspended in the air by a harness whipped across the room on a zipline. Before I even had time to wipe the champagne off my dress and Russ’s shirt that I had accidentally tossed in the air in fear, the midget flew back across the zipline, discombobulating the scene once again.

It’s not many people who can say that their shot at true love with an NBA star was spoiled by an airborne midget.

I guess after that little uh, scene, Russ had enough of the place and left—but not before saying goodbye to Brooklyn and I. I’d like to act like it was a big deal, except we were the only people in the VIP section aside from the Prince of Persia talking to Russ. I’m still so bewildered by the fact that no one recognized him. Seriously you guys, this tiny exchange left me with enough excitement to last me for months. I was literally trembling like a fool in Russell’s presence. Imagine what will become of me if I ever get to meet Nick Collison. Lord help us all.

Michael Bay’s house.

Brook and I went to use the restroom right after Russell left, and on our way back to our area a very attractive silver fox stopped her to chat. He hung out with us (well, her) a large part of the rest of the night, and invited us to a after party at his “director friend Michael’s who just lives up the road in Bel Air.” The friendly bouncers told us when we were outside earlier that Michael Bay was in the house. I recognized him when I walked by their table, but was still on too much of a high from meeting RussWest to bother staring or making a fool out of myself again. But Brooklyn seemed to enjoy talking to SilverFox, and HELLO it’s a freaking party at Michael Bay’s house, obviously we had to go see if any of his electronics could talk or if anything would spontaneously explode while we were there.

Well, we drive to his mansion and it’s not a party at all. It’s just me, Brook, SilverFox, and Michael Bay. His pony-sized bullmastiff greeted us at the door and SilverFox popped open some more champagne. After about ten minutes of small talk, another one of their friends arrives with the sluttiest looking girl I’ve ever seen on his arm. Seriously, this chick looked like Aubrey O’Day after a weeklong bender. I think you could have caught something permanent just by sitting too close to her. Brooklyn and SilverFox went outside to chat, and I just about had a minor panic attack—I mean, how do you talk to Michael Bay about movies without sounding like a total assclown?

Well, it turned out to be really, really easy. Michael Bay was extremely down to earth and easy to talk to. I’ve read the stories and rumors about him being a misogynistic sleaze that gets girls sleep with him on movie sets in exchange for screen time on Perez Hilton before, but after chatting with the guy for a couple hours, I find this pretty hard to believe. Maybe that just means he thought I was really unattractive. But Michael Bay was probably the most affable person I met in Hollywood that entire weekend. Honestly, you would have no idea that he was the mind behind some of Hollywood’s biggest financial successes because he was just so normal. In a good way!

His friend finally asked him what projects he was working on, and I knew that was my one opportunity to pick his brain a bit about film. I’m a total movie geek, but what could I possibly say or ask one of the most popular directors of our era that didn’t make me sound like an idiot or sycophant?  I finally grew a pair and ask him how he felt about that Academy changing the number of Best Picture nominees from five to ten. This launched a pretty lengthy conversation about the Oscars and the whole voting process (he is a voting member), which would probably be kind of boring to a casual movie fan, but I will probably remember every single detail of that conversation for rest of my foreseeable life. I’m a cinephile, hear me roar, and I got to discuss the industry with one of the most successful directors of the last two decades.

My life might have peaked just then.

The only annoying thing about the whole night was the shit said by that dumb Aubrey O’Day look-alike Michael’s friend brought over. Every now and then she’d interrupt the conversation to inject some of her asinine whore babble. Here’s a few of her interesting gems I remember:

  • I’m so glad you’re getting rid of Shia LaDouche for Transformers 4. No one likes to see movies he’s in. If you like Disney stars, Zac Efron would be awesome!
  • Europe is dirty and disgusting and no one speaks English there. You couldn’t pay me to live there, everything is so old and gross and people there are poor.
  • Ahhh!!!! I bet you’re so proud of that MTV Movie Award! Can I take a picture with it?
  • Russell Westbrook wasn’t at Beacher’s tonight! I would have known if he was, I’m a huge Heat fan.

Maybe I should be thankful that the only other chick in the room was such an unrelenting bag of garbage—it had to have made me look awesome.

Sunday Everyday Funday.

We got back around 5:00 am that morning, and had plans to watch my friends Alex and Jack surf at 10:00. I pretty much fell asleep the minute I got horizontal. This resulted in a really awesome sunburn covering the entire back half of my body. “Crimson and cream” just took on a whole new meaning. It hurts to walk, shower, and lay down in any and all positions. People will point and laugh if they see me in a pair of shorts this week. My guy friends covered their faces in zinc oxide, which I thought was goofy in a completely adorable way. Now, I realize that they weren’t just trying to look cool in the pictures I took of them. They legitimately need to guard their face from the deceptively harsh sun with diaper rash cream.

That night, Brook and I went to visit my friend Magen at some producer’s house in the Hollywood Hills. I would go into detail about the killer view, homemade ice cream, and army of pugs, but even thinking about it exhausts me. Staying out until dawn then waking up a few hours later to go to the beach was pretty extreme for a homebody like me.

Before this weekend, I didn’t totally get the LA thing. Yeah, it’d be awesome to be an actress or a reality star. It’s be so much fun to hang out with BJ Novak and invent jokes for a living. I think it’d be pretty sick to date a celebrity and go to red carpet events. But to give up my disposable income, large apartment, and ability to cross town in under twenty minutes for the slight chance of hitting it big just didn’t seem worth it.

After visiting, I get it. It’s not just about becoming famous. It’s about the excitement, and a completely different way of approaching life. Some people would say my friends are crazy for having college degrees from awesome schools but delivering pizzas or working in retail while auditioning or sending out spec scripts. But you know—every single one of my friends living in LA loves it. I mean, isn’t the point of working hard and making money so you can travel to paradise and do exciting things during your life? Well, if you live in paradise and naturally do exciting things every single day of your life how much happier will more money actually make you? Your marginal utility is already maxed out.

My friends and my life and my job in Tulsa couldn’t get any better, and I sincerely mean that. I do miss general excitement though. Back in college, it was always “who will I meet tonight?” or “what kind of adventure will happen this weekend?” I hang out with the exact same people and go to the exact same places every single weekend in Tulsa. I haven’t met anyone new in Tulsa in literally six months. I miss the “wonder” aspect of college a lot, and I certainly got a giant taste of it this weekend in Los Angeles. It kind of sucks to be reminded of what you’re missing out on.

I’m insanely jealous of my friends who get to live their lives in one of the most exciting cities in the entire world. But I feel pretty lucky that I got a taste of why they all love Los Angeles so much.

I told you.

People in LA don’t smile with their teefs.

Posted in Travel | 3 Comments

Tulsa Summer Bucket List

This summer, there will be no month-long excursion across Europe, no internship in a big city, and no temporary apartment in Norman for me. Kidulthood has its perks–you know, a disposable income and lingering bursts of reckless abandon, but unfortunately the majority of my summer will be spent in an air conditioned office rather than on a lawn chair by the pool. So long to lengthy lunches at Queenie’s and sporadic trips to Woodland Hills mall. Goodbye swimming at Southern Hills, and eating Josh’s Sno Cones on a nightly basis. I’m now obligated to working and exercising and reading publications besides Cosmopolitan.

Don’t worry you guys–as Fun. has reminded us all, we ARE young. Corporate slavery is merely a 40-hour a week commitment. We have our weekends, and I fully intend on uh, “squeezing the juice” out of mine of Papa Cawood says. Ch-ch-check it out.

1. Go on a float trip. It’s Saturday morning, and your alarm caterwauls at exactly 7:30 am. The only reason for waking up at this hour on the weekend is of course, a day of debauchery on the Illinois River.

I’ve written a full-on guide to having an awesome float trip experience before, but just to remind you, you’re going to need a couple things to ensure that this trip is a success:

  • One 30 pack for every three people. At least.
  • Gatorades and water bottles…see reason above.
  • Sunscreen, a carabiner for your keys, plastic bags for your things, etc
  • Proper frattire for a redneck occasion–PFGs, jorts, party tanks, visers, fanny packs, and yes, Chacos are essential.
  • Beef jerky, Funyons, Quiktrip Kitchen sandwiches, and other powerfoods.
  • Frisbees, footballs, or other objects to putter around with after you’re done chugging on Shotgun Island.
  • A designated driver or five. The cabins in Tahlequah are pretty rank.
  • Your dignity. At every float trip, there will always be that one person in your group who has a little too much fun and ends up making out with a townie. Don’t let that person be you.

2. A visit to the zoo followed by a meal at White River Fish Market. A throwback to childhood, although now I better understand the risk involved with parking a vehicle made after 2005 on north 17th and Sheridan. Wait, I actually I take that last line back–apparently acknowledging (or not acknowledging) a record of violence and crime in a particular district can get a blogger into trouble.

3. Jump off the cliff at Dripping Springs on Grand Lake. I no longer own a dwelling space on Oklahoma’s number one watering hole. My Dad literally woke up one morning, proclaimed that Grand was full of snobs and pretension, got rid of all of our toys in Duck Creek and relocated to a house boat on Skiatook instead.

While I can’t disagree with his statement, I really do miss me some Party Cove and that little paddleboat that delivers cheeseburgers to you at Dripping Springs. Jumping off the cliff there is like, a rite of passage for all youthful Oklahomans. If you don’t have a boat, it’s imperative that you make a couple friends who do, then suck up to them in the weeks leading up to Memorial Day, the 4th of July, and Labor Day. You can thank me later.

4. Stay all night on a house boat. Speaking of this new lake-front property I’ve recently gained access to, I think it would be downright blasphemous to not take full advantage of it.

5. Attend Summer’s 5th Night. There’s no place I would rather spend a Thursday night than on a lawn chair outside of the Wild Fork listening to my second favorite cover band, Mid Life Crisis. For the record, my first favorite cover act is My So Called 90′s Band, and it’s only partially because of the hot guy from the Evangelicals.

Billy Shakespeare would be happy to know that magical things do occur at Summer’s 5th Night. (Wait, they are referencing Shakespeare with the title of the event, right?) My super cool cousin met her super cool husband on the patio of the Wild Fork a fateful Thursday a few years ago, and back in high school, I met a guy at Wendy’s that I dated for two whole weeks! Anyways, I made a Summer’s 5th Night Drinking Game last year that you should probably check out and play sometime.

6. Go to Big Splash. But afterwards, you might want to go get a tetanus shot.

7. Thirsty Thursdays at Driller’s Stadium. Dolla-dolla beers yo, and the most gorgeous view of Downtown Tulsa (see photo above, taken by yours truly and only slightly altered by Instagram).

8. Get a snow cone at Josh’s. I’m not sure how a 6×8 ice ball stand can make South Tulsans completely lose their minds, but on any given week night, there’s at least a 20 minute wait for one of these. I ponder the obsession here.

9. Bike the length of Riverside. Tulsa is a cycling city, which I think is kind of cool, even though I know close to nothing about the sport and can hardly ride one myself. However, I do know that Tulsa Tough is approaching, and fashioning a tailgate around Crybaby Hill sounds pretty sweet. Who’s with me?

Side note: someone stole my bicycle during my freshman year of college, and I haven’t really seen the need to purchase another one. Instead, I think I’ll roller skate from 96th and Riverside to 16th and Denver. This totally counts too.

10. Hike around Turkey Mountain. But watch out for syringes and horny gay men looking for a little anonymous giggity giggity. Besides those minor obstacles, Turkey Mountain is a great place to become one with nature, breathe some fresh air, and remind yourself how out-of-shape you’ve become.

Anything obvious that I’ve forgotten? Care to join me on any of these ventures? Sound off in the comments, you guys!

Follow us on Twitter at @tulsa20somethng

Posted in Lists, Totally Tulsa | 1 Comment

The Triumphant Return to Nompton

I’ve been receiving emails and passive-aggressive Twitter remarks regarding my mysterious disappearance from the interwebs. To the three readers that keep up with this blog but don’t know my true identity (which I protect with the utmost vigilance), I am alive and well. I spent the first quarter of the year on the road–and let me tell you, living your life in hotels and airports isn’t nearly as sexy and worldly as George Clooney made it look. Writing about Tulsa using the unreliable hotel WiFi from Salt Lake City isn’t ideal, and doing so while in Vegas is pretty much impossible. I may be bookish and introverted when the occasion is right, but it doesn’t take a lot to trigger my inner Porpoise (an OU joke, see what I did there?). Let’s be real–while in Vegas, sitting around in your hotel room isn’t really an option, business trip or not.

Last weekend, I made my pilgrimage back to my beloved Nompton, Oklahoma. I figured I’d catch some acts at the Norman Music Festival, take my impoverish college-aged sister out for a nice meal or two, visit my best friend who was flying in from Kansas City, and attend a banquet for the business fraternity I’ve neglected since last May. Plus, I figured my roommate and her boyfriend could use a weekend to themselves.

(Side note: when your roommate starts dating your best wingman, it does not mean that you’ve gained a superfriend. Rather, it means that you’ve inherited a platonic boyfriend who you now have to share the TV remote with, DD for, and who takes massive dumps in your bathroom every weekend. That’s right buddy. I’m onto you.)

Anyways, it was a heck of a weekend as one could imagine. I’m not Chelsea Handler (yet), and I don’t have clever nicknames for my friends like Tucker Max does, so these nuggets are going to be a little vague–to protect the innocent, of course. Feel free to fill in the blanks however you wish.

  • Norman Music Festival. I’ve been to every one of them since its inception! We might not have the musical clout like Austin does, but this weekend, it certainly seemed like we had the same amount of hipsters. Don’t worry though–if drinking tallboys and listening to overly distorted guitar solos isn’t your thing, this year they had a Tilt-A-Whirl and even an Indian taco truck!

Here’s the thing about music festivals–they’re hard to enjoy unless you’re in some sort of slightly altered state. We realized this within ten minutes of arriving there, and promptly headed to McNellie’s to solve that problem. Good ole’ McNellies, where the shots are served full to the brim in rocks glasses. You know how good it feels to full on bash someone you despise? I wish I was a greater person who could say that I derive no joy from a little shit-talking, but well, I’m not. A dastardly foe could humiliate you publicly, appear endlessly on your Twitter feed, and mock you in the most irritatingly passive-aggressive way–but as long as you have one other person to discuss that said enemy’s wickedness with, for a fleeting moment, you’ve won the war.

  • Campus Corner. You know that nostalgic feeling when a father shares a beer with his son for the first time, or when a daughter tries on her mother’s wedding dress? That same sentimental feeling flushed over me as my business fraternity little and I toasted to his senior year at no place other than Suger’s [sic]. This was immediately followed by me shampooing myself with bleach and asking God for forgiveness.
  • Christmas Day. Don’t worry about why, but I wound up with some wristbands to the most revered date party of the school year. I realize that going to a date party post-graduation, no matter how awesome that fiesta might be, straddles the line between awesome and pathetic. To maintain a shred of dignity, I disguised myself in a pair of party shades and planned to lay low. This plan didn’t work at all. Here’s a few things I can recall:
    • Someone passed out in the fraternity house’s hallway with a red solo cup in hand…at 10:30 in the morning.
    • A freshman on the bus ride there talking my ear off about how much her boobs have grown since Spring Break.
    • My friend Doc (the guy from this story) throwing up five feet away from the beer stand, wiping his face, then asking the lady manning the beer stand for another one.
    • Taking to a girl who thought I was my sister for 3-4 minutes about a homework assignment due next week.
    • Privaledge telling a bunch of white private school kids about “hustlin’ like a jigaboo” and “all ‘dem bitches be given it up!”
    • Every girl with a pulse ditching their date to ogle Josh Sallee.
    • Someone pouring a beer into a horse’s mouth.
    • Someone dropping a piece of pizza into the sand, picking it up, and eating it anyway.
  • The Banquet.  There was one point in my life where I turned rallying into an art form. Now, if I don’t get a solid eight hours of sleep, I crash by noon. Seriously, it’s like a switch flipped in my body the day I graduated. Want to go out on a weeknight? “That’s not gonna happen sucka!” my organs hiss, followed by a maniacal laugh. This is why you see me out and about on Fridays, but holed up in my room watching the Office on Saturday nights–I simply can’t party like I once could.

It took every ounce of energy I had to shake off my nap and take a shower. Doc and my other friend, who were both supposed to join me for the rest of the eventful day, passed out face-down in bed before 6:00. This is pretty typical behavior for people after Christmas Day, but I was determined to make the most of my trip to Normantown.

Well, after about 15 minutes of greeting old friends at this said business fraternity banquet, I Irish-Exited my way on out of there. My head was pounding, and a sentimental end-of-the-year slide show filled with pictures of people I don’t know sounded worse than a herd of cats singing the Star-Spangled Banner. I made it to a potluck for an organization I was once the chair of, but about 20 minutes into the gathering, I violently began to shiver–not conducive at all to the game of Jenga we were playing. I think they might call that “withdrawal symptoms.”

  • The Aftermath. On my way back to pass out change clothes, Doc calls me and asks what kind of attire the business fraternity banquet called for. What a chump. I arrive back to his house to get ready for another night of NMF/Campus Corner shenanigans, but that plan was thwarted when Doc’s new plaything’s friends arrived and started touching my hair and poking my arms. If there’s something a person DOES NOT want to be around when groggy and exhausted, it’s a pack of shrieking gay guys, no matter how much they compliment your shoes or envy your ability to fit into a bandage dress.

The night ended with me at a friend’s house watching a replay of the Royal Wedding. I was in too much pain to even enjoy our triumphant win against the Mavs. I’m pretty sure I fell asleep sitting up. Contrary to popular belief, growing up has been much more of a byproduct of my physical, not mental, maturation. I would have loved to go to the Garage with my sister, or Seven47 with the many friends I had who were visiting as well–but if I heard any more guitar feedback or even caught the scent of whiskey, I would have collapsed into a puddle of misery on the spot.

Remember that episode of Friends where Chandler and Ross get really excited to party with Gandalf, but end up going to bed at 8? I completely know the feeling. As of now, my beliefs are (rigidly and bona fide) as follows: people get married so they can afford a mortgage, people have kids cure the marriage doldrums, and people quit partying because their bodies demand they do so.

Posted in College Transitions | 3 Comments

Do’s and Don’t’s for Valentine’s Day: Tulsa20Something Edition

Movies and television lead us to believe that there are two kinds of people in the world:

Type 1, the Valentine’sDayIsSoAwesomeChocolateLoveHeartsJoySouffleYAY person. See every character in that painful Gary Marshall film, Nicholas Sparks enthusiasts, and most characters played by Meg Ryan or Ashton Kutcher. I mean, I’ll throw them a bone for their optimism, but let’s be real: anyone who gets that excited about a holiday that you don’t even get off work for is pretty strange.

Type 2, the IHATEValentine’sDayHateLoveHateHallmarkHateCouples person. This person is usually always a female, likely scorned in the recent past, and would rather act like they loathe the entire concept of Valentine’s Day than admit that they’re actually kind of lonely.  GIRL POWER, rah rah who needs a BOYF?!! Sugar, we all see right past your cynical facade. Instead of acting completely unpleasant for the first two weeks of February, join eHarmony or adopt another cat.

In reality, I’m guessing that most of you see it the way I do: just another day of the week, but a rad excuse to either receive a present, or go out on a weekday. Really, it’s a win-win!

Whether you’re single or dating, married or betrothed, there’s a few rules I’d like to throw out there…you know, just for humanity’s sake…

Do look decent. I’m a master snoozer, and my antics of the night before are often hinted at when I show up to work in a classic headband/messy bun/harem pants combo. You should look good not because I believe love is in the air, but because if you show up to work looking haggard, all of your co-workers will think you’ve spent the night eating bonbons and watching Vampire Diaries. Speaking of which…

Don’t spend the night weeping over romantic movies. What I call a Tuesday night is what many reserve exclusively for February 14th. Here’s a short list of movies you absolutely SHOULD NOT watch the entire month of February:

  • The Notebook. You’ll rue the fact that no one you know in real life oozes a fraction of the sexy that Ryan Gosling does.
  • Love Actually. The awkward heffer lands the Prime Minister, Colin Firth falls in love with a chick that he can’t communicate with, Billy Bob Thorton is the president and Britain stands up to America’s bullying. On that same note, Mary Fallin legalized marijuana and I’ve been quietly dating Shia LaBeouf for the last two years.
  • When Harry Met Sally. This is a great way to trick yourself into thinking your annoying best friend is actually your soul mate.
  • No Strings Attached or Friends With Benefits. While Hollywood would like us to believe that getting a fun buddy is the best way to find the love of your life, well, I have a sneaking suspicion that most casual sex partners won’t stage flash mobs or make Aunt Flo playlists in your honor.

Stick to these T20S-approved flicks instead:

  • Closer. Jude Law, Clive Owen, and a frustrating ending.
  • Forgetting Sarah Marshall. This is because Jason Segel is my dream dude, even when he eats cereal out of a punchbowl and weeps naked.
  • Goodfellas or Boogie Nights because those are my two favorite movies and it’ll give us something to chat about.
  • Requiem for a Dream. Guaranteed to make you feel better about yourself, no matter the degree of disarray your life is in.

Do use it as an excuse to do something special. For me, this means purchasing an expensive gift for myself whilst in Las Vegas. For couples, this means trying out something new you learned in last month’s Cosmopolitan.

Don’t be that obnoxious couple. We’re all very happy that you’ve found companionship. We’re all very impressed that your significant other was creative enough to say “I love you” for the first time on Valentine’s Day. I’m even kind of jealous of that bouquet of flowers you received at work. This kind of admiration, however, is best enjoyed from afar. Don’t bore your friends with mushy anecdotes.

Do take advantage of the 9th best holiday of the year. February 15th, also known as “Half Price Candy Day” should unconditionally be observed.

Don’t wear a springy heart headband, a t-shirt with cupid on it, any form of face paint, or a goofy grin. Not unless you want to get punched in the face.

Do go out with your best girlfriends. Trust me, every dive bar will be completely empty. It’ll be like you’re the Sex and the City girls, but with less amusing one-liners. Or you know what? Invite some of your sluttiest guy friends out too–not for canoodling purposes, but for sheer entertainment value.

Don’t eat anything heart-shaped. Who invented those chalk-like candy hearts? I H8 U! Does anyone actually enjoy consuming those?

Posted in Life Chats, Lists | 1 Comment

New Year’s Resolutions for Tulsa20Somethings

Last year, when hanging out with Jenks High School Classes of '07 through '10 was a reasonable way to spend NYE.

I’ve been completely dreading this New Year’s Eve.

I take that back; I’ve hated EVERY New Year’s Eve since 2004, with last year being the only thing in the neighborhood of an exception to this blanket statement. Okay, so that’s not entirely true. In 2010, I watched John Mayer play at the Hard Rock Casino in Vegas, and Bob Saget wandered on stage with a cake during the countdown to midnight. That was pretty tight. But besides that, NYE = suckfest.

If you’re in a relationship, the excitement and magic of the night is gone. If you’re single, there’s too much excitement. So much build up, so much pressure to do something awesome, get super silly, and make out with someone hot at the stroke of midnight. Instead what happens is you and your friends scramble from place to place, feel out the guests at each location, get stuck there in fear of looking like an asshole who was just feeling out the guests, and you end up making out with someone who you probably would not kiss under normal circumstances. Well, that is unless you’re my sister, who was approached last year by 5 different eligible suitors and turned down every one of them. What a betch.

Perhaps my disdain for the holiday stems from the pressure to reevaluate one’s life and set obtainable goal for the upcoming year. Bitch, please. I’m the kind of person that buys myself gifts when I want them. Instant gratification is more my style. However, it is that time of year, and my writer’s block is becoming somewhat of a permanent fixture–so when I get an idea, I better capitalize on it before I get distracted by another terrible Netflix documentary.

Keep calm and read on.

1. Physically exert oneself. We’re relatively young, and some of us are still riding on the “sufficient metabolism” gravy train. This is precisely why I have not broken a sweat since 2007. At least in college, you could blame your laziness on the fact that the Huff is merely a fundraiser for the OU Parking office. Nowadays, I don’t have the half-mile walks to class, 200-meter dash in heels to Campus Corner, sorority pillow fights, or spontaneous 90′s dance parties to get me moving.

Suggested remedies: take the stairs to your office cubicle, walk to lunch, start dance parties at Fassler Hall (and salute my friends when they join you), clean your apartment with C+C Music Factory playing in the background, or engage in some sexy time.

2. Cool it on the party shots. I like to think of myself as a generous person. The problem is, you have to be a LOT more generous to come off as generous in Tulsa where the red-headed sluts cost $5 instead of $2. The key is to find other ways to assert your dominance over your friends without totally breaking the bank.

Suggested remedies: purchase a 2006 Range Rover, drink scotch neat, pick up a Rauxlex next time you go to the Bahamas or New York City, speak with a New England accent, or act like a raging douche.

3. Diversify your weekend hangouts. I’m pretty settled on where I end up on the weekends. If Soundpony has a show, I’ll be there (thank my friends for this–I find the place loathsome, but I really, really like my friends), White Owl or Leon’s if the college kids are back, the Penthouse if I’m desperate, and Fassler/the Max/McNellie’s any other weekend night. I imagine it’s hard to truly suck the marrow out of Tulsa if you’re in a spatial rut. Expand your horizons, take a shot with a homeless man, and attend a drag show every once in awhile.

Suggested remedies: Majestic (bring a girl to make out with if you’re a guy, and if you’re a lady just bring your most flamboyant ‘mo), Crystal Pistol (bring a knife), the Cigar Box (bring your bonus check), or Ivey (bring an asshole).

4. Put yourself out there more. Whether you want to meet a significant other, network, find a one night stand, or just shoot the shit with someone new, we can all benefit by being more friendly to those in our community. Joining clubs or groups is a great way to do this–and so is well, going to the bar.

Suggested remedies: Join TYPros, lock in a really good wingman, join ChristianMingle.com or eHarmony, hang out at the gym, crash office parties and weddings, or start a blog about Tulsa’s young and restless and hope people recognize you whilst out and about (works for me…sometimes).

5. Take baby step towards true adulthood. Does anyone else feel like they’re in a weird sort of purgatory between adolescence and adulthood? At family gatherings, do you drink wine…at the kiddie table? Do you drive the car your parents bought you to work everyday? Are you breezing through life without a credit card? Do you still have roommates? They say your college years are the best, which I don’t disagree with, but now I kind of feel like the same person I was last year, but with more disposable income. It’s awesome.

 Suggested remedies: I personally think this limbo stage is great, but if you really want to start feeling like a full-blown adult, get in debt, knock up your girlfriend, gain 20 pounds, cook dinner at home every night, get off your parent’s cell phone family plan, or start watching American Idol.

Happy New Year, friends, fans, foes, and fiends!

 

Posted in Life Chats, Lists | Tagged , | 8 Comments