So I really wanted to use the beginning of my dear Tupac’s song that involved “change,” but there happens to be a bad word in that, and I ain’t risking it. Anyway, changes are a’coming because I don’t get off work until 8:30 at night with this job (I know! I’m going to miss so much TV and personal reading time with my favorite Celia Rivenbark). I’m not sure how many posts I’ll get to a week, but here’s one for this week.
As I’m guessing you figured, I’m reading another Celia Rivenbark book, Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like A Tramp. You want to know why I like her? Because I understand where she is coming from. I’m fairly positive that when I’m becoming the good Southern mama I’ll be one day, I’m going to be very close to what she is. I’ve always said that I’ll end up being friends with the stripper moms. I plan on being the drunk mom. After all, Mrs. Rivenbark was the one who said you can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the morning.
I know a while ago I was all about Chuck Klosterman and his humor writing, but I’m at a point in my life where that is just too deep for me. I don’t mind admitting I’m shallow. I watch movies for the cute guys. I like spending money on clothes and have way too many. I have a shoe addiction, and I think the best dinner, as apparently does Shemar Moore during his interview today on The Talk, is ice cream and wine. (Or in my case tonight, a combination of pizza bread, deer BBQ, ice cream, and leftover Heat Wave from my party Saturday night. Hey, I’m with FGL, here’s to the good times.) I like Rivenbark’s books because I can relate to them. I know how crazy it is to be the hick in a world of prissy yuppies. Her books are the kind I write in my dream job. Let’s give it a try now…
I’m the reigning queen of karaoke night
(Give Rednecks A Chance to Celebrate and See What Happens After “Hey, Y’all! Watch This!”)
This past Saturday I was the first in my family to graduate from college. I may have also been the first in my hometown to do this, but I’m not sure. Someone may have escaped, and we just don’t know it. That, of course, calls for a celebration–also known as the first backyard bash of the year.
When we were planning the menu, my mama asked me what I wanted. Normal people would expect hot dogs, hamburgers, salad, whatever. I said deer barbeque and cornbread. Hey, I like to eat. You should see me devour an entire pan of cornbread…and half a pizza bread loaf…and cake…and barbeque…and so much more. Ugh! No wonder I couldn’t move the next day. My mother, being the good Southern mama she is, always worries we never have enough food. She tends to pull what my aunt Odie did at a church function before she passed and goes into the bathroom to pray we have enough food. We like to assume if God can hear you in a church, and he’s all omnipotent and whatnot, then he can hear you in the bathroom–obviously, the only place you can get some privacy in my house…and that’s not always guaranteed. We got some nosy and smart cats around here.
Though, the food isn’t even an important part of the party. (Unless you are me and you stuff your face the entire time. Darn, cornbread.) We’re drinkers around here. It don’t matter what it is. If it’s an excuse to drink, we’ll use it. Heck, we don’t even need an excuse, but it’s nice to have. Mom’s cousin shows up and immediately yells, “Is that a Mason jar? What’s in that thing? Let me try.” Then, she turns to who new boyfriend–not from the country by far–and makes him take a swing. “What is it,” he asks. Oh, you yuppies. There’s only one delicious drink that comes out of a Mason jar, and it ain’t sweet tea–though we’ll drink that out of them, too.
If that’s not enough, we have some newly weds in the family. And by newly weds, I mean they are on their second marriage, but they just got hitched so it’s all the same. Now, they’ve been together for quite a while. The wife is the mom of my best friend from high school. I was talking to her about Brittany when we here, “What ya doin’ over there, babe?” Without missing a beat, my second mama raises her glass, replies, “Drinkin’,” and continues to tell me about something called Two Finger Tequila. I don’t even want to know, but they’re married so God can over look that…I think.
The party slowly died down. I think after you have the 2-year-old singing “Country Girl Shake It For Me,” “Red Solo Cup,” and “Boys ‘Round Here,” you can’t really top it. (You try reading Marvin K. Mooney, Will You Please Go without laughing, as your toddler sings “Chew backa, chew backa, chew backa, pit.” Dr. Seuss is rolling over in his grave.) People leaving does not mean the party is over, however.
Sometime in the night (I really lost track of time), it dwindled down to me, my parents, Michael, Devin, and two of our neighbors, Sherman and Andy. Now, it’s not the first time we’ve drank with Sherman or that he’s been to our house all hours of the night. He’s a pretty cool dude. We’ve never drank with Andy though. Let me tell you, he might be some fancy pants millionaire from D.C., but he belongs right here in good ol’ Dargan. I don’t think there’s anything the man hasn’t done. He was in a band that toured. He worked for Washingtonian. He’s done everything.
Him telling us about the magazine job was the highlight of the stories. After my dad and I had sang karaoke to the six of us (I pretty much rock some Pistol Annies. I told Sherman Daddy sings when he’s been drinking, though, and he didn’t believe me. Who was right?), Andy tells us that he partially quit the magazine because they kept telling him he looks like Jeffery Dahmer. I don’t see it, but it led to a very insightful conversation about killers. It’s a topic I enjoy. Don’t judge me. Then, we realized Sherman had stopped talking. Mr. Blue Moon had his butt kicked and fell asleep by the bonfire (Apparently not the first time this has happened). I hit him to wake up. Nothing. I hit him again. Nothing. Finally, he snapped to and tried to act as if nothing happened. Good try. Some of us just aren’t as good as we once were.
I am not one of them. I swear. I didn’t start going down hill after 21. Ugh! Let’s just see how bad 22 is in a few weeks.
Okay, that’s it. How’s I do? Think Celia would give me some tips? Or at least drink with me? I’ll take either one.