Snakes in the Grass

Snake in the grass. Who knew that one little idiom could have such a real impact on my life the past several months?

.....As an aside, I must tell this one hilarious story about idioms. My dear friend is an ESOL teacher (bless her heart) and made all of her students come to class with an idiom to share and examine with the class. Well one student who had struggled all year but had made significant recent progress came in with this little gem, "Don't piss on my back and call it rain." HI-LARIOUS. But, I digress.....

So, snakes in the grass. Let's refer to the holy grail of all definition searches, Urban Dictionary. According to Urban Dictionary, a snake in the grass can be defined as:
1) "A shady, conniving person who could strike at anytime without warning. Similar to a gorilla in the mist."
2) "(eBay terminology) Someone who watches an auction but doesn't bid until the last minute."
And my personal favorite:
3) "The Punk Bitch who secretly loves your girlfriend and will strike at any weak moment in your relationship."

There are a lot of things that I have been trying to improve about myself in recent years; one key trait is that of forgiveness. It is no secret that I am not the most forgiving of people, normally if you screw me over in any fashion there is a good chance that you are going on ice in the cooler for several years - but I'm aware of it, and I'm working on it.

This summer I tried to flex my forgiveness muscles with several people. One in particular being a young man (certainly cannot be called a man), who had wronged me pretty severely back in college. He has a long history of being a douche but recently life had given him a swift kick to the crotch and I thought that perhaps he might have actually changed his ways.

In my effort for personal growth, I let go of the events that had transpired in our past and tried to be a good friend to this guy. He was employed (something he had never been in his life), generous, funny; it seemed as though he had really turned a corner from the guy that he used to be and was trying to be a better person. Too bad he's actually a psychopathic, abusive, spoiled little bitch.

I let my guard down, self-disclosed with this young man as I had when we were friends in college, and allowed him to see me in various vulnerable states - things I am not in a habit of doing. Meanwhile, there are red flags being thrown in my face by the invisible referees that I imagine run along side of me throughout my life, "he's verbally abusing your 'friend!'" "he's talking about you behind your back!" "he's throwing money around just to get you to like him!" If I had more carefully reviewed all of these calls by my life referees (how you like that analogy?), perhaps the ugliness that transpired between us recently would not have happened. But, perhaps it would have.

Douchey McSpoiledBrat hadn't changed at all. I've got the e-mails to prove it. And as for the 'friend' that he was abusing - well that's just a whole 'nother "Becky of the Week" post - and trust me, you'll want to read all about it.

The fact of the matter is that forgiveness is something that we should all be practicing on the regular, but forgiveness doesn't have to equal carte blanche. People can, and do, change, but some people are not going to change without medication and the care of a professional. I guess that the lesson in all of this is that before I go letting people all up in my business that I should vet them a little bit better - an important lesson to have learned before moving to a new city to make new friends. My heart is open to new relationships and experiences, but my eyes are open to all those punk bitches out there.

Don't Take Your Insecurities Out On Me...

Growing up in Northern Virginia you come into contact with a lot of different types of people. I, having attended the fine educational institution that is Thomas A. Edison high school, was able to interact with people from all walks of life – people from different races, ethnicities, religions and socioeconomic statuses. I also dated a boy who attended one of the private Catholic schools here and spent a considerable amount of time with people from various elitist private schools in the area. Now I will admit that there were some boys from my own high school who were not the nicest people on the planet, but it was through hanging out with these private school kids that I discovered an entirely separate species of male called the ‘Super Dick.’

You can often recognize this species by his uber preppy garb – think, seersucker shorts and a flamboyantly colored polo shirt (as an aside, I will say that I often think that this look is very attractive if pulled off correctly, hence my habit of engaging with these fools). This is not to say that all boys that wear preppy clothing are part of the Super Dick species – it is simply one of the many ways to identify them in the metropolitan wild.

The most easily recognizable trait of the Super Dick is their sense of entitlement. Most of them have been raised by parents who treat them as though they are somehow inherently better than the rest of us – moreso, that they are inherently better than women in general. They falsely believe that the world somehow owes them something and as a result they believe that women can never, and will never, be as smart, capable or worth what they and the rest of their species fancy themselves to be.

I have had more than my fair share of run-ins with the Super Dick. Because I have never subscribed to the idea that women should be seen and not heard often times these run-ins have ended rather poorly. The most common outcome of my engagements with the species is to somehow be cut down in a way that only men have the power to do – to be called a slut, or a whore, or some variation of this vile venom. Women do not have the verbal power to retaliate against such comments because it not really a terrible term to call a man (if you would like my further insight on this topic I would be happy to send you a paper that I wrote in my ‘Rhetoric and Aesthetics in Everyday Life’ course from grad school).

The only explanation for this behavior is pure and simple – plain old INSECURITY. Because the Super Dick has been raised to believe that he is somehow more intelligent (which by my observation has never actually been proven to be true), gifted, athletic, attractive, etc., than the rest of the human population, they simply cannot handle it if you attempt to shatter this distorted reality that they exist in.

I will admit that it has to be very sad and alarming to grow up thinking that you are some great thing and not have things pan out that way. If someone has been telling you how incredibly good looking you are your whole life and suddenly you reach the age where you realize that perhaps that is simply not the case and that you are average looking at best – that has got to be rough; but you know what – that is NOT MY PROBLEM and it is completely unacceptable to take your cognitive dissonance out on me. So to all you Super Dicks out there the world over (we all know you run rampant in NoVa), do us ladies a favor and buy yourself some time on the couch and try to move on from your hang-ups. It is about time that you evolved anyway.

Hey Nimrod, Stop Pre-Authorizing My Card...

Spent another weekend in magical Bethany Beach last week and somehow ended up at Fager's in Ocean City two nights in a row - totally unnecessary. As a result of the shenanigans at what is easily one of the most 'white-trash-people-per-capita' locations on the East coast, my ladies and I found ourselves the next day with a hankering for some dirty, dirty food. As luck would have it, the mecca that is 'Boardwalk Fries' was walking distance from our beach towels and we were able to satiate our need for grease around mid-afternoon.

In my opinion, if you're going to shovel processed meat and starch down your gullet, either go big or GTFOOH. In this vain, the three of us all ordered the "chicken lunch" - but this is no ordinary lunch special, this baby is two delicious chicken tenders on top of french fries all neatly packed into...... a sand bucket (complete with a tiny little shovel). I couldn't have been happier.

So, I order my chicken bucket of dreams and hand my debit card over to slackjawed Scully behind the register and he proceeds to run my card over, and over, and over, and over, and over, AND OVER AGAIN. "It's not werkin!" He exclaimed. "QUIT DOING THAT!" I replied. I watched in horror as he continued to swipe my card but was somewhat relieved when only one receipt printed out - whew, crisis averted right? Um no. So wrong.

I get home on Sunday night and I'm too deliriously tired to pick up the computer to check my bank statement, so bright and early Monday morning I check the old account and BLAMMO, that moron pre-authorized $150 worth of Boardwalk Fries to my checking account. Are you f-ing kidding me? I won't even let myself buy a dress without it being on sale and using a coupon code, do you really think I'm going to drop $150 on chicken-in-a-bucket?!!? I took a deep breath and just allowed myself to think positively that perhaps the charges would go away - no such luck. Sure enough, more than $70 worth of greasy beach shame posted to my account.

In an effort to avoid the whole 'disputing the charges' debacle that ultimately ensues from this type of nonsense, I tried calling the Bethany Beach Boardwalk Fries. You know who I spoke to? A man named Frank, who assured me that he did not in fact work at Boardwalk Fries and that he has had his phone number for more than two years (thanks for NOTHING Google search). So I emailed the corporate office. A lady named "Pat" informed me that the Bethany shop is not corporately owned and that I would have to get in touch with the franchise owner named George who I ended up leaving four voicemails, I have yet to hear from this "George" who must be one of the richest people on the planet because charging people $10.45 for chicken and ice tea is absolutely ridiculous.

Cut to me calling my bank this morning:

*S* - "Oh yes, good morning, I need to dispute some of the charges on my debit card."
Teller - "Let me transfer you."
Manager - "What can I do for you today?"
*S* - "Unfortunately I need to dispute some of the charges on my debit card, the account number is ____ and the charges are all for $10.45.
..........I hear the manager type, type, typing away, and then, I hear him SNICKERING.
Manager - "I believe I see the charge that you are talking about."
*S* - "I SWEAR I DID NOT EAT $150 WORTH OF BOARDWALK FRIES LAST WEEKEND."
Manager - .....cannot stop laughing.....
*S* - "This is so embarrassing."
Manager - "I'm sorry, but you'll have to come into the branch and sign an affidavit saying that you were overcharged."

AN AFFIDAVIT?!?! FOR CHICKEN?!?!

Needless to say, I put on the biggest sunglasses I own and strolled into the Burke and Herbert this afternoon to get this whole mess straightened out. Moral of the story: Fast food kills. Not only does it kill your body, but it kills your bank account and in this case, your self-esteem too.

But you know what? I really can't wait to get another one of those lunch buckets when I'm back at the beach - but I think I'll pay cash this time.

I LOVE MY WHOLE HOUSE!!!

When it rains it pours people. Apologies for the delay in witty rudeness but I have had a very busy schedule of organizing, planning, organizing some more and boozing.

Unfortunately as a result I have a backlog of awesome material to cover and so some of these posts might just be a little backassward.

There have been a lot of great things going on (reunions with loves, kicking off my feet on the pike, Beckying up Delaware), but there have also been some really yucky things going on. In an effort to push past these yucky things, I am going to take a life lesson from this little gem and start trying to do my own daily affirmations whilst standing on my sink. Standby for video proof in a few days (maybe).

"When was the last time you had truly mind blowing sex?" - some Rick

This little gem of a quote was said to me at approximately 2 a.m. at the Lighthouse in Dewey Beach (yes, I was there blowing my paychecks on double vodkas and assorted suntan lotions). The rest of the engagement went a little something like this..... wait, let me paint a visual image; this guy was about 6'4'' with dark hair and features (sounds good right?), but he was wearing a black and white gingham checkered print shirt unbuttoned so you could see his gnarly chest hair and he had the creepiest of 'best-guyfriend-sidekicks' who was giving me looks that would have ashamed his mother. Now onto the encounter:

Moron: "When was the last time that you had truly mind blowing sex?"
S: "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"
Moron: "It's a very serious question."
S: "I understand that it's a very serious question."
Moron: "Because if your answer isn't 'today' then I am here to change that for you. You are way too hot to not be having mind blowing sex everyday."
S: "I'll tell you what is blowing my mind right now, this conversation. And I am never having any kind of sex with you."

This is just one of possibly hundreds of the exact same scenario that my girlfriends and I experienced during what can only be considered 'Spring Break for Young Professionals.' I have seen a lot of raging in my day, but this Memorial Day weekend in Delaware was one for the books. I don't know if it was the brutal winter that we all experienced in the DMV, or the high rate of unemployment or what it was that contributed to how phenomenally ridiculous EVERYONE was behaving. I went to Ocean City last summer for Memorial Day and it was definitely out of control, but this, this was so much more than that.

While most of the events of this weekend will be tucked away in my little 'well I guess that I can check that one off the life list' file, some of the stories are simply too good to not share. For example, one of my friends actually SLEPT at the Rusty Rudder. Not. Kidding. At. All. We awoke on Sunday morning and drove from Bethany back to Dewey to pick up TQ's car (big ups to TQ for being the ultimate superstar of the weekend), and as we're pulling out of our parking spot, our friend who had gone missing walks in front of our car! (These moments of happenstance took place all weekend long, it was magical). We're getting our iced coffees in an attempt to return to our human forms and he proceeds to let us know that he fell asleep in a BOOTH at the Rudder and woke up Sunday morning to a small yappy dog nipping at his ankles and morning-shift servers getting their sections ready. WTF right? So awesome.

Other amazing things that came out of this weekend include several new key terms that will be incorporated into my vocabulary for most of the foreseeable future (and hopefully the rest of my life. My dear friend Coco Deluxe has been calling random white girls Becky's for sometime now and prior to departing for the beach I was listening to 95.5 and one of the DJ's said "and everyone remembers how Tiki Barber left his wife earlier this year for some Becky...." Thus, this entire weekend was spent referring to the plethora of dumb broads everywhere as Becky's. We of course needed a complimentary term for the schlew of random white dudes present and thus coined the term Rick. This lead to such hilarious incidents such as:

TQ: Listen here Rick, we're not trying to talk to you.
Moron: What's a Rick?
S: YOU ARE.

All in all, this was probably the most incredible kick-off to summer that I have ever experienced. I truly don't know how any other weekend is going to measure up but something tells me that Summer 2K10 is going to be the stuff of legends.

One thing that I am positive of is that my political career is officially ruined. Thanks for nothing Dewey Beach. I hate you. And by hate you, I mean I'll see you in two weeks.

Maybe a Dingo Ate Your Baby

So there I was, on facebook minding my own business (ha!), and BAM. You know what you did. You posted a very inappropriate image on your profile. Your sonogram.

Gross. Ew. Gross.

I turn 27 tomorrow and lots of my "friends" out there are procreating, not that there's anything wrong with that, but do you need to lose your common sense in the process? You're posting a picture of the inside of your UTERUS for all to see.

And that baby that's growing inside there - no matter how many people "like" your picture or comment "how cute!", they're lying. That baby looks like an alien baby bird right now... that's why it's on the inside. Mother Nature is smart enough to keep that baby and all it's tissue, organs, fluid tucked nicely inside that cute little pouch of yours so that people still like you while you're all hormonal and annoying. Just keep in mind the concept of TMI.

Another "friend" wrote something about how she can't believe how much she has to pee. Seriously, that was her status. How about you think about your pregnancy as any other medical condition. Although some people do share the details of their experiences while having the flu, it's generally frowned upon. No one cares about the frequency of your urination except you, your doctor, perhaps your baby daddy, and other pregnant people like you. So, I don't know... like talk amongst yourselves.

It's not like I expect you to censor your facebook for me personally. I, of course, have defriended you or hidden you from my newsfeed, but just think about the identity you're putting out there. And remember the person you were before you got knocked up. You didn't like to see sonograms then, did you? Probs not.

Pictures while you're pregnant, like from your baby shower, totally OK. We like to see how fat you got and whether you're cute pregnant or ugly pregnant. Birthday parties and other milestones your child goes through are also ok, because most little kids are cute and often times it's hysterical to see you in charge of a child when the most important thing in your life used to be whether you were next up on the beer pong table.

XOXO,
B

"There is nothing wrong with America that cannot be cured by what is right with America." - William Jefferson 'Bill' Clinton

Memorial Day means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. For high schoolers, it means that summer break is just around the corner and so is the sweet taste of freedom (too bad the kids will still be in class until we celebrate America's birthday because of the Snowpocolypse). For many young professionals in the DMV, Memorial Day means sitting in seven hours of traffic so that they can blow their hard earned paychecks on sweet tea vodka and STD medication in the hook-up haven that is Dewey 'Beach.' Parents, young children, all have different ides of what Memorial Day means; but there are several facts about Memorial Day that transcend these aged-defined mental images - pools are open and we should be thankful for those who have fought for our freedom and our Country.

In this vain I will attempt to recreate a conversation that I had with B about a week ago regarding her current forms of personal identification.

b: I think that I'm going to get a Texas driver's license, they won't let you buy alcohol at HEB with a Virginia state license.
s: WHAT, that's completely unacceptable.
b: I know, on top of that, they gave me a hard time at the liquor store and basically said they would let it go this time but that I needed to get a Texas ID.
s: Well that's just ridiculous. You know my sister tried to use her passport to buy beer at HEB and they denied her which is just unacceptable. A passport is an AMERICAN identification. This is not the United States of Texas, this is the United States of AMERICA. Next time you get into a situation (hahaha 'situation'), you just throw around the word America as much as you can.

So everyone, on this glorious 'state required work furlough so that it's a four-day weekend,' let us all remember why we get to do the ridiculous things that we Americans like to do like take pole dancing classes, drive gas guzzling SUVs and eat processed foods; it's because of the people that have chosen to put their lives on the line for us. So break out the spray tans and slice up the limes because summertime is here bitches.