Tag Archives: wedding

The Frat House Gets Grown

We had a frat house original reunion a couple weeks ago for Roommate A’s wedding in Gulf Shores, Alabama. Look at us. We all look so cute. And I can barely fit into my dress, but I am still not ready to talk about that.

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If you ever find yourself in Gulf Shores, Alabama and no – I have no idea why you would ever go to Gulf Shores, Alabama – except for FLORA-BAMA. Which is only the best people watching of all time. And my mother and I have made a sport out of people watching (and eavesdropping).

I’ve never seen so many multi-generational drinking situations – grandma, mother in skin tight dress and gladiator high heels, daughter in equally confusing yet more age-appropriate outfit, 18-year-old granddaughter because it’s 18+.

I bought like eight beers for $20 and the bar advertised a mullet toss. Which we all thought was like literal mullet wigs that you threw at each other until Sunday afternoon when we were heading to the airport that he realized there is a mullet fish and that’s more likely what they were talking about, which some light research confirmed.

Seriously, they throw fish at each other in Alabama for bar entertainment. How could you not want to hang out there.

Former Roommate A and his bride put up their respective wedding parties in a beach house which was about 17 feet from our hotel. The beach house had a pool and numerous fridges that just happened to be filled with beer and I think we successfully drove every bridesmaid away by the end of the weekend with our (super responsible, grown-up, respectful, quiet) shenanigans. Because we’re fun like that.

The standard information: Former Roommate A’s bride looked gorgeous, Former Roommate A also looked pretty handsome, the food was incredible – and I don’t mean just for like a wedding good but I want to eat those shrimp and grits and mashed potatoes for every meal good – the 80’s cover band was amazing.

R has a firm set of life rules that include 1) no dancing and 2) no karaoke. I kindly suggested that if he wasn’t interested in dancing with me, I’m sure I could find someone else to grind on and then refilled his wine often until he was ready to cut a rug. He even continued dancing with me after I knocked a whole glass of red wine onto his white dress shirt during a particular vivacious dance move during the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.”

After the wedding, we went back to the beach house and I proceeded to take off my dress and jump into the pool wearing nothing but a bra and boy short underwear. Which, in my defense, covers more of my person than my bathing suit.

There were two crucial issues with this decision, the first and minor of the two being my friends lovely parents were standing on the deck. And the second, I was in the pool wearing the only bra that I brought to Alabama.

Behold, how to dry your bra you washed in the hotel sink while on the way to the airport:

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Worked like a charm.

The wedding night conclude with a vigorous game of Marco Polo and me serving frozen pizza to those still in the pool. It was all around classy and wonderful.

Former Roommate A + Wife moved to Atlanta a couple weeks later. I only cried a little. And then Former Roommate hauled out and moved to San Fransisco. A decision we mourned by karaoking R. Kelly’s Ignition (Remix) on a Tuesday night.

Former Roommate B and I are the lone holdouts in Washington, D.C. at this point.

(And this without a doubt the song of the wedding weekend for your Friday listening pleasure.)

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Survival of the FNG

FNG = FUCKING NEW GUY

I’ve survived two whole days at my new office.  I met like 20 people Monday morning and then promptly forgot all their names.  Every time someone walks by me they greet me by name and then I feel like a terrible person.  But quite frankly, it’s not fair.  They only have to remember one name– the name of the red headed terrified looking girl that wasn’t there before.  There is only one of me.  There are many of them.

And I only look slightly terrified.  Like when acronyms are used (it took me MONTHS to learn all of the acronyms in my last office) or when trying to use the printer.  There are three so far that I’ve located in the office.  I tried to print to the one near my office unsuccessfully multiple times today, decided it was broken and returned to tiny printer in my office that was out of ink (pro tip: shake the cartridge).  Hours later I found the document I’d printed on all the other printers.  Huge win.  At least I know they work now.

So– so far, so good.  At least I haven’t flashed anyone yet.

COMING TO YOU LIVE

I’m sitting on my front porch with a glass of wine typing on my brand new fancy million dollar Apple computer. I’ve both saved and spent a lot of money in my life but handing over my credit card for a 1K+ charge made me nervous.  I’ve never at least spent that much money in one swoop before.

Unless you count the fact that I gave my mother a check for 8K the day I left for college.  And all that did was make me want to unpack all my boxes, not go to college and take all that money back.  It looked so nice in my savings account.

P.S.  I can’t figure out how to make the words on the screen bigger, so if there are a lot of typos in this post it’s both because I haven’t located my magnifying glass or figured out how to spell check.

THE 612

My time in Minnesota, as well as my brief “funemployment” was lovely.  After a couple of days in DC my house had never been so clean, my clothes never been so properly folded in my closet or dry cleaned and by 4PM every day I was staring at the door waiting for someone ANYONE to come home from work to hang out with me.  A Comcast employee with decent conversation skills would have even been sufficent.

My pal Gigi’s wedding was beautiful, the food amazing, the bride gorgeous.  I stood up in front of 150 people and gave a witty–yet appropriate speech given the grandparents in the room.  And didn’t even fall down the stairs getting off the stage.  I’d give that a 100% win.

So I’m surviving and thriving.  That’s my point.

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What’s your major?

Former Roommate C is gettin’ hitched at the end of the month.  The boys and I have decided to drive because once you add up the hours it takes to get to the airport, fly to Cincinnati, rent a car and drive to wherever it is we’re going in Kentucky, it doesn’t take that much longer to go by car.

Being that women can’t drive, nor navigate*– I’ll get to spend the 8 hours in the back seat watching movies and reading books, so what do I care?   And as Roommate B added, “demanding we pull over every half hour so you can pee because that’s what women do.”  I plan to keep myself actively dehydrated to refute that claim.

Roommate A is in the wedding and therefore has related duties.  Roommate B and I, however, have nothing to do that weekend but drink bourbon and try to show up the wedding ceremony on time.  Which roughly means we have lots of unscheduled hours to get ourselves into trouble.

Roommate B has been scouting potential activities for us on Friday night and during the day Saturday.  There is a race track and some distilleries and maybe a pool.  Meh.  After some more in-depth research yesterday afternoon, I got the following g-chat:  We’re next to a college!!!!  I’m researching sorority functions that weekend.

At first I thought– this could be bad.  Real bad.  And then I got a little bit excited.  I’ve never been to a sorority function!  Damn liberal arts school in a large urban part of the Midwest.  What’s my major going to be?!  Roommate B has decided on anatomy.  I’m going for a MRS.

BOOM!  Bring on the south!

*Or mow lawns, which I’m totally in favor of given that I was the sole lawn mower for the household the second I was strong enough to get the lawn mower up and down the hill in the front yard without tipping over.

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Here comes the bride

I spent the majority of my weekend in full blown wedding-ness.  Between Cristi and John’s wedding, as well as shacking up with my newly engaged friends Gigi and Alex on Friday and Saturday night, I couldn’t help thinking about whether or not I’d ever saunter down that aisle myself. For most people, the idea of one day growing up and getting married and moving to the suburbs and having kids seems like a given– but I never naturally assumed that would be my path.

My associations with marriage are largely attached to divorce– my dad moved out 2 days before I started the 3rd grade and I honestly think that splitting up was one of the nicest things my parents did for us kids.  Divorce aside, marriage ultimately seems like the very most grown-up decision a person can make.*  You are willingly attaching yourself to another human being for the rest of your life. I’d put my money on both Cristi and John and Gigi and Alex growing old and disgusting together but it is going to take me a while to warm up to the idea.

The wedding part I’m totally cool with.  I love an excuse to have a rockin’ party.  When my mom organized and financed a 200+ family reunion with 2 meals, beer, a bouncy thing for the kid and a polka band for under 6K at her cousin’s funeral home a couple years ago– she announced my wedding would be at the funeral home as well.  Because if you deducted one meal and the bouncy thing, exchanged the polka band for a DJ and added the cost of a wedding dress and cake, she could get me hitched for cheap.

And I agreed to it.  Honestly, how amusing will it be to send out wedding invitations with:

Please join us for the union of our daughter Rachel Shea Baby and [the poor dude she conned into marrying her] at the [insert family name here] funeral home.  

I’ve also decided that I’d like a pig roast.  So it’s official– one of the pre-requisites for asking my hand in marriage besides love and compassion and all that other stuff  is to be able to get behind a pig roast wedding at a funeral home.  And it’s going to be awesome.

*No– it’s not babies.  That can happen by accident.  No one can get married by accident until you are incredibly drunk in Vegas and in that case, serves you right.

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Happy birthday to me!

 

Today was literally the first day in 2 weeks I got to sleep in past 7:30AM and of course my brother Tim calls and wakes me up at 7.  If I wasn’t so excited to see the punk this afternoon, I would have disowned him right then and there.  I got to the funeral home last night after 6 lumpy and beer filled days in Wisconsin.  I learned many important things in Wisconsin, such as the Bottoms Up bar is not in fact a strip club, one cannot survive on cheese curds and meat sticks alone and Wisconsin doesn’t suck nearly as much as my Minnesota upbringing led me to believe.  

Upon arriving at my grandpa’s yesterday evening, I was handed a glass of wine, acquired a baby to coo at (see below– her mouth is stuffed full of grapes) and sat down to watch the chaos unfold.  Because when there are that many people in the same room, chaos is always to be had.  I’ve decided a lot of things while reflecting on the past year of my life, but the most important one so far– always come home for your birthday.  I have gotten the best presents and even get my very own party.  (Also learned, don’t expect birthday breakfast in bed when your mother has been up and unable to sleep since 4AM.  Make your own damn BLT.)

I’m attempting to assess the 23rd year of my life.  The common thread last July and for much of the past year has been that I felt like I was treading water– not sure if I should stay in DC, frustrated with my job and attempts to find a new one, lonely for someone to spoon me at night, filled with anxiety about where my life was heading, my friends kept moving out of DC.  Not knowing where I would be in the next month (different city maybe, new job) made it hard to make plans or envision what my life would be like in a month or six months or a year.  Now I’m able to do that.  Deciding to stay at my current company allowed me to do that.

Saying I’ve found myself in the last year is the most cliché and ridiculous thing I can think of– especially since I’m convinced I have to re-find myself year after year.  But ultimately age 23 taught me that my own two feet were good enough, because while I’ve always been able to stand on them– I just didn’t always like what shoes I was wearing.  I’ve decided to quit treading water and swim to mother fucking something.  What it is I’m swimming to I do not yet know, but at least I’m no longer waiting to see what my options are.  Full steam ahead.  I’m 24 now, after all.

And on a note much more important than my birthday–  congratulations are in order.  My cousin John is getting hitched tomorrow afternoon and we intend to get down and party in their honor.  Christi, welcome to the family.  We’re happy you’re here.  And brace yourself.

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