Monthly Archives: June 2010

Listen. It’s been real, but I have to go wash my hair now.

Here’s the thing ya’ll. I know last time I wrote about being all googoo for boys and losing my cool and whatnot. It happens to the best of us, and plus we weren’t talking about me, we were talking about you. But today I am lamenting the fact that I sometimes find myself being the dude. Yes, occasionally I get dumped or passed by or whatever, but at least I take a hint. Nothing is less classy than the inability to let go of a relationship, after one party has made it abundantly clear the door is closed. When you are dismissed, nod your head, have a little pity party, get angry for a couple minutes then move forward. And do not go crawling back for your own leftovers. It is not cute. It’s like (warning: unpleasant) how cows chew their food, digest it part way, then re-chew it again. So gross, but it’s a perfectly apt comparison.

So why am I the dude? I think maybe because some dudes need to read He’s Just Not That Into You and realize it works both ways. Is there a version out there for men? She’s Just Not That Into You? There should be. A quick google search tells me it doesn’t exist, so maybe I should partner with the author of the original and crank that out. Anywho. Seems like the stereotype is guy meets girl, guy likes girl for a little bit, girl sees wedding bells and future babies, guy decides he doesn’t like her, moves on, girl is devastated and keeps calling/texting/facebooking/inappropriately being mean and bitter on social media sites, etc. and can’t let go or move on until she finds Mr. Man of Her Dreams, Runner Up. I believe that it is an under-acknowledged happening when the girl moves on and the guy doesn’t. We are not all soft and googoo and wishy-washy wedding wishers all the time. See previous post, but remember most the time we are cool and collected, and know there are sites like match.com should we ever grow weary of meeting guys at bars or become desperate.

The situations can vary, but the best example of this is when you get cast aside. You’re not really dating him, but you go out a couple times maybe, he expresses interest in you, you express interest in him, it’s super fun. Then in pretty short order he changes his mind, for any number of reasons including but not limited to: an ex he can’t get over, he’s just not that into you, different places in life, he’s just not that into you, or perhaps he prefers blonds, which = he’s just not that into you. [It’s a trend because it’s a fact, sorry.] So you think, well that sort of stinks. He was really  nice, and good looking, and you thought you had a lot in common and you saw it possibly progressing nicely. You had a good time. But you know what? Everything happens for a reason. He’s not right for you because he’s not over the moon for you, so you shrug it off, mentally place him in the friend zone and move on. And things are fine for a bit. You still hang out, still get drinks after work, still hang with the same crowd and it’s not awkward for anyone and that’s fab. But he seems to forget sometimes that he said no thanks. He is inconsistently crossing the friend zone border, and your border control is working overtime to keep him behind enemy lines. Not cute ya’ll.

Let’s switch perspectives, since this actually happened to me. It is one thing to flirt and be cute while in the friend zone. That’s fun. And if you are both adults and communicate about where you stand with each other, it’s harmless (which in my opinion makes it more fun). But this is not that kind of friend zone breach. I don’t care if you flirt with me after you dump me. I will flirt back, and you’re welcome. But do not pretend to be my man when we go out. Do not try to be cute and fake-coupley in public. Do not do the possessive guy thing in which you assert yourself on me so other dudes think I’m with you. Please do not block people from talking to me, guys or girls. I will cut you. And lawd, do not make moves on me. Some girls may go for it, but you found out when you first met me what kind of girl I am. If you say no thanks to a relationship with me, you do not get any other goodies on the side. Except my friendship and my presence. And I am not such a pushover that I will acquiesce to your whiles because you think you are smooth. Don’t make me remind you that you had your chance, and now it’s time to let the other little boys have a turn, mmk pumpkin?

If you really and truly have changed your mind (it happens) then win me over the real man way. Take me out. Buy me diamonds and a Lamborghini. Whatever. But do not breach the friend zone without proper consent, because my border control is far better than Arizona’s and you shall not pass.

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The Ultimate Cool Head

Lately I have been contemplating a couple things, shockingly relating to boys and dating. I know, something new for once. Don’t lie, you love it, because this jank applies to everyone, even grown-ups. I say that like I’m not a grown-up…I guess the verdict is still out. I do own my own vehicle now though so I think I get points for that. Moving on.

Let’s close our eyes for a minute. Hypothetically I guess, since you can’t close your eyes and read at the same time. So eyes “closed”, picture in your head the ultimate cool single chick. She’s good looking, the kind that’s super hot but also cute and super confident and not trashy. She’s put together, has her life together – good job, pays her own bills, holds her own in the big bad world. She dates and has had boyfriends in the past but nothing has stuck so far, and really she’s not too worried. She lets the  boys come to her, doing minimal work and being the first to call never. She feels good because she knows she’s got it, but she’s also read “He’s Just Not That Into You” so she knows when to let go. [Side note: this is not a self portrait of Miss Sassy, although admittedly there are some common elements.] Got the picture? I bet you can think of at least 3 to 5 ladies in your life (including yourself or not) that fit this general profile. They’re super cool, super collected, and very rational thinkers. Right? Yes. Until…

Now let’s pretend this is you. Because, come one ladies, you are super cool and collected 24/7. Work it. So you’re going on your merry way through life, no cares, no worries, bills paid, friends made (dang, what a rhyme), when you find yourself being pursued by a suitor (yes suitor, go with it). He’s super cute, very smart, gentlemanly, totally your type and excellent on paper. Getting points left and right for all the cute things he’s saying, doing, not doing, etc. etc. making those around you want to vom because it’s so freaking cute. Yeesh. But it’s still new and you’re still feeling each other out (not literally, come on people minds out of the gutter). You think you like him but it’s not love at first sight and you’re totally cool with the casualness, slow-ish pace things are moving. You’re in no hurry, since your friends all around you are dropping like flies to marriage and babies (I swear this is not a self-portrait). And plus, you have the power right now. He’s calling you, asking you out, texting you first, initiating everything. He is seeking you out and this gives you the power to say yes or no. You like it this way. Who doesn’t? I’m old fashioned so I like it this way, and you should too. But…

Then one day you happen to notice, you’ve been the one initiating texts, calling first, asking about plans, etc. Not obsessively of course, but maybe you catch yourself writing a text and realize…this is not the first time you’ve done this. And in fact you can’t remember when the last time he initiated a communique. Hm. What has happened? You send the text anyway. He takes more than 5 seconds to respond so your mind is racing. Why isn’t he answering? Is he seeing someone else?? What did I do?! You try to find your cool head and brush it off, thinking you will start paying more attention. After this, you will go back to the original (and right) way of doing things and let him come to you. If he doesn’t, then you’ll know you can move on. But you can’t! Because now things are inconsistent. He’s busy. You’re busy. He used to text you every day and make at least one phone call and now it’s all weird. You find yourself unable to resist asking him what his plans are, seeing if you can fit yourself in there somewhere. You’re thinking about it all day, it’s distracting you from work, your doubting yourself constantly. YOU, Miss Independent, Miss Hot Confidence, Miss Work-That-Up-Do, has doubts! And you know it’s happened. The power has shifted. You no longer hold the situation in the palm of your hand. You no longer have the freedom to maybe decline one of his invites, knowing he’ll call or ask again. Now, the ball is in his court.

I loathe these situations. Who doesn’t? It can take the most confident and carefree gal and turn her into crock pot of low self confidence, mixed with self-doubt, self-loathing, a side of magnified and exaggerated faults, with mood swings and daily bad hair days on the side. Nothing helps, not even that new hair spray you bought. You get dressed in the morning knowing you look good and ready for the day, then less than an hour later with still no “good morning” flirty text or anything you’re completely miserable. Then by lunch time you’ve written it off and are oh-so-over it, especially because the sandwich guy at Jason’s Deli winked at you and gave you a little boost. Then driving home from work you’re depressed again, wondering what you should do all alone at your apartment. But then he sends a cute text and you’re all googoo again. Ladies, why on EARTH do we let this happen? I have no idea. And it has happened to me plenty-o-times, let me tell you. Or ask Momma Sassy, since she’s my pitying ear 99% of the time. I personally blame hormones, but this is a bad excuse. We should never let ourselves be tricked into begging for time on some dude’s supposedly “busy” calendar. I have said this before a hundred billion times. If he’s worth it, he’ll make the effort. And if he stops making the effort, there is always a reason. And that reason is usually something along the lines of he’s just not that into you. If you disagree, you’re wrong. Dudes? Am I right? Thought so.

Of course as with any situation, there are few exceptions. FEW, meaning, maybe one or two in a lifetime of guys will be the exception to this rule. Men are simple. If they decide they don’t like you, they’ll stop spending lots of time on you. If he was truly a nice guy, you could keep it in the friend zone and add him to the list of good looking men you surround yourself with. If he turned out to be a top notch douche bag, then perhaps it’s time to just say goodbye for realz. I know sometimes it’s hard to tell, but go with your gut. And always keep in mind, when you are feeling especially emotional, consider what time of the month it is before making any decisions. Sometimes you have to step back and tell yourself to put down the phone, and take a nap instead. Because remember, angry/accusatory/passive aggressive texts and irrational behavior are not sassy and are especially not classy. Be cool, calm, classy, and collected and they will come buzzing like bees to honey.  And never forget the dash of sass. Happy Friday!

Big Hat, No Cattle.

Who doesn’t love this phrase I have learned recently?! Big hat, no cattle. It’s gloriously southern, to the point, charming, and seems to me can be used in a wide variety of contexts. I am pretty much in love with this phrase and will probably add it to the list of words that I apparently overuse on the regs. It is especially versatile and I’m really quite excited to put it in practice as often as possible. Since I had to get an explanation, I’ll assume I’m not the only one who’s unsure what it means – especially since I know some of you readers are yanks, I know ya’ll need some extra guidance. Miss Sassy is here to learn you once again, don’t worry.

My favorite and probably the most excellent example of how this phrase can be used is when referencing a big talkin man. You know, the kind with big egos who yack at the mouth about all their crazy skillz with women. Miss Sassy of course knows nothing about any sort of anything about these supposed and rumored skills, however she does have a fantastic BS meter! And this weekend, it was tested and proved to be in good working order.

Friday night, Roomz and I found ourselves with some friends at this cool place in downtown Ralz called Hibernian. It’s the perfect place for seeing, being seen, meeting and mingling. There’s at least 4 different bars, plenty of seating, a cute little outdoor patio perfect for people watching, and the music isn’t too loud. Nothing worse than zero conversation because I can’t even hear myself think. Anywho, so Roomz and I are on our last drink, closing out tabs, beginning to think better of the shots we just took, when Roomz spots a real live cowboy across the bar. She’s from Pennsylvania and has never seen a man in a cowboy hat and boots (and tight jeans and a big belt buckle if you must know) so she wants a picture. I don’t have my camera but we don’t discover that until we’ve already drawn him into conversation. So we’re chatting and then mid-convo, he leans over to me and asks for my number. Oy. Roomz excuses herself thinking she’s doing me a favor, meanwhile in my head I’m screaming please don’t leave me with this tool! Too late. I hesitate, thinking that I’m about to say my usual: no thanks, I don’t give out my number, sorry. But then I say “I’m moving in 3 weeks, does that change your mind?” (cute right!) He says he doesn’t care and I shrug and hear myself say “um, sure.” I know, so enthusiastic. He’s excited, it’s kind of cute. I’m still trying to decide if he’s actually good looking or if it’s just the hat that drew me in. We chat for a couple minutes about standard things. Where do you work? What do you do? Where are you from? I ask a bit more unconventional questions like, “Are you really a cowboy?” and “Why are you wearing that hat here?” dripping with my usual sarcasm. He thinks I’m joking, which is also cute because I’m so not. Then he asks me what my first impression of him was. This kind of question always makes me laugh, because really, it’s like asking “So, you think I’m hot right? I know.” And ya’ll know, I’m not a batting eyelashes while nodding and giggling kind of girl. I will say what I think, especially if I’m on the backside of 5ish drinks. So I gave him a once-over and told him he was wearing that big hat and buckle for a reason, and that his boots were awful fancy (I think they were snake skin. Yuck). He chuckles and asks me what I mean by that. I politely explain that no man in Raleigh, North Carolina wears those big 10 gallon cowboy hats so he must be trying to get noticed with all his Texas finery. He of course denies it and says that he’s been wearing that hat since he was 5 years old. Again, I repeat, this is Raleigh, not a party on your daddy’s ranch. It is at this point that I devise my exit strategy. My future husband is not hiding underneath that hat, and I don’t do snake skin. Next in line please.

Why is it that most men will deny that they are trying to get noticed? I have no problem admitting that when I get dolled up to go out, I am wearing shorts with 4 inch zebra heels to get noticed. I do not wear them for my health or because they help tone my gluts and hamstrings. If I wasn’t trying to get noticed I’d probably wear baggy jeans and a t-shirt. Or I’d stay at home and watch Gilmore Girls instead. Simple. And really, it’s not so bad to just admit it. Why lie? Why try to be all, “Oh I’m just here to hang out with friends and have a few beers.” It’s cute really, but we all know why we are all there. If you only wanted a few beers with friends, you could hit up the Piggly Wiggly and get yourself a case and catch up with friends on your couch. I feel like it’s just human nature. We spend time making ourselves look as not trife as possible and go out to be social because we are social creatures. And there is nothing wrong with admitting that you are proud of your tush and so yeah, you bought those tight jeans specifically to go out in because you heard chicks dig them (fact). And yes, you bought that shirt because it fits better, shows off your pecs and biceps that you work so hard on. Seriously, it’s ok. And yes, we notice. But please, don’t try to be all innocent like it’s an accident that you look so good (or flashy, which does not necessarily equal good). You consciously decided to wear that big buckle, put on your best boots, and wear that hat (indoors even. Rude.) because you know it’ll set you apart from other tight-jean’d dudes. And surprise! It worked, we noticed you. But, surprise! You had nothing behind the hat to back it up except for a feeble and disrespectful attempt to get me to go home with you. Ergo: big hat, no cattle.

It’s fine. No really, it’s fine. I said it’s fine! FINE!

Fine. What a diverse word. Fine can be used to describe so many things and in so many contexts, I bet you don’t even realize just how very versatile fine actually is. Don’t fret though, because today is your day. Miss Sassy is going to learn you all about it!

There are 15 found definitions of the word “fine” on Google (criteria = define: fine). That’s quite a lot. Let’s begin with some obvious definitions.

1) Fine: money extracted as a penalty. E.g. I was fined 10% when I failed to pay my cell phone bill on time. Of course this has never happened to Miss Sassy herself, because she/I have auto-pay for all my bills, including my automobills. 10 points to whoever caught that reference.

2) Fine: of textures that are smooth to the touch or substances consisting of relatively small particles. E.g. finely powdery snow,  wood with a fine grain, etc. A quick guesstimation tells me that I used this instance in my every day speech pretty much never.

3) Fine: A song by Whitney Houston on her 2000 album, during the peak of her struggles with finely ground drugs (see above entry) and Bobby. No one cares about Whitney Houston anymore because she crack-piped her voice into oblivion. Moving on.

4) Fine: free of impurities; having a high or specified degree of purity. E.g. like the 21 carats fine pink diamond Miss Sassy will one day sport on her left hand ring finger and/or in the dreams she currently entertains. Apparently pink diamonds are ridic expensive. Maybe I’ll marry a billionaire with secret discressionary funds the government doesn’t know about to tax outrageously. Next.

5) Fine: in a delicate manner. E.g. that girl is fiiiiiiine, dayum. Or, she has a fine figure. Or, more appropriately for me, that man has a fine tush. Right!? We all know I have an eye for these things.

6) And I believe we have finally come to the point. Fine: all right; being satisfactory or in a satisfactory condition. E.g. How are you today, Miss Sassy? Oh, I am fine thank you for asking. Ah, but am I really fine? Let’s say my lunch date ditches me last minute for the new cute chick in our office. He says, Miss Sassy is it ok if we just get lunch tomorrow? Sure, I say, it’s fine. But is it really fine?

7) A continuation of the point of this post. Fine: very well; an expression of agreement normally occurring at the beginning of a sentence. E.g. Fine, I will go out with you even though you ditched me 20 times already. Or, as in response to a directive. Miss Sassy, clean the floors before you leave! I’d probably sarcastically respond, FINE I’ll do it. But really it’s not fine, only a necessary concession to demands made on me.

Fine is such a powerful word as well. It is probably the passive aggressive person’s most valuable weapon. Think about all the times you’ve used “fine” in a sentence in cases 6 and 7 above. Were you really fine? Or were you subtly trying to portray your not-fine-ness? I love when people use this. How was your date? It was fine. How can a date merely be fine, unLESS it was actually a pretty crappy date and a) the guy you went with is around or b) you don’t necessarily want to come right out and say it was the worst date of your life. Right? Typically if a friend responds with “fine” to any question, you poke and prod until you break her (usually a her) and she busts out with something extreme like “it was HORRIBLE” or “Ok FINE it was NOT fine!” (see the double usage there…tricky). And then you get down to business.

Why do we do this? And why, now that I think about it, is it only women who do this? I suppose some men use it on occasion, but when for example, my father Poppa Pants uses fine in a sentence, he actually means everything is just fine. Things may not be grand, but they are just fine and he’s just fine. That’s because Poppa Pants does not mess around with word games, and I would argue that most men who are manly do not mess around with word games either. My boss is the same. He tells me something I wrote up is fine, he means just that. It’s not the best, but it’s ok. If I ask him to take off work and he says that’s fine, he means truly it’s ok that I take off work. This is when it gets tricky though! My woman brain (I know I’m way cool but I still have an over-reacting over-analyzing woman brain like every other lady on the planet) will analyze this to the nth degree. Is it really fine that I take Friday off? Is he just saying that because he doesn’t feel he can say no?? Would he say the same thing to other team members??? Should I work half a day??!?! What if he fires me if I don’t come in on Friday?!?!???! See how that escalated so quickly? All because of the word fine. It’s like magic!

Or maybe it’s a generational thing. I know some guys my age who are equally skilled in the fine uses of fine to express feelings that are not actually fine. Maybe it’s just an everyone thing, and only some people feel the need to passively aggressively portray that what they say is fine is actually not. And if this is so, what does it say about someone who uses this technique all the time versus someone who just comes right out and speaks the truth? Personally I think it’s more sassy to speak the truth rather than make people guess and drag stories and whatnot out of you. Having said that, I can think of plenty of times when I, queen of sass, have used this less-than-sassy and super irritating technique myself, albeit successfully. And I think I could never vow to not use fine sarcastically ever again because it’s just to0 darn effective.

Case in point: Let’s say you and me have a date. Then for some reason you have to cancel or reschedule our date for another day and time. Later, you text me and say something like, you’re really sorry and please don’t be mad. It’s fine, I say, don’t worry about it. You’re super worried now though because there was no smiley in my text! And what if I’m actually super mad! So you schmooze more, maybe compliment me a couple times or something cheesy, but the “it’s fine” is stuck in your head until the next time you see me. See how I did that? Really it was actually fine that you can canceled because Miss Sassy always has a plan B and never cries over a man or missed date. But you don’t know that. To you, what I really said was, “I’m annoyed that you canceled on me and am not sure how I will punish you to make up for it.” You have no idea how long this pouty or passive aggressive mood will stick around. (Lucky for you in this hypothetical situation, you chose Miss Sassy and she doesn’t do super long guilt trips.) And it totally sucks doesn’t it!

So next time you’re asked a question, and your initial reaction is to say “it’s fine,” or “I’m fine,” really think. I dare all of you to come out and say what you’re really feeling, and am also challenging myself to put an end to the sarcastic and passive aggressive use of “fine.” Maybe not an end, but perhaps a decrease in usage is more appropriate. Can we do it? I shall report back next week on my findings.

Adventures at NASCAR: Hick Cops and Are You My Mother? (Part II)

Did you know that “hick cops” actually exist? It’s not just a stereotype or a derogatory name given to small town country cops with unusually strong accents. These cops aren’t necessarily even cops, but more like security guards or deputies with a much-too-high opinion of themselves. They have names like Barney and prefer to be called “Officer” and are ridiculously bossy and unreasonable when it comes to dealing with so-called or would-be criminals or drunken delinquents at an event like a Nascar race. Do you blame them? People who drink beer for 3 days straight are bound to get a little obnoxious or do something a bit out of line at some point. If I was a security guard hired to drive around those campgrounds anytime after 3pm, I’d probably be pretty darn grouchy about it.

To clarify, “hick cop” does not imply necessarily that the cop is uneducated, dumb, or lacking common sense, although this is occasionally the case. It does not mean that the cop should be respected less, etc. So if you are law-enforcement reading this right now, don’t get your panties all in a wad. I’m not calling every southern cop a hick, I’m simply insisting truthfully that some cops are hicks. Moving on.

Saturday evening, well into the bonfire of underwear, with the air smelling like burning polyester (side note, polyester undies: so not comfy guys. Cotton is much softer and probably more airy, which I hear is best for those parts. Just saying), someone decided to take his after-midnight nap on the gravel road/path running alongside our campsite. And at some point “Officer”-I’d-rather-be-feedin-my-hawse-than-dealin-with-this comes by on his Gator (is that what they’re called? Like a golf cart with no roof and big tires…whatever) and stops just short of running our pal over. “What is your freeind doin in the street?” he drawls. And he definitely drawls. Not the cute kind that pretty little southern girls do, or the slurred drunken kind. It’s a country drawl he’s been working on since birth that very few can understand north of Richmond (and even there, the Mond is so full of transplanted yanks…). We’re all a little confused by his question. Firstly, our friend is not really in the road, he’s only half in the road, and secondly, he’s clearly napping. So what’s the issue…? The gravel probably isn’t all that comfortable but we’re not worried. His question is answered by crickets, followed by something like, “Well duh, he’s napping…” But Barney insisted that his hick cop mobile was far too large (in his mind only) to pass by without removal of the sleeping obstacle.  It ended up taking 3 or 4 guys big rugby men to haul him to a tent so Officer Grouchy-Pants could move his important self beyond our campsite.

From here it gets better, as our infamous campsite was visited by this particular gem 2 or 3 times more that same night. I believe I missed the best appearance while sleeping in Foxy’s Jeep Cherokee (I need my beauty rest ya’ll, even at a campsite…unrest shows on the face up to 4 days post sleepless night…not cute). Apparently our Gator driving enthusiast was a bit miffed that a large group of slightly intoxicated young adults was not listening to him (shocking) when he directed them to all “go ta BED” the first time around (shocking) so that the second time he was a bit preachy and even more grouchy than before (shocking). I only heard about this the next day when everyone started using the word “multiple” as often as possible even when it made no sense (pronounced MOLTAPLE or MALTAPLE and always with heavy emphasis…can’t decide which spelling is more accurate to portray his ridiculous country drawl, which was mocked by all). I don’t even know that I heard the whole story, except when he came back yet again and not everyone was snoozing in their beds/chairs, he reminded everyone present that he had “told ya’ll to go ta bEd MULTAPLE tymes!” And once again stormed away at 5 mph on his little rent-a-cop scooter.

Examples of “multiple” being used multiple times: How many beers have you had? MULTAPLE! How many free hotdogs do we get at the stadium? MOLTAPLE! How many cars are in the race? MALTAPLE! (Seriously I can’t figure out which spelling is the best…they seem to all do a decent job) How many times do we guess he’ll come by our campsite to yell at us again tonight?? MALTAPLE! I think we’re getting the picture. Even recent perusals of Facebook has shown that this particular memory has not faded from anyone’s mind (news feed = best way to stalk people quickly and efficiently).

Sunday night, a group of real cops on Gators came by our campsite. It was like a prisoner escort, as the front Gator carried 2 cops and a very drunk young man in the back trunk, followed by a Gator motorcade of cops to make sure the prisoner didn’t make a break for it. We don’t know his story and neither did he but we did confirm that our campsite was infamous, as I mentioned earlier. The young man was pretty belligerent and appeared to not remember his own name or much else about himself or what he was doing (<- not sarcasm), and apparently all he could slur out for the cops when they found him was “rugby team.” What a thing to remember. SO, these cops, now being familiar with our friendly group of hotshots thanks to rent-a-cop Barney, brought the young man by to see if he belonged to us. It was all very “Are You My Mother?” taking this kid around, seeing if he recognized anyone or if anyone would claim him. We kindly informed these officers that this kid did not belong at our site and we’d never seen him before. They were extremely skeptical (understandably) until a less drunk member of the team stepped forward and a bit more earnestly insisted that seriously we didn’t know the guy, but if the officer would be so kind as to keep an eye out for our friend with the handlebar mustache, we actually weren’t sure where he was, we’d really appreciate it. As the motorcade drove away, the Lost Boy could be seen in the spotlight of the headlights behind him, his hands in the air as if he were at gunpoint, continuously insisting to no one in particular that they could arrest him if they wanted and he won’t puttin up no fight!

Monday morning was bittersweet. I slept better than I’d have guessed in the back of Foxy’s Grand Cherokee with her and Queenie, and we all woke up to responsible and mostly sober people cleaning up after themselves, giving hugs, packing tents, chugging found beers, cleaning underwear remnants out of the fire pit, and making plans for next year. The whole experience was grand for me, and I attribute at least 80% of that to this group of friends (warning: emotional moment). They’re serious people. Law school, grad school, real jobs, all put on hold to spend 3 days together so as not to lose track of such great friendships. The sacrificed underwear will forever serve as a memory of this – for me at least – epic trip and taking of my Nascar v-card. I don’t know about all of ya’ll, but I loved the camping, loved every hotdog I ate, loved every semi-cool cup of Keystone Light (ick), and loved watching a bunch of cars make left turns for over 5 hours and 600 miles. What I gained in calories from hotdogs and beer, I lost from laughing so hard so often.

As I seem to like to end these janks in a lesson, how about the lesson today be for all those framilies (friend families = framilies) out there who are graduated and moved away from each other, including and especially my own mucho loved Hokie fam. Don’t forget each other, and don’t let little things keep you from making your way back to each other every now and then. Facebook and BBMs are not enough for me to get all the lovin I need, and I’m betting I’m not alone. This trip, although I was an outsider, was fab. And I’ll admit that yes, I actually like Nascar now, and am not any less classy or sassy for it.

Adventures at NASCAR: The Gargoyle and the Burning Underwear (Part I)

NASCAR, The National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing, held its annual Coca-Cola 600 two weekends ago in Charlotte, NC, which also happens to be its headquarters. All of my close friends and family know that I have never been a fan of Nascar and in fact never understood it, enjoyed watching it, or cared really about any of it. So your car goes 165 mph and you can make 4 left turns over and over for 4+ hours. Congratulations. Who cares. It is stereotyped as being a redneck sport, that only rednecks enjoy, and only rednecks would pay to watch some fast cars go around a circle over and over again. So when Queenie invited me to go with her to our very first race in Charlotte, I asked the only important question: what should I wear? I agreed to camping (like, the kind in tents with no indoor plumbing/electricity or showers. I know), eating hotdogs for every meal for 2 days, and opened my mind to a grand adventure. Luckily there were hotels and an outlet mall nearby, should an emergency evacuation of the campsite be needed, and I was greatly comforted by these facts. My fav Miss Foxy agreed to rendezvous in Charlotte for this epic weekend.

When we first arrive at this little racing mecca, my first thought is that I have never seen so many RVs in a 5 square mile area in my life, even in pictures. Driving into this place it was like a little Hooverville of country folk. I was slack-jawed taking in the vast mileage of camping, and I don’t even feel that I can describe it accurately for those of you that haven’t witnessed it. Think about a big football tailgate. The VT kind, not the fake UVA kind (yes, that was trash talk. Bring it.) Its like if VT let us park on every available field and parking lot on campus, plus the drillfield, plus all the pastures along 460, plus the big horse farm across from the Southgate entrance, and if EVERYONE came in an RV and not just that little section of Lot 2. Then it might begin to compare. In the middle of everything, there was huge ginormous massive stadium. The track is 1 and 1/4 miles, plus the concourse, plus all the little attractions and booths and stores surrounding the track. So in all, it’s probably 5 miles around at least. This is what greeted us as we made our way to the furthest campsite (in my little Mini Cooper no less…totally blending in from the start, obvs).

So instead of give you the play-by-play (boring) I have compiled a list of random happenings that a) taught me something about myself/life/people/what happens when one downs half a bottle of SoCo, b) were hilarious, c) required me to say, “No, I’m keeping my undies on, thanks.” or d) all of the above.

Any of you heard of a gargoyle? Not the stone kind that guard France’s great cathedrals, the kind related to a keg. It’s actually sort of cute and if you’re small enough to perch on top of a keg (like me, for example) it’s kinda fun and definitely way better than a keg stand. So I only lasted like 4 seconds, who cares. Thank you Foxy for preserving that moment for me on film.

I think Nascar is now synonymous with “it’s ok to not wear clothes.” It’s gosh-darn hot in Charlotte in the middle of the day, especially sitting in the stands on metal bleachers with nothing but a cold beer to keep you hydrated. The no clothes thing applies to anyone and everyone – small children, pregnant women, old geezers (I mean super duper old), hot chicks with beer guts, hot dudes with beer guts, anyone with a beer gut, etc. My most favorite-est example of this was a prize bull Queenie spotted during one of our beer/hotdog breaks. He was at least 60, 5’10 or 6ft tall, probably pretty close to 300 lbs, completely bald, wearing no shirt and no pants, only a tiny little speedo looking thing. TINY. On a HUGE man. He had lots of dark extremely curly chest hair and a huge smile with missing teeth and a cooler of beer. Clearly, a can’t-miss photo opportunity.

Saturday evening the dudes built a fire and we all sat around it drinking from our newish coldish kegs, everyone at various stages of drunk. At first it was an innocent little gathering, everyone going around and sharing an embarrassing story or two, making fun of each other, having a good laugh. This innocent activity somehow, and quite quickly, turned into everyone putting their underpants in the fire. At first it was a baseball cap, which burned for about 30 seconds or a minute before the owner wanted to wear it again. Then someone had the brilliant idea to sacrifice his underwear, and suddenly pants were being shed and man-undies were tossed into the fire. It’s pretty funny to watch underwear burn. The fire flares bright white for a couple seconds, devouring the little rocketship underpants before calming back down again. After the first pair, the natural course of action was for each guy, one by one, to drop trou and feed his underpants to the growing fire. In total I think we reached 15 pairs. Miss Sassy favors somewhat expensive undies so for this reason (and a couple other pretty good ones) mine did not make the foray into the fire, despite a couple feeble attempts to persuade me otherwise. I am also proud to report that my dear friends maintained their dignity as well and kept it classy. You go girls. This however cannot be said for one female visitor to our campsite, but I guess the class kind of goes out the window when you can’t remember your own name.

Have you ever slept in the back of a Jeep Grand Cherokee with 2 other people? It’s super fun. As it turns out, I’m a pretty good middle spoon…

Maybe you never thought Nascar could every be classy or sassy. Well folks, we made it happen. Foxy brought J.Crew, I brought Mini Coop, and Queenie brought her chic Cleopatra hair cut. I know you want to hear more but someone once told me that I’m “wordy” so, fine. Less sass for you. Stay tuned, more Nascar shenanigans on the way asap.

Your “Game” is terrible. Try again.

I know many of you are clamoring to hear all about NASCAR adventures, all the hot rugby boys we hung out with, all the beer I drank, the number of hot dogs I ate, the ridiculously fat guy in a speedo that Queenie took a photo with, etc. I promise to get on that as soon as possible. But I must take a timeout and add some thoughts to Tuesday’s post. Thanks to one of my dear friends here in Raleigh, a book has come to my attention which I had never heard of. Correction: I had heard of this kind of  book/tv show/concept but it stayed in that back part of my mind that holds all the irrelevant information. In general I never really thought any of this was actually put in practice, but last Friday I was proven wrong apparently.

The book is called The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. Click the link and read, as I did, the synopsis/editorial review provided by Amazon.com, and you may find some familiar lines in just that one summary paragraph. I must admit I was shocked when I read this. While I do not find it remotely hard to believe that books like this exist, I do find it incredible that guys actually use this jank in public on real live women and think they will get results. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m too picky, or snobby, or just not as dumb and easy as other chicks are. I don’t know because I’m me. Ladies? Am I wrong? Is this not ridiculous? When I relayed this development to Momma Sassy, we had a good laugh which was followed by her expressing sympathy for these two epic failure pickup artist wannabes. “I actually feel bad for them,” she says, in that motherly-pity-voice that mothers do so well. I am shocked and do not see any room for sympathy or pity in this situation and ask her to explain. “Well, don’t you think it’s just pitiful that they felt the need to read a book to teach them how to just talk to women?” Um, not really. “I just think it’s extremely pitiful.” Ok fine, I agree, it’s pitiful but I feel zero sympathy for a guy who thinks “Do you believe in magic tricks” is a good way to start a conversation at a bar. Or anywhere. Just say no.

Let’s take a step back. I am not so insensitive to think that all men should just know they should just be themselves and be confident enough to talk to a pretty girl/gorgeous cougar at a bar/some other public venue. It’s like Hitch said, a guy wants a plan because he’s worried he might walk up to said lady and have a brain fart (as I referred to them in the past, so ladylike).  But seriously, being yourself and being normal…it works. Even if you are only trying to, as Momma Sassy so delicately put it, “get into someone’s pants” for one night, I’d say you have a better chance of succeeding if you aren’t a super sketch ball right from the start, especially with some kid magic trick my 10 year old cousin can do. How about, show me the magic of your personality and why I should pick you out of every other guy in here? If you start talking and I start wishing I had stayed home to watch Gilmore Girls reruns, it’s not good.

What is super great (and gratifying for gals like me) about this book is that, at the end, the author apparently comes to the same conclusion as I have stated here. The pickup lines and supposed “smoothness” don’t actually work. As the synopsis says: “…he comes to an important realization. His techniques were actually off-putting to the woman he ended up falling in love with. And they never prepared him for actually having a relationship. After a while, he ran out of one-liners and had to have a real conversation.” OMG ya’ll! A real conversation! Who would have guessed that in the end, none of those chicks he “scored” would want to end up with him? Who knew that women like a real guy who knows how to carry on a conversation. We do actually want a man with a brain, in addition to our desire for big biceps and 6-packs. Shocking news. Also I love the part about how it didn’t prepare him for a relationship. Um, ya think?

So I guess, if you would like to have an in general meaningless existence filled with meaningless hookups, dumb chicks, and herpes, read and heed the advice of this book and others like it. If, however, you are on the prowl for a cute chick with a brain, try using “hi” and “my name is …” as your pickup lines and she just might say hi back.