Julia and Matthew went and got hitched. Much to my chagrin, Matt's last name does not happen to be Goolia. Ah well.
The wedding kicked ass, and congratulations to the new Mr. and Mrs. But this is my blog, so it's all about me on these here internets.
So now I'd like to go over a few things I learned about myself during my weekend in Statesboro, Georgia:
Evidently my skill as an orator is purely subjective. It depends solely on the preceding speaker, and whether or not the topic happens to be, "Disney movies really get me hot."
I do have self-control. When faced with a potentially disastrous opportunity like open access to the bride's Facebook account on her wedding day, as she's occupied with beauty rituals, I can resist any urge to update her status with "Julia is on a bus to Mexico," or "Julia is still so wasted." I can opt instead for "Julia is getting married today!" No, I don't regret that blown chance at all.
I am officially the fierce single sister. No, really, someone I had never met before knew this about me. Holla!
I am a dance machine, and it clearly runs in the family. My niece and nephew? Dude, they can breakdance at two years old. My mother and I might have gotten into a booty-dropping contest. And I definitely got a "whoa, a little too much" at one point.
I am positive that I ate something as a child that stunted my growth. My guesses? The McDonald's fish sandwiches or the tri-flavor popcorn from a tin. I've always been the family shrimp, but the height gap keeps expanding. I look like I stumbled out of Munchkin Land in most of the wedding photos.
Beer and cake are a classy combination, and I'm classy chick for loving the hell out of it.
Nope, still can't pull off a strapless dress. IBTC, FTW.
I like Target. I don't own a lot of household items, clothing or accessories from Target, as their cheap (not-made-in-the-USA) crap tends to fall apart just as quickly as anything you'd buy from a cart in Times Square. But they tend to have a lot of polka dot items. And I like polka dots. Because I'm five.
And if you ever, ever say Target with a soft "g" and a French accent, I will slap you in the face. Two slaps for letting it slip out without any hint of irony.
So I went to Target last week to purchase a couple of necessities: a gift bag and post-Easter-sale Cadbury eggs.
When I got to the checkout line, the lady in front of me frantically swirled around and held up a pink baby outfit. "This is supposed to be for a 12-month-old, but doesn't it look like it's more for an 18-month-old?"
I don't think she caught the utter blankness of my stare.
"Is this more for a 12-month-old or an 18-month-old?" she asked, clearly in a hurry at the cash register.
"Uh, I uh, I don't know anything about that."
She held the outfit up a little higher, looked at it, looked at me, clearly expecting an answer.
"I'm really sorry, I don't know babies."
The woman was looking at me like I had three heads and flames shooting out of my butt.
The chick behind me came to the rescue. "Oh, that'll be fine for a 12-month-old," she assured the visibly irritated (at me) woman. And then she gave me an all-knowing-that's-OK-sweetie-I've-seen-those-shows-about-those-weird-still-single-in-their-thirties-women-that's-some-funny-shit-and-I-sympathize look.
Um, since when was every woman expected to have a Baby PhD? I missed that memo. I didn't even know how to change my (totally more adorable than yours, btw) niece and nephew's diapers when they were babies...like, last year. Why would I know these things?
So I paid for my sundries, and Little Miss Know-It-All behind me proceeded to the front.
"Excuse me, ma'am," she said to Large Marge at the register, "but I ate one of the bananas in that bunch. I was just going to pass out if I didn't. The man over there in the grocery area said I could."
I could instantly tell just from the expression on Marge's face that her opinion of Know-It-All was right in line with mine. Know-It-All - all 105 pounds of her - was decked out in her cute exercise outfit, with her hair and makeup just so. Her groceries consisted of bananas (minus one), bottled water, and two bottles of wine.
"Was the banana meant to be complimentary?" inquired Marge.
I slowly gathered my things.
"Um, no? But that man. He said I could. Can't you just ring up an extra banana or something? I was just starving."
"No. I can't just ring up a banana. You ate it, so it's gone. You took the banana."
I could just feel Know-It-All shrinking in her tights.
"Don't worry about it, ma'am. From now on, please be sure you pay for your groceries before consuming them."
The gift bag I purchased was for my baby sister's bachelorette party. (The other, ahemalsoyounger, sister is already married.) Being the, um, least conservative of the three, I was in charge of providing the penis straws. Which I did.
My sister aced the scavenger hunt I created for her, which included such items as, "Get a group of guys to sing You've Lost that Loving Feeling to you," and "Tell someone how great your ass is, and make him believe it." Kudos.
The most-heard advice of the night? "Don't do it." Agreed.
But, since my sister insists, I wish her and Matthew all the happiness in the world.
