Cheddar FonDrew

First and foremost: Thanks (and sorry-s)  to Kate, the best webmistress-XBox RB2 singer-shoulder to cry on around, for starting my blah-g (and moving it (which was no small feat)) and then watching me not use it to the fullest extent of it purpose.

Second: Thanks (and sorry-s) to my three readers (you (and I) know who you are) and I’ll try to be more prompt in my musings and extraneous crap.

So in my last post I alluded to a wedding in CO I was to attend (and which forced me to append my ZZTop Dream-Beard). I attended said wedding and much fun was had. My sister (and obligatorily-mentioned (but still well-loved)) brother-in-law happen to live in Fort Collins so two (or three, depending on perspective) birds were killed with one stone.  That Friday Kelly and I had our customary pedicures. Her normally Smelly-Guy was thankfully un-smelly and my usually awesome, overly-attentive pedi by the owner was instead administered by my ex-girlfriend’s (equally half-assed) clone. I love getting my toes done but, as a dude, I always feel like an intruder.

The best man at the wedding, Matt (my co-best-friend back in Denver) and the groom, Cheese (his room-mate (also a wonderful friend)) had introduced me on a couple of occasions to their friend D-Joe. He seemed like a nice enough fellow but he moved back to OKC. Two years later when I was moving to OK they were like “Hey! You’ve got a mutual friend there, already!” And I was all, like, “But I’ll be in Tulsa. I’ll bug ya ’bout it when I’m settled”… Two years passed. I wind up moving to OKC.

So I fly back for the wedding and am invited to an after-rehearsal-dinner shindig at Cheese’s. It turns out D-Joe’s one of his groom’s men.  I’m reintroduced and ask “So. Where in OKC you live?” and he responds “Like 82nd and Western. It’s called the Lightning Creek Apts”. And I’m like “… I live in Lightning Creek Apts…”. It turns out we’d been neighbors for more than a year. Worse yet: The Wednesday before I flew/he drove out to CO we’d both done laundry. He’d said “Hey.” I’d said “How’s it goin’?” in that non-committal way. Small world or coincidence? (Here’s a pic of D-Joe just to break text):

The shindig turned into a night to remember. It involves 2 strip clubs, 100 miles, X-treme Drunken Driving (as a sport (I was an inebriated passenger!)), a possible (and unexpectedly) Neo-Nazi at the wheel and details more graphic (!!) than I’m willing to detail here. Much booze-bottle-smashing-on-interstate-highways was accomplished with zero repercussions (Nights like these make me want to  attempt more impossible/awful illegal endeavors). Not a good thing.

In other month-old news: I bought my first suit! And my second! (The Men’s Wearhouse had a buy one/equal value or less+ $100). My first suit looks like this:

My second suit’s a sort-of-gray-checked-Saturday-Night-Fever-Three-Piece affair. (I say that especially because I tried it on with a loaner flat-black shirt). I couldn’t have that one fitted because my gut required it be let out 3 inches and the tailor could only accommodate 2. It’s waiting for me down the street. Once I lose an inch. Or three. Plus I need to grow an ass.

The wedding itself was fine. My “date”, Matt, was obligated with Best Man duties so I was happily recognized by his ex-GF Liz. I was relieved to have someone to visit with during the ceremony. Sparks seemed to fly (I’m awfully naive (and any interest may have been equal relief/make-jealous bullshit) but ex-GF status/ex-BF status/my BF status) took care of everything. I had chocolate fondue (first time!) but it really just seemed to be decent-fruit and oh-yeah here’s a bowl of semi-warm Hershey’s Syrup to go with.

The day after I drove the rented Caddy back to Denver and spend the day with my other co-best-friend, James and his live-in Amber (“Jamber”). We spent a few hours drinking beer and touring The Great Divide Brewery. James asked a pointed question about driving propane-fueled forklifts in such an enclosed space and I was proud. I wanted to ask “If you were a hot dog…. Would you eat yourself? I know I would.” but chickened out. We walked downtown and caught the free Mall-Ride and took this pic:

They took me out for real-ass-smothered-in-Green-Chile-burrito in a re-purposed Village Inn under I-70. I got the regular. James ordered the big boy. It looked like this:

That picture was intended to show how big that burrito was compared to his face. In hindsight, it doesn’t look big enough. But, trust me, it was realllllly big.

To be continued.