Tag Archives: friends

Say No to Digging Up Poo

Prepare for me to argue with and contradict myself throughout this entire post. I swear I have a point, though it may be confusing as I go about getting to it. You’ve been warned.

I ended a previous post about my GFs by saying that friendships last forever. I do believe this. But some friendships don’t seem to last forever. But there is something about these friendships and all friendships that do last forever. And I also believe that all friendships have the potential to last forever.

This post is dedicated to one person specifically, who I will not name, and a couple other people who I also will not name. Haha, so specific. Basically it’s dedicated to a few ladies whom I know and either love dearly or have loved dearly in the past. And also to everyone I love who has endured my drama.

Recent and semi-recent events have led me to do some semi-serious introspection of late, and I have decided to share my thoughts with the interwebs since that is what I do on this here blog. I have a feeling it will apply to more people than just me and my little gang of chicklets. Yes, this is specifically about lady-friends but it is also pertinent to dudes in some ways, I’m sure.

You know you are a grown-up when…this is a long list. During school, I had this great friend. To make a long story extremely short, we eventually grew apart. By the end of senior year I was 100% convinced that this person did not like me anymore and I didn’t know why. I could think of a couple possibilities but none of these were conclusive, nor was I convinced that any of these were the root cause. We had endured a bit of drama through those 4 years and so for the first time ever, I decided it wasn’t worth my time to trudge through the awkwardness and force a conversation about something neither of us could remember and try to make nice. I figured it was a wash. I had great friends and so did she. The only time it bothered me was when these friends overlapped, which was semi-often. But I had been hurt along the way, and I figured the same was true for her, and it seemed we were both happy. No need to dig up buried poo. It would just stink more. Time passed.

Then a few weeks ago I got a phone call from a non-caller-ID’d number after working hours. This is common since I forward all my calls from my personal phone to my work phone and therefore don’t have everyone’s number saved anymore. As I looked at the number trying to figure out if it was friend or foe (foe = work person, also common), I had a memory flash. I knew this number. Very well. And sure enough. She was just in town for a couple days, and did I want to meet up? Ya’ll know I can’t hide any and all emotions whatsoever.  So, per the MSP standard, my shock and surprise from this phone call was evident. But we agreed on a time and place and a few short hours later I was sitting at a high bar table, talking about high school reunions and ANTM marathons over a glass of wine with my old friend.

Something had changed here with this person and I couldn’t put my finger on it really. Then it occurred to me that it wasn’t necessarily just her who had changed. We had both grown up a bit since the last time we had enjoyed each other’s company in this way, going on 3 years ago. Graduating from college and making life decisions does that to a person. There’s also something about the real world that gives one perspective. I have new perspective on my own life, and I seemed to have a new one on hers, and vice versa.

Then 2 weekends ago I was, along with some of my closest VT pals (though missing a few key family members), in Blacksburg to stock up on some Hokie hugs and love. This visit was full of happiness for me, good times, funny reminiscing, bunches of giggles, TOTS, and a healthy dose of college drama.

I remember when I graduated from high school, I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I was leaving all that drama behind for a newer, more mature and less dramatic existence. This ended up being true only in that it was newer. Still plenty of drama to be had. And if you tried to avoid it, it found you. Then when I graduated from college I thought once again, so grateful to be leaving the drama behind and taking only 4 years of amazing memories with me. Joke’s on me once again, as drama fills the lives of everyone around me, including my own. I have learned that the drama doesn’t go away, it just changes with age.

I am not here to air other people’s dirty laundry, and I am going to attempt to tread lightly on this topic. But I have to say. It repeatedly astounds me what “good friends” will do to each other. It is also astounding in a different way what friends will put up with from these “good friends.” The human capacity to love and forgive is an amazing thing. I have witnessed a few instances of this in my life, either being graciously given forgiveness, or graciously giving forgiveness. And in both cases, sometimes the forgive-ee was not worthy. But it is still granted either in the name of love, less drama, or ease. Sometimes it’s just easier to forgive and move forward – I know I’ve definitely done this to avoid difficult discussions or awkward situations. But not everyone is as magnanimous as me. Haha, just joking. But seriously. We all need differing amounts of time to get over things, whether it’s a fight between friends or a death or a breakup or whatever. With my old friend, there were definitely things that needed to be forgiven. In other words, I definitely had a list of things I needed to forgive in order to move forward (and I’m sure vice versa, but this is my blog not hers). But time did it for me. Time allowed us to go our mostly-separate-but-occasionally-intersecting ways and made it easy for me to meet this girl for a drink and have an easy and nice time.

But others struggle with this, and time is not always on your side. Friendship requires trust, and when that trust is broken, sometimes repeatedly and without mercy, we can run out of forgiveness and just want to say, “You know what, you’re a mondo biotch and I never want to see your stinking face again! And you look fat in that dress. HA.” Amiright! But I bet anyone who’s ever done something like that who is not herself a mondo biotch probably felt ridiculously bad immediately after. And she probably apologized immediately or promptly burst into tears.

Anyhooz, I don’t think that me and this girl will be “best friends” again, whatever that means. But it is nice to know that as two adults, we can completely put aside any differences we may have had in the past and have a nice visit, ask about the parents, and our plans for the future. We shared a past, and at one point were very close, and this is possibly what made it easy for us to converse so.. well, easily. Enough time had passed that we could both put whatever pain we had caused each other aside and just visit. We don’t need to dig up the poo, as I so delicately put it earlier. We can just smell the pretty flowers that grew from it.

I just completed that analogy so awesomely. Let us all go forth and be grateful for friendships we have, and not let pettiness and bad memories ruin others. Because poo is smelly and deserves to be buried.

Hump Day Fun Day Random Day

Happy Hump Day! I was tired of this week yesterday so I am thrilled that it is half over. Also, could summer please hurry up and get here asap. I’m tired of wearing my skirts and dresses to work and being cold all day long. We are in that glorious time of year when my iPhone weather app says it will be 70 and sunny and so I dress accordingly, only it doesn’t even reach 70 degrees but for 5 seconds around 3pm when I am indoors sitting at my desk working hard / writing this blog. Fun. Though I can proudly say I’ve worn dress pants only 4 total times since February 7th. All other days I go pant-less, which is quite a feat for someone who calls herself Miss Sassy Pants. Obviously it is also sassy to be without pants. By which of course I mean some other item of clothing covering my bottom half. Duh. I think HR might have a problem if I came to work in my underoos.

Also, random post alert. Ready go.

Does everyone remember back in the day when I said everyone and their momma and cousins own a Prius in San Fran? Literally. Well not actually literally. But seriously there were Priuses (Priusi? Pri-i?) everywhere. Though what I did not mention is that every Prius I encountered seemed to be driven by an incompetent person. And then when I moved back east, I realized the problem is not isolated to California, despite many other issues which are, thank goodness, isolated to this problem state. So now I have come to this conclusion: everyone from everywhere who owns a Prius is an incompetent driver. I now think there must be some kind of Toyota-administered test taken by all persons interested in purchasing a Prius. Seriously it is a serious problem. Next time you are out, take note of how many of these [ugly] [yet crazy fuel efficient] vehicles you see, and then watch their driving habits. I guarantee that a) they won’t know how or be able to accelerate unless they have 10 miles to get up to speed, b) they will start slowing down a ridiculous number of miles prior to actually needing to turn, c) they won’t then actually use a turn lane but slow down traffic while they d) make turns at a speed which is slower than how fast I could push their car around a turn. It is these people who make me yearn daily for my very own freeway on which to travel. Dear all Prius owners: move over or find your accelerator…your car won’t explode if you use it.

This is a hilariously accurate comic that a pal of mine found recently (obviously a nerd friend, since XKCD comics are the nerdiest of nerd comics out there) (also sad that I find so many of them funny…I suppose this means I’m a nerd). Doesn’t everyone remember going to the movies in large groups of 15 or more and never getting to sit next to the right person?! And the quote…”Guys! This is not socially optimal!” Loves. I honestly cannot recall the last time I went to the movies with a group of co-eds, as all movie trips of late have been with girlfriends to see some tear-jerking rom-com. Which obviously means seating arrangements are unimportant, as long as we all like to hold hands and can pass tissues to each other. But I distinctly have memories of going to the movies and wanting to sit next to my Axe-wearing-cigarette-smoking (the smell of high school boys…sigh) crush only to be put next to the most annoying girl we hung out with and/or the creepy guy. Absolutely not socially optimal.

Of course the same issue applies to carpooling. I hated riding with certain friends because a) they were turrible drivers, b) their cars smelled, or c) they were psycho on the road. Frightening. And not socially optimal.

Speaking of bad drivers, I have now dubbed Charlotte, NC as the absolute worst place to drive ever in the history of the world. I have never driven in NYC or any place bigger than San Francisco, but even in these large cities people navigate insane traffic congestion and somewhat complicated traffic patterns with ease. Even when it rains. In Charlotte, as with purchasing a Prius, there seems to be some sort of pre-test which only allows the absolutely turrible drivers to become residents. Symptoms include going 20 mph under the speed limit, rubber-necking at squirrels on the side of the road (I mean, you guys, it was just a cop car…no need to slow down traffic for 10 miles), not using turn signals, and other general incompetence. That place is worse than a church parking lot on Senior Bingo Night.

Happy Wednesday, ya’ll. Get thee to the nearest bar asap to watch some NCAA Tournament goodness. Or badness, since we have all already realized that UAB deserves to be in the toilet tournament of teams who can’t play basketball whatsoever, and that Virginia Tech was truly shafted to be passed over for a team with such terrible shooting stats. Go Hokies.

The Adult Woman’s Guide to Making Decisions You Will Laugh at Forever

Ah, Mondays. Who doesn’t love a good productive Monday?! Today has been a great productive Monday for me, despite the fact that I barely made it to work on time for a 9am meeting. Nothing like starting the week off in a hectic, crazed, rushed frenzy. Hair looks halfway decent for once though, and I am surprisingly adept at choosing at outfit in 4 seconds and not looking too ridiculously trife. Anywho.

Today my thoughts linger on Saturday’s fun little chat with my bff Miss Foxy. You know those cute girly greeting cards with the picture of a) old ladies sitting in rocking chairs, b) old ladies in old school swim suits on the beach, or c) old ladies doing something else funny/random, with the speech bubbles that say, “We’ll always be the best and closest of friends…” and on the inside it says,”because you know too much.”  Well these cards always make me think of Miss Foxy because indeed she knows everything about everything I do.  This phrase applies to a couple of my girly pals but since I had a little phone chat with Miss Foxy yesterday, it is at the forefront of my brain.

So major digression aside about how much I love Ms. F, it is seriously hilarious to look back on love lives slash terrible choices we have all made. I ended up sharing an anecdote about my life that I had not previously shared with anyone for fear of judgment (which I will not be sharing with you people, natch). I said something along the lines of, I hate myself for doing this and if I were someone else, would totally be full of judgment for me, despite having no regrets for anything it was still SUPER trife. Foxy reminded me that she has never once judged me and indeed I then recalled how many trife stories I have shared with her and how we end up laughing at all the trifeness and I feel so much better for sharing the burden of my trifeness with someone else. And vice versa of course, since immediately following my share session, she shared an equally hilarious / trife story for which I did not pass judgment whatsoever. I’d say that if she and I put together all our trife decisions and got paid maybe $1 per each occurance / situation we put ourselves in, we could easily afford our dream trip to Italy. And honestly, if I didn’t have at least one person to share all the trifeness with and unburden myself from all of my self-judgment, I think I’d shrivel up and just be an ugly prune-y raisin of yucky self-loathing trifeness! I am fairly certain that the above principle, The $1 per Trife Occasion Shared with Girlfriends Principle, would afford any pair of BFFs their dream trip to Fiji. Or where ever your girlie little heart desires. Seriously. And when we (girlfriends) can’t be physically together (no homo), the phone convos consist of at least one of the following per month:

Me: I did the most trife thing ever, you will SO judge me.
Her: I SO will not. Tell me.
Me: No seriously, I’m the biggest pyro klepto lying prude whore in the world. And I’m getting fat.
Her: Shut up and spill the deets whore. And you’re not getting fat, I just checked your new pics on FB.
Me: Fine.

Or, alternatively:
Me: [Successfully guesses what happens]
Her: OMG YES. It was so trife, I am such a [insert self-loathing adjective here, ranging from fatty, whore, bitch, prude, etc.]
Me: No you are not, because I did that last week. So if you are, then that means I am, which is so not true because we are both fabulous.
Her. Right. Thank God.
Us: Smooches via telephone.

So you see, girlfriends really are elemental to my self-esteem and sanity on a daily basis. Almost every situation I find myself in has the following options:  a) Mommy, Daddy, and Grandparent approved, b) Mommy only approved since you’d never mention this to your father, c) BFF tested and approved, d) BFF approved though she might laugh at you a little bit, or e) NO ONE WOULD APPROVE OF THIS – DO NOT DO IT.  Catch that scale there – ranging from most acceptable to least acceptable. All I’m saying folks is that I love my GFs. They are awesome. And most of them have done things way more trife than I have, so honestly I take comfort in that. Thanks ya’ll. To all of you who have endured my trife stories and reassured me that I am not a fatty triflin ho, I hope we will be friends until we are this many years old! Miss Sassy loves you. And to all of you upon whom I have bestowed wisdom beyond my years and/or listening ear, you’re welcome. I am nothing without you.

East Coast Girls Are Hip, Southern Girls Knock You Out

Yes, I botched the lyrics, but it was on purpose for the sake of the title. And the reason that I am semi-quoting the Beach Boys’ famous song about California girls is because I’m about to become one! I don’t actually think I will “become” a California girl as I am not even sure what that entails, but I am at the very least moving there for my next rotation, and will pose as a California girl and/or a disastrously misplaced east coast girl living on the west coast for the next 6 months. Exciting! So I have embarked yet again into the wilderness that is Craigslist to try to find someone equally as awesome as my current landlord. I am highly skeptical since she is, like, super awesome, but I am of course maintaining a positive attitude.

Unlike the Raleigh area, Pleasant Hill is one of mucho cities in the San Francisco Bay area. There are a billion choices of little neighborhoods, town-ish places, etc. to choose from. Should I live 2 seconds from work again like I did here? Benefits: I am always late, a lesser commute seems to be helpful. Non-benefit: lack of social scene, lack of urban coolness. Should I live in San Fran and try my hand at super cool west coast urban living? Benefits: being a super cool west coast urbanite. Non-benefit: 30 or 40 minute commute, circa my first rotation in the ‘Mond going to and from Goochland, only longer and with more traffic. Hm. Other options include Berkeley, which looks pretty cute and is very conveniently located halfway between work and the super cool urbanism of SanFran (new word: urbanism). Benefits: awesome location, cute Victorian homes. Non-benefits/potential downsides: I am not a vegetarian by any stretch and did not vote for Obama…two things I fear will disqualify me from living in this region. But again, open minds, one and all. I’m not worried, truly, since I will be oozing southern charm and class from every pore. JP ya’ll.

I am also contemplating roommate choices. There are infinitely more dudes looking for roommates than there are ladies. While we could suppose why this is all day, we can skip that and move right on to the real question: can I or can I not live with a boy that I don’t know? There are so many benefits to living with dudes in my opinion, and should the occasion ever arise that I could live with any of my loving dude friends I would jump at the chance (with few exceptions), especially given that most of them are cleaner than me. Bonus. [Whether they would jump at the chance to live with me…whole other story.] But boys I don’t know are completely different. Benefits include the following: 1) Body guarding. Nothing like a big strong live-in dude to defend me from bad guys. 2) Reaching things in high up places. I have mentioned this before, and I know not all dudes are tall but I also know all dudes are taller than me. 3) Other dude friends. I love dudes, and not just because I may or may not simply love men, I’m one of those girls who refers to herself as a “guys’ gal.” Whatever that means. I’ve always had more dude friends than girls, so whatever. 4) Less drama! Admittedly, my current situation is a drama-free zone (which I love love love. Roomz, you rock) but we all know girls living together increases the drama possibilities by 64,789 times. Dudes are just simpler creatures, and I really enjoy this.

Non-benefits of living with a guy include the following: 1) Extreme skepticism from Momma Sassy and Poppa Pants. You may say it shouldn’t matter what they think but ya’ll they know how to play the co-ed living tsk-tsk card, and will play it until I am married and probably even then. Threats include everything from death to impregnation to “pig-sty bathrooms,” all of which are undesirable, and it’s extremely exhausting to defend all of this 24/7. 2) Some men are gross – see previous comment about pig-sties. Admit it dudes. You are, as a gender in general, just not delicate. It could be dangerous to my health. 3) He could be a skeeze. It’s always possible, and then I could end up…impregnated. Ahem. Anywho. Things to consider. I will obviously report back later.

Moving to CA means that this is my last week in R-town and I must admit I am close to devastated. I have come to love this place and will miss it and my new pals dearly. Also, side note, I’ll be back in Richmond for the rest of the month of July so give me a holler on my cellular device if you’re around! Miss Sassy wants to see you and your beautiful faces.

PS! If anyone knows anyone close to San Fran or has any tips for me please holler! Comments welcome. Visits encouraged. Sass present at all times.

Are You Looking for Snarky Sass and Constant Class? Pick Me!

I love writing. I love writing about trifeness, the news, working, working in IT, not working at all, writing this blog while “working”, parents, friends, cars, carbon footprints, shoes, Bon Qui Qui, and on rare occasions, boys. It is super fun. I suppose by writing and using this blog as an outlet I am making an assumption that people are actually interested and will actually read this jank. And guess what? They do. Thanks to WordPress’ sweet analytics, I can track how many people find Miss Sassy Pants (on purpose or by accident) every day. And surprisingly it’s more than just my loving parents. It’s pretty cool.

Thinking back on my childhood and youth, I think I always had a tiny habit of writing little stories or keeping up with my own thoughts and observations in some way. And yet here I am, as an adult finally, and have a career which involves zero writing whatsoever, aside from requirements documents, reports, project summaries, and the occasional IT Announcement email (it is more difficult than you’d think to keep the snark out of these) which no one ever reads (making it even more difficult to justify not being snarky). That kind of writing though is not fun. I don’t even really know why I didn’t choose something like journalism or English as a major, and instead chose the path that probably has some of the least amount of writing involved. Brilliant. But I have a fab job, and I actually do like it, at least at the moment. This here blog is a fun way for me to spend free time, communicate with my family which mostly lives far away, share hilarious boy stories en masse with girlfriends, impart my never ending man-related wisdom, fill time when I’m bored, and take subtle yet to-the-point jabs at dudes who are lucky or unfortunate enough to come across me in real life. Anonymously of course. And lastly, I really love having an outlet to remind everyone that he’s just not that into you! If nothing else, I really love how my dear mother and father think this jank is so funny. If everyone pledged to stop reading MSP except them, I would still write it.

So what’s the point of this slightly serious and non-dude-related post? It’s developing. I just wanted to share that I love doing it and hope you all love or at least mildly kind of like reading the occasional trife story. If I could make a living being snarky and sarcastic, I totally would. IT is so fab and I dearly love being the only female for miles in a cubicle farm of nerds and geeks, cranking out code and fixing networks. But who wouldn’t love to make a living with a blog? Not sure the paychecks would compare and not sure MSP herself could live off a tiny writers paycheck (see numerous posts about shoes) but she/I would delight in a side job which involved me sharing some sass (and switching from first to third person frequently, apparently). And how about I’ll just come right out and say, if anyone knows anyone who knows anyone who works for any kind of publication that could use some snarky sass and constant class (or a poet, since apparently I am honing my rhyming skills), sign me up. I will write about anything, since it seems the only things that relate every one of these posts is that sass or a lack of sass is involved. Spread the word and share the love ya’ll.

And lastly, a big huge thank you to everyone who takes the occasional couple of minutes (or 20, I know I babble) to make MSP part of your daily/weekly/monthly lives. I love you all. If you ever have a super trife story and think it is worthy of sharing because it is so freaking hilarious and/or trife, do send it my way. Guest bloggers also welcome, after pre-screening for appropriate levels of sassiness and class. Of course, Miss Sassy herself will always have things to share as long as I do not go blind, deaf, and/or slip into a coma. That’s how easy it is.

Never forget: he’s just not that into you.

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.

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.