Rapper's Delight

Chowing on a Big Mac, french fries and a super sized diet coke with my old college roommate, it was a long overdue opportunity for us to get together and catch up. Although it would have been more enjoyable sans kiddos sipping a French Martini at PF Chang's, or the Outback...I was more than happy to meet at the McDonald's just off the highway to eat my weight in fried food as our children climbed on the germ-infested outdoor play land.

Dipping my crispy hot french fries in the gooey sweet and sour sauce, we talked about how hard it is to lose weight these days. I think we had the same conversations back in college over the same exact meal. It seems not too much has changed! In between potty breaks and wiping runny noses, we managed to get in a few giggles and reminisce about old times. She is back in graduate school and up to her ears in research, reading and writing papers. I do not miss those days at all! Although, just hearing her talk about the stress of writing reminded me that I should really get going on my next blog post. So, instead of writing about something really meaningful - you know, a piece that could actually earn me a graduate degree - I thought I would write about Rap music. Ergo, the subject of today's blog. To make it sound more intelligent and worthy of your time, let's title it, "A Comparative Analysis of Rap Music and the Memories in My Life." Or, something like that.

I'm not sure why this rhythmically challenged 38-year-old white woman has such fond memories of rap music. I'm not exactly the demographic that P. Diddy, Puff Daddy, Sean Combs (or whatever he goes by these days) thinks of when he signs his next artist to Bad Boy Records. With that said, each time I hear a particular song on the radio, it immediately brings me back to a special place in time. And it's funny how much things have changed.

I'm not sure if you've noticed, but XM radio seems to be reliving the days of Rapper's Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. This is sort of the "Leave it to Beaver" of rap music. Written in 1976, when I was the wee age of 4, this song exemplifies when things were really good - even for angry black men.

i said a hip hop the hippie the hippie
to the hip hip hop, a you don't stop
the rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie
to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat
have you ever went over a friends house to eat
and the food just ain't no good
i mean the macaroni's soggy the peas are mushed
and the chicken tastes like wood
so you try to play it off like you think you can
by sayin that you're full
and then your friend says momma he's just being polite
he ain't finished uh uh that's bull

Really? That's some intense stuff! Now, I didn't really listen to Rapper's Delight when I was 4, but having heard it a zillion times, I sure have an appreciation for it now.

My next rap memories stem from high school. Ahhhh, so much fun. Sports, cheer leading, Friday night football games, and the fastest little red Geo metro on the block.  I think back to the days of when I was skinny. I even prided myself on not being allowed to donate blood. I simply couldn't make the weight. So sad. Unfortunately, my skinny period came at a time when fashion consisted of high-waisted pants with pleats, rayon blouses with shoulder pads, and bangs that could dwarf Mike Tyson. Oh the irony of it all!

Although rap music was getting a little more provocative with "artists" such as 2 Live Crew, my favorites were still pretty "G-rated." Vanilla Ice was all the rage. Who knew such a dorky white guy would pave the way for Eminem? Oh, and I can't forget that my "then boyfriend" and "now husband" almost ditched taking me to the Junior Prom because MC Hammer - a very prolific performer of his time - was playing at some Hall on the same night. I almost didn't get to debut my sparkly blue, one shoulder, knee length stunner of a prom dress. I am so thankful he "chose" me instead of "You Can't Touch This." But my favorite rap memory from high school has to be rocking out to Rob Base's "It Takes Two."

I wanna rock right now
I'm Rob Base and I came to get down
I'm not internationally known
But I'm known to rock the microphone
Because I get stoopid, I mean outrageous
Stay away from me if you're contagious
'Cause I'm the winner, no, I'm not the loser
To be an M.C. is what I choose 'a
Woo! Ya! Those were the days.

Then came college. Now, I'm not sure if my taste in "college" rap music was at all influenced by the fact that I chose a university in a town known for its cow poo smell, or if it in fact was popular on a much larger scale. Did everyone beer bong to Naughty by Nature's "OPP" blaring in the background? Or, what about hopping up and down in beer sludge, with your arms in the air and a beer in one hand to "Jump Jump" by Kris Kross? Nothing like a bunch of 21 year olds jamming out to 12 and 13 year old rap artists. What a lame era in music. The only thing that was not lame was the fact that I upgraded my red Geo Metro to a slick black Geo Storm. Oh, yes I did.

Next comes a very sad time in my long love affair with rap music. After graduating from college, I moved to Seattle. Bye bye Rap. It actually turned out to be a very exciting time for music - especially in the rainiest city on earth. The radio waves were monopolized by a new and exciting sound called Grunge. It seems as though angry black men were out, and poor white guys wearing re purposed flannel shirts were in. If I had an iPod, the play list at that time would have consisted entirely of Nirvana, Sound Garden, and Pearl Jam. This actually worked out well for me considering I, too, was poor and could only afford clothes from the Salvation Army. My husband and I still struggle to figure out most of the lyrics sung by Eddie Vedder - although you don't have to understand the words to love the music.

Chicago was the next stop on the rap train. It was quite fitting that we bought a condo in the blackest neighborhood in the city. In fact, when I sat at the bus stop every morning before work, I was the only white chick for at least a mile. And one mile can be a very, very long bus ride in the city. But it didn't matter to me. In fact, they really like me. I think everyone sensed my love of rap music and instantly accepted me as one of their own.

My secretary, Roxie, would groove out in front of my office singing, "Apache...Jump on it!" Man she could break it down before morning coffee.  I, however, preferred eating fried chicken strips for breakfast listening to 50 cent.

Go, shorty
It's your birthday
We gon' party like it's your birthday
We gon' sip Bacardi like it's your birthday
And you know we don't give a fuck
cause it's not your birthday!

It wasn't my birthday, but I was short. Maybe that's why I liked it so much. I've also never had a pimp, or had pigs try to get at me, but that didn't stop me from loving Snoop Dogg's "Drop it Like its Hot."

When the pimp's in the crib ma
Drop it like it's hot
Drop it like it's hot
Drop it like it's hot
When the pigs try to get at ya
Park it like it's hot
Park it like it's hot
Park it like it's hot
And if a nigga get a attitude
Pop it like it's hot
Pop it like it's hot
Pop it like it's hot

Now that I'm back in Yakima, I am proud to say that I still enjoy rap music, although I tend to be a little more old school. Maybe because old school rap is the only thing suitable for a car full of three children. I'd much rather they hear about "chicken that tastes like wood" as opposed to "nigga's poppin anything." I'll save songs like those for the glorious moments I happen to be in the car by myself - which is almost NEVER.

This "rap journey" has made me come to realize something very important about myself. While some people realize late in life that they might be a man trapped in a woman's body, or a woman trapped in a man's body...I just might be a black girl trapped in a white girl's body. I have all the signs. A big butt, big boobs, big attitude, and self esteem. Who knew it would take 38 years to have this cathartic moment? Well, it might take some time getting used to, but I am ready to embrace my inner blackness. So, to close, I would like to honor Jay Z...

Can i get a what? what?
Bounce wit me. Bounce wit me.

The Hangover

Laying in bed, with the room spinning around me, every pore in my body flushed with sweat and a wave of intense nauseousness overcame me in an instant. Like a puppy who doesn't want to "weewee" in his own crate, I sprung out of bed and ran to the bathroom. Although I was severely intoxicated, I knew darn well who would have to clean up the puke fest that was about to take place should I not make it to the bathroom in time.

I clumsily fell to the floor, feeling the cold tile against my skin. For a split second I thought I might be okay. Maybe I can bounce back from this. On second thought, No, I can't! I gathered my strength to lift the lid and then the dreaded seat. Please God, I cannot deal with seeing pubic hair in an old urine drip. Not only is that more than I can take, but I'm pretty sure that is more than I deserve.

As I clung to the gleaming white toilet bowl, heaving up the last bits of tuna poke, onion rings, and too many rum and cokes to count, I can honestly say that I have never been so damn happy to have a cleaning lady. Sure, I always appreciate a clean bathroom - especially when I don't have to clean it. But that kind of appreciation pales in comparison to actually having a clean toilet when you need it the most.

There is a God! Not only was it gleaming white, but there were even a few faint specks of fresh Comet residue. I was free to puke about the place. And I had heard this before, but now I'm sure it is true. If you play Sarah McLaughlin's "In the Arms of an Angel" in your head - it makes any situation a very sad one. As I knelt on the floor, I had that song playing in mind, and it was indeed a sad, sad moment for sure.

At one point, I even pleaded for my husband to assist me during this horrific episode. Luckily, I mustered the strength to say, "Get. Me. Sprite. And a pillow." I knew I was going to be there awhile...and I was right. Like the attentive husband he is, he brought me my favorite pillow, a blanket, and large glass of Sprite nestled between the plunger and garbage can.

The smell was gross. The taste in my mouth was even worse...a very bitter cross between chunky and acidic. Around 4 a.m., I pulled myself together long enough to crawl back into bed. I tried to keep up my normally very positive attitude.

I bet I'm through the worst of it.
My stomach has got to be empty by now. 
Maybe I can utilize this experience to jump start my weight loss program.

Well, the first two turned out to be true anyway.

When I woke up the next morning, I have to say I felt a little too old to be dealing with a hangover. I mean, is it really becoming for a 38 year-old mother of three to drink anything labeled an "Adios Mutha Fucka?" I don't think so. Luckily, this type of behavior happens at most - once a year. I guess the fact that it is only February means the remainder of 2011 is going to be awfully boring! (And most likely lacking tuna poke).

Oops! I Did It Again!

Finding time to write in this household comes at a premium. I can't even remember the last time I had time to poop in peace, let alone write. And writing is hard when you are distracted - or at least that is my story and I'm sticking to it. I guess my real motive here is to save face a little bit. I need you to accept the fact that there will be mistakes. There will be typos. Proper punctuation might be lacking. Let's be honest, it will happen from time to time - I am sure of it.

(Insert Flashback music...)

Once upon a time, in a parallel universe far, far away, I had a career that consisted almost entirely of writing. I had to ghost write articles on subjects that I knew very little about. And "very little" is being quite generous.

"The Globalization of Services"
"Life After Sarbanes-Oxley"
"Investing in Distressed Companies"

Oh, yes! Riveting stuff to say the least! I wrote acceptance speeches, conference presentations, website content, and just a ton of fluff for printed marketing materials and newsletters.

So, when you are writing on behalf of your company, the CEO, or a senior partner, spelling and punctuation are pretty important elements...if you want to keep your job that is. I learned this very early on in my career as a measly marketing assistant at Foster Pepper & Shefelman in Seattle.

Every time a new associate joined the firm, it was my job to write a formal announcement, have it printed on the finest, watermarked parchment paper, and sent to a list of nearly 500 colleagues, businesses, and clients. As an entry-level marketing moron, there are very few tasks that you are trusted with. So, for me, this was HUGE. Luckily, the new associate I was working with on my very first project was extremely nice and actually treated me like a human. Never once did she say, "Um, tell me again who YOU are?" So, after interviewing her to find out where she went to school, her area of law, bla, bla, bla... I meticulously crafted her announcement and sent it to the printer. This was a glorious moment for sure. Until -

Later that week, about 475 announcements were sent to the masses. I even proudly delivered a handful of extras to this new associate so she could send them to friends and family. And then, one of the recipients did the unthinkable. They actually read the announcement and found a little typo that changed the tone of the piece. It read:

Foster Pepper & Shefelman

proudly announces

Jane Doe, a graduate of Harvard University,

has joined the firm.

Ms. Doe will specialize in PUBIC Policy.
(should have been pubLic Policy.)

Oh dear God. Kill me now. Is this when I'm supposed to pack my belongings into a cardboard box and get escorted out the door by security? Did I just tell everyone this new associate was a pubic specialist? Does Harvard even offer that sort of degree? I'm guessing not. Nope. Turns out they don't.

Lucky for me, the associate actually had a sense of humor and thought it was pretty funny. My boss considered it a "tough" lesson learned. I would have to agree that my extreme embarrassment surely was punishment enough and I NEVER made that mistake again. I went unscathed for years after that doozy but had another close encounter when I insisted to my CEO that he take a call from a client in Shangri-la.

CEO: "That is impossible."
Me: "No it's not. They said they were from Shangri-la."
CEO: "You are wrong."
Me: "No, I'm not."
CEO: "I assure you that you are wrong."
Me: "How can you be so sure? I was the one that heard the message."
CEO: "Shangri'la is a fictitious place that does not exist. Is there any chance they said "Sri Lanka?"
Me: "Uh, yes. That's what I meant. Duh!"

Hey, what can I say? I grew up in a very small town and had yet to be exposed to...geography or a world map. That aside, I learned to double check my facts. Never trust spell check. And always, always have somebody else proofread your work. I lived by these standards and went on to have a fairly successful writing career until recently when I started this blog. I will admit, I am a little rusty!

A couple of weeks into it, my adorable, loving, hot, hunky husband decided to read it for the first time. He had some feedback for me - but nothing I wanted to hear. Instead of commenting on anything of substance, he simply said, "If this is something you're going to keep doing, then please do me a favor. Spell uncensored correctly."

Good point, albeit a little too late. I guess I did it again!

If he was home right now, I would ask him to proof read this entry. But he is not. So, pretty please with sugar on top, if you see a typo, a fictitious location, poor punctuation - or even a misspelled blog title, keep it to yourself. And I mean that in a "nice" way. Although "writing while multi-tasking" is perfectly legal, it is not advised - as illustrated by the misspelled blog title! But, I am sure you knew what I was going for, right?