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 outchange 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.