Friends

A little bit crazy ⁴

The other day, Scott and I were discussing a couple we know from…uh…let’s just call it a “previous life”.

Scott: I don’t know if I like them. They’re too…well…normal.

Me: Yeah…they’re definitely very normal people, but you can’t deny that they are so incredibly nice. I enjoy spending time with them.

Scott: Okay. Maybe it’s not that I don’t like them…it’s more that I feel like they don’t like me.

Me: You always think people don’t like you.

Scott: Yeah…but this is different. They’re both just so incredibly perfect. Their lives are perfect. I suppose I feel like they’re constantly looking at me and rolling their eyes. You know…laughing at all the weird stuff I do or the things I say wrong.

Me: I think it’s all in your head.

Scott: Katrina. They unfriended me on Facebook.

Me: Okay…maybe it’s not all in your head.

Scott: Whatever. I mean…I don’t really care all that much. I guess I just don’t understand people like that. They’re just so…flawless. They never say the wrong thing or make questionable decisions. They’re the picture of success and the American dream and those douchey Scott Disick pants that have the lobsters embroidered all over them!

Me: I kind of like those lobster pants.

Scott: You would. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that they’re just so impeccable and…I don’t know…boring.

Me: Exactly! I was just thinking about this the other day. I’ve begun to realize that I’m naturally drawn to people who are a little bit crazy.

Scott: I could have told you that years ago.

Me: And I don’t mean crazy in a mentally unstable way–although I don’t really have a problem with that either–I’m just talking about people who are quirky and a little bit off. You know, someone who isn’t afraid to date a nineteen-year-old gogo dancer they met online or wear a sketchy looking cheetah jumpsuit in public.

Scott: I’m the same way. Pretty much all of my friends have a little streak of crazy in them. Plus, I married you.

Me: See? It’s really not all that surprising. You and I both have a little streak of crazy…it makes total sense!

Scott: Yeah, I guess. I’m just sick of all the non-crazy people casting judgement on me.

Me: But here’s the thing: Those people act like they’re judging….but I think they’re secretly jealous. Living vicariously through other people’s random acts of craziness, if you will.

Scott: Hmmmm. Are you sure you aren’t just in denial?

Me: Think about it! How many times have one of your “normal” friends asked you to rehash one of your crazy stories to them? In my experience, those people are always fascinated with the random crap that makes my life a little bit…well…bizarre.

Scott: It’s true. They’re not experiencing those things for themselves, so they feel the need to hear about it from us!

Me: Precisely! And then they roll their eyes and pretend to be disgusted as a desperate attempt to cover the longing they have to be crazy themselves!

Scott: I don’t know if I would go that far.

Me: I would. Regardless, I’m starting to learn that life is too short not to be a little bit crazy. I don’t want to get to the end of my existence and wish I would have had the balls to compete in that ridiculous beauty pageant or publish random videos about dessert on YouTube, you know? People with the crazy gene have way less regrets.

Scott: Um…I don’t know about that.

Me: Fine. But I would rather regret a crazy decision that regret not having the courage to actually make the decision in the first place.

Scott: You know what? I’m glad we’re both a little bit crazy.

Me: Me too.

****

I’m not saying you have to be crazy to have a terrific life. Are you completely normal? Awesome! You’ll probably be allowed to run for political office one day!

(My dad still thinks I should get into politics. Uh…I’m pretty sure the things I’ve written on my public blog would definitely make that impossible, Dad.)

(Plus…someone who would make naming the chihuahua as Minnesota’s new mascot their first official duty probably doesn’t belong in public office.)

What I am saying is that it’s important to own who you are. Are you one of those orderly, normal peeps who never does anything questionable? Embrace it! Secretly, us crazy folk wish we could be more like you, sometimes.

And if like me, you have a streak of crazy coursing through your veins, don’t be ashamed! Life’s too short to ignore our urges to wear the ridiculous jumpsuit or compete in the beauty pageant for grown women! Crazy is interesting, fun and memorable. I challenge you to own your inner-crazy and celebrate your quirks!*

*Unless owning your inner-crazy involves running for public office. It’s not that I don’t think you’d be fabulous…it’s more that I don’t need any extra competition in my race to become the mayor of Smalltown.

**We are so getting a chihuahua on our state flag.

***I’ll also make Scott legally required to wear douchey lobster pants at least once a month.

____________________

Psst! I want to assure you the couple we are referring to is NOT you! I know for a fact they don’t read this blog, and probably don’t even remember who Scott and I are…despite our many attempts to leave our crazy stamp on their oh-so-normal memories.

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Last Friday Night

I suspect cocaine.

How to crash a wedding in four easy steps ²

Sometimes the most fun weddings are the one’s you aren’t actually invited to. I would know, being that in the past month, I’ve shown up to two celebrations of matrimony when I haven’t technically been on the guest list.

I’m not going to talk about the first one as I fear the story of how it all went down may make me appear to be a complete jackhole– and that’s putting it very lightly. I’m blaming my behavior on the fact that I inhaled a generous amount of spray tan fumes before deciding a litre of champagne was a wise decision.

For the record, it wasn’t a wise decision. Just ask the tw0 hundred or so people who now know Scott and I as the extremely offensive Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Jackson.

At least I had an awesome tan, though.

My second attempt at crashing was far more successful — and I didn’t even have to change my name! Want to know my secrets? Read on and before you know it, you’ll be crashing weddings with more swagger than Owen Wilson circa 2005.

1. Show up with a date.

Walking into the ceremony with some man (or lady) candy at your side gives you instant wedding street cred. Particularly if your date was actually invited. This is easily the number one way to get into a wedding without being interrogated or asked to leave. Here’s a photo of me and my date enjoying a fabulous reception at a friend’s wedding this weekend.

Yes, I realize that’s not Scott. He’s actually one of my good friends and coworkers. Dont’ worry, he’s single, so it’s only half inappropriate.

While I feel like our outing may have broken several HR policies, it was totally worth it as it allowed me to eat a large portion of tasty peach cobbler. And fancy hot dogs. Which leads me to my next tip…

2. Don’t be shy about food or drink.

You know who looks like they’re not supposed to be at a wedding? Someone who doesn’t eat or drink anything for fear of being found out.

It is for this reason that you shouldn’t allow your status as a crasher to hold you back. Go ahead…drink from the open bar and eat that second slice of cake. It makes you look like you belong.

This weekend’s wedding had an awesome spread of barbecue food including my all time favorite — fancy hot dogs. (Yes, hot dogs can totally be fancy…just Google it.) I’ve never met a hot dog I didn’t like, and chose to experience the celebration to the fullest while eating them shamelessly. And you know what? I bet everyone around me was thinking, “Wow…that girl is sure going to town on that fancy hot dog. She must totally be on the guest list….I mean, no one would dare go to a wedding and eat that much food unless they were invited.”

Mind reading. It’s a gift.

3. Dance your butt off.

I’ve found that in most cases, the success of life’s endeavors can be measured by how sweaty you are when it’s all over. A workout, an important meeting, a shopping spree, a first date, lunch at Old Country Buffet — chance’s are if you’re super sweaty at the end of one of these things, you’ve done a really good job.

The same is true for showing up uninvited to a wedding.

Furious dancing equals furious sweating. Furious dancing also equals fitting in. If both these statements are true (and they are), then I think we can all agree that furious sweating becomes a tell-tale sign of a successful crashing. I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I think the photo below proves that I’ve mastered this step.

Super sweaty AND I have boob fat! And questionable red lipstick! Triple points!

My successful sweat session is largely due to the fact that this weekend’s wedding reception holds the record for the most Britney Spear’s songs played in the history of wedding receptions. It was amazing. Combining fancy hot dogs with Britney Spears happens to be a passion of mine, and I truly don’t remember the last time I’ve had such a blast on the dance floor. I just hope none of my coworkers who witnessed my fervent booty shaking think any less of me now that they realize I’ve memorized choreography from six different Britey videos.

Fine. Seven different Britney videos.

4. Take a photograph with the bride (or groom).

If the bride or groom accepts you, you’re in. Because I always take the classy approach, I desperately snapped a photo with the woman of honor in the restroom in between Britney songs.

Isn’t she stunning? I really hope I didn’t get too much sweat on her while we were posing.

I kind of have a ginormous girl crush on the bride, and am totally flattered she was willing to take this picture with me and my sweaty, hot dog eating self. It may or may not have been the highlight of my evening.

****

There you have it. Simply follow my four easy steps and you’ll find that crashing a wedding is easy, fun, and totally classy, so long as you don’t get too carried away with the photo booth. Just don’t forget to always bring a gift, and never, under any circumstances attempt to give a toast, even if you did prepare a sentimental haiku ahead of time. You wouldn’t want to wear out your welcome, after all.

****

In the spirit of full disclosure, the bride was generous enough to send me a last-minute invitation to her big celebration when she realized I happened to be in Seattle visiting. So really, I was only semi-crashing. Hilary — thank you so much for including me in your big day. You and Justin make a beautiful couple, and you’re wedding was a touching and vibrant celebration that perfectly reflected the love you have for each other — I was honored to be a very small part of it!

I’d also like to thank my date for driving me two hours each way to the wedding, and listening to me gab the entire time. I can imagine his relief that I’m married, and he’ll never have to take me on a second date. Peter – I’m really sorry for getting extremely sweaty on the dance floor prior to climbing into your vehicle for the drive home – I’ll pay to have it shampooed if you like.

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I survived my class reunion ⁷

The grandiose gesture of me, flying back for my 10 year high school reunion was typically met with one response.

“Wait a second…you came all the way here from Minnesota just for your high school reunion??”

Yes. Yes I did.

Kind of.

To my friends and coworkers, I simply responded with, “Um, yeah. My class was kind of awesome.”

To my classmates at the reunion, I went with something along the lines of “Oh…uh…I’m just back here for work. I timed it so I could…er…come to the reunion, too.”

Technically, I did spend two days at the office, so this wasn’t a total fib.

But really? The main reason for the trip was the reunion. Judge all you want, but I loved me some high school.

Perhaps it’s because Romy & Michelle’s High School Reunion is one of my favorite movies of all time, but I’ve been looking forward to my own reunion for years, and I wasn’t going to let a mere 1,500 miles stop me from attending. I booked three ticket (yes, Jolie made the trip to Washington), and that was that. We were going to reunite with the Franklin Pierce High School class of 2002.

(“We” as in Scott and I…Jolie stayed at my parent’s house.)

(Although I was seriously considering bringing her until several people pointed out how crazy it would make me look.)

(Plus, Jolie probably would have claimed she invented Post-Its and ruined the entire night, so leaving her behind was definitely wise.)

As soon as I arrived in Seattle, I started doubting my decision to come out. The more people I talked to, the more horror stories I heard about reunions gone wrong. Comments like “Only twenty people showed up to mine,” or “Mine was a huge disappointment — we stayed for fifteen minutes and then left”, made me question my entire journey. I also started realizing that most people nowadays don’t even attend their reunion. Panic began to settle in as I realized I had just dragged my entire household halfway across the United States for a tradition that many would describe as “lame” or “overrated.” Had I done something completely pathetic? Had I spent years looking forward to something that was going to end up being a huge let down?

“Look on the bright side,” Scott suggested, “At least you’re not going to show up wearing that awful banana dress.”

The man had a point.

********

Fast forward twenty-four hours. After a whirlwind of spray tanning, teeth bleaching, and last-minute jewelry shopping, Scott and I walked into a room full of familiar faces. I knew right away that coming all the way out here had been the right decision.

I really wanted something hilarious and ridiculous to happen, and wish this blog post was a lot more snarky and over the top, but if I’m being totally honest, it was a completely pleasant evening. There was no scandal, no unfortunate incident — not even a catfight! To top it all of, I even followed all three of my high school reunion ground rules.

In fact, I only had one glass of wine over the course of four hours.

One glass of wine.

I never only have one glass of wine, you guys.

Truly, this can only be due to the fact that I was having so much fun catching up with old friends, I didn’t even care about wine.

That my friends, is how you know it’s a successful reunion.

Also? There was a taco bar.

This really made me wish I had in fact brought Jolie.

(Just saying.)

While travelling from ‘Sota to Seattle for a class reunion is quasi-ridiculous, I don’t regret it for a single second. It was a night of great conversations, great memories, and great people. There was no one-upping or weird reunion shenanigans. It was simply a group of people who were all genuinely happy to reconnect.

Well…most people were happy.

(Honestly, I think Scott was just jealous that he didn’t graduate from the most ghetto-fabulous high school in the 253.)

(Or maybe he’s just still upset that his reunion didn’t have a taco bar.)

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Tonight I’m gonna smack a chick. ³

I’ve always known that UFC fights tend to attract a rough and tumble crowd. I’d even been warned that at least a couple of fights (other than the ones in the Octagon) would probably break out in the crowd over the course of the evening. Again, this wasn’t a huge surprise.

Yet I certainly didn’t anticipate instigating one of these infamous audience brawls.

Yes, you read that right. I was the instigator.

Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?

I’ve blogged before about how UFC lightweight champion Ben Henderson happens to be one of our very close friends.

Ben and Scott making a sweatshirt pretzel.

This weekend, surrounded by dozens of Scott’s college wrestling buddies, we watched Ben’s title fight from within a pretty rockin’ suite at the Pepsi Center in Denver.

Box seats, baby!

It was incredible. We were so proud to see our friend, a truly humble and genuine person, soar to victory while maintaining his title as the UFC Lightweight champ. Truly, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

Speaking of guys…I was pretty much surrounded by them. And not just any guys. Wrestling guys. Wrestling guys who, when they are reunited, tend to horse around quite a bit. Once a wrestler, always a wrestler, I suppose.

As we exited our suite, two of Scott’s former teammates were engaging in something I can only describe as a hug that turned into a full on wrestling takedown. It probably would have been quite entertaining had I not been about three feet away from the action. When one of them stood up, he swung his arm around, accidentally punching me square in the jaw.

It hurt. Bad. I was legitimately concerned I was going to have a serious bruise across my face. As I racked my brain for the nearest place I could pick up some heavy-duty concealer, our friend, who felt absolutely terrible about the accident, apologized profusely.

I understood it wasn’t on purpose, and wanted to tell him that, yet I simply stood there, too shocked to respond. My cheek was throbbing and my chin was trembling. I looked like a toddler who falls down and scrapes their knee, and then can’t decide whether they’re going to cry or not.

If that toddler just so happened to be sporting a pair of faux-leather pants, that is.

Or competing in the “wow wear” segment of a kiddie pageant…?

Seriously, though…I hope there’s not a toddler out there with the Baby Gap version my outfit on. Faux leather + diapers = not a good look.

The good news is that after a few minutes, my face felt fine. I was even starting to find the whole incident quite humorous. When Scott, who had missed the entire episode, returned from the restroom, I decide to give him a play-by-play of me getting socked in the jaw UFC-style.

A play-by-play which included me, physically demonstrating the powerful arm swipe that had mistakenly made contact with my face. I went full out, using all the strength I could muster, so Scott might realize how hard I had actually been hit. To say I had “put my back into it” would have been an understatement.

Ultimately, my reenactment was pretty spot-on. Really, the only difference was that my powerful arm swipe ended up making contact with the face of a complete stranger.

Oops.

If looks could kill, I’m pretty sure the one she gave me was the equivalent of bleeding to death from dog bites.

She then started removing her earrings.

Being from Parkland, I know this is very bad sign.

Also a bad sign? The three teardrop tattoos under her boyfriend’s left eye.

(Scott swears they were just moles. I quickly reminded him that he wears contacts and can’t see too well in the first place. He quickly reminded me that he works in dermatology and is paid to know the difference between tattoos and moles.)

The victim and her man candy stared me down for a good ten seconds before slowly walking away. Somehow, someway, I had managed to scare them off.

I’d like to think it was because I was wearing my very best pair of stabbing shoes.

They’re illegal in the state of Wyoming.

In all actuality, they probably just realized I was surrounded by a dozen former college wrestlers. Still, I do think the shoes are partially responsible for saving my life.

Also? Let’s just say homegirl was L-U-C-K-Y I didn’t accidentally smack her with my ring-wearin’ hand.