So, internet, I have been attempting to blog for the past 5 days. I don't know what is happening, I got all, like, on a roll and stuff...and then BAM! Nothing!
Anyway, you might remember the mention of a possible Randular Festival Visit Spectacular and to be honest, I was fairly certain that good old Randular would wait until the last minute to make up his mind that he was not, in fact, going to grace us with his presence and enjoy the drunken festivities that we locals like to call Springing in the Blues. But, to my surprise, Saturday afternoon, just as Tony and I were about to venture out into the drunken abyss, I got a text that simply read: "Where are you?"
Well, hello, Randular. I am right here waiting for you. (I totally did NOT mean to quote Richard Marx there, but I mean, I kind of was and not in a girlie way, just in a lets go play way. I digress...) Thirty minutes later, the crew (not my crew but some other random posse that had just emerged), Randular, Tony and I were headed out to see the rednecks who live in town...I mean, hear the blues. I have to say, I hadn't heard of anyone who was playing this year and I still haven't. Because really, I think I got too distracted by the older, larger woman in a bathing suit who was giving lapdances to strangers at 4pm. I know, that doesn't sound distracting at all.
By the end of the night, I had run into a few old friends and a couple of newer ones, attempted to locate my cousin and his lady, and managed to go to the bar that I most despise. It was eventful, to say the least. By the time (what time? No idea) Randular and I had had enough, Tony was successfully making friends with everyone standing around us and somehow wrangling free drinks for all. Long Island Iced Teas. No. No. NO. That is the last thing I remember. I can only assume that I drank it because...well...that is the last thing I remember. I know that we left Tony at the bar because he was having fun. And I know that Randular managed to drive to my house, against everyone's better judgment, with one of his side mirrors folded it so no one would hit it when the car was...you know...parked. (What it should have been doing...being parked.)
When I woke Randular up at 5am, freaking out about the lack of a) nosering and b) lack of phone, he humored me and went out to his car to locate the new beloved BlackBerry and didn't even punch me in the throat for being a spazz and searching like a maniac for a tiny piece of metal which could have been anywhere. (Luckily, was just feet from the bed, nestled in carpet. Crisis averted.) So, naturally, I let Randular go back to sleep for a few hours until we simultaneously woke up and tried to piece together the day over a couple of cups of coffee. I tried, like I always do, to call Tony for the old obnoxious morning after phone call. But he didn't answer.
"Weird! You always answer your phone! I hope you aren't dead. If you aren't dead, call me back."
Twenty minutes later, there's Tony, banging on my door yelling about having been punched in the face and robbed on his way home. (We have narrowed it down to Redneck Townies or Beach Police, although, I happen to LOVE the beach police so I disagree with this. But as it was so delicately put to me by Tony, I am not a black man and he is.) Before we knew it, it was 11am, Scotty was pulling in to my driveway with a case of beer, and Tony was chain-smoking my cigarettes. Happy Sunday morning! Turns out, Scotty used to work with my new neighbor, so before too long, the neighbors, their dog, child and parrot, were outside on porch with us. (This is possibly the best way to meet your new neighbors, by the way.)
The rest of the day went by really quickly. Involving some pizzas and some shooters and a little bit of Missy. And by 8pm, I was at home, in bed with my beloved Ernge. Satisfied in the fact that Tony wasn't dead, the phone and nose stud were located and intact, and I got to see Randular, I was able to sleep it off. For the most part, anyway.
Some highlights of the workweek so far include:
I got an email from Casper that said, "Also, did you know that dolphins are just gay sharks?" (OVERJOYED that this was not a picture of a placenta sandwich.)
I made lasagna for the first time and realized, the moment that I put it in the oven, that Ernge had not stopped yelling since I made the sauce. All of a sudden, the fact that people always called him Garfield (hence his fatty, adorable, orangeness) all made sense to me. More so than ever.
I just poured a glass of red wine and Etta James came on my iPod. I suddenly feel like I should be slow-dancing in a dim candle-lit room with some tall handsome dude. Hmmm. Maybe tomorrow.
Brandy wrote me a song. It goes a little something like this, "C-C-C-Crizzle and the Jets, CRIZZLE, CRIZZLE, CRIZZLE...Criz-zle and the Jetttts." It sounds a little familiar to me, but it has a nice ring.
That is all for now, internet. I have to go and find someone to slow-dance with.