Devil In Disguise
You look like an angel
Walk like an angel
Talk like an angel
But I got wise
You’re the devil in disguise
Oh, yes, you are
The devil in disguise
– Elvis Presley
Why am I always the one getting into trouble?
I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I am always the “bad guy” because of my mouth. But honestly, I am always just the bad guy. Take the other day for example…
Wes (Blog Creator Extraordinaire), Mr. Big, and I work together at Big Blue Box.
Working at Big Blue Box, in my mind, is most likely comparable to working with/for the President of the United States… they all but have our blood type on file.
We must badge in here and badge out there, only enter through these doors or that turnstile, and never forget to smile for all of the cameras. And no piggy-backing! And we must absolutely not be polite and hold the door for the person behind us! No, no, my friends, corporate security is nothing to be taken lightly, Big Blue Box is locked up like Fort Knox.
Anyhow, one morning two weeks ago, Wes and I pulled into the parking lot around the same time. Right as we walked up to the first set of must-badge-through glass doors, Wes says, “Aww crap. I forgot my badge in my car. Can I just use yours and go grab mine in a little bit?” Without hesitation, and because I am fairly certain he isn’t a serial killer, I agreed.
This sort of thing is not unusual for our little group. Normally, I am the one who can never seem to find my badge. Seriously, I mean, you try finding anything in Blanca (You remember her, the large white patent leather Michael Kors satchel from the beach.)… what with all the migraine relief, blood pressure medicine, narcotics, electronics, and Nutrigrian bars, it tends to fall to the bottom. My point is, at least one day out of every week, someone must badge in someone at least once. Last Wednesday was no different; we thought nothing of it.
At lunch, I badged myself out of one of Big Blue Box’s fancy glass turnstiles and left my badge on the machine. Wes grabbed it, badged himself out of the other glass turnstile, and the four of us went to Japanese. As you can tell, it was all very Black Ops and high intelligence, if ya know what I mean.
An hour later, the four of us returned to shenanigans in the workplace. Our system has been quite the problem child for the past few weeks and mysteriously some unpublished articles randomly became accessible again to users. Our team was slightly frazzled, so we immediately began trying to correct the issue.
Amidst all of the drama, I received this over instant message:
“Hi Ms. Sparkly Shoes (Of course he used my real last name but I would like to think this is the name he was so desperately wanting to type. [I was wearing bright purple sequined ballet flats.]) this is Captain Badge Enforcer (Of course that is not his name, but you know, I must switch it for his own protection.) with the security team. Can you come see me at your earliest availability in regards to a badging issue?”
I was caught.
Somewhere, in the realm of Big Blue Box security, I had been flagged as a problem employee… a criminal on the loose… a liability.
So, what did I do, you ask?
I forwarded the message to Wes.
He thought it was hilarious. The only reply I received was, “HAHAHAHAHA!”
I silenced his cyber chuckles with, “And YOU’RE going with me.”
Together, we walked down to the Security Office.
Captain Badge Enforcer was very nice and quite the little jokester.
Cap. advised us that he and his deputies had watched on their high-tech-security-guy computers as I badged out of one door and then seconds later badged out of the next… just like Houdini. He politely explained to Wes and I that corporate security was being heightened to protect our employees and asked that we spread the word to our peers that it was three strikes and you are out. No really, he said if it happened three times we could be fired.
We agreed, apologized, and thanked him for just a slap on the wrist. Then we turned to badge ourselves back into the main lobby…
Now, this door is tricky. Someone must badge the door to unlock it but it is just a normal door that can be held for other people.
Was this a test?
Wes looked at me and said, “Should I let you go through, let the door shut, and badge myself through?”
Me, being the rebel that I am, replied, “Nah. Come on.”
Not gonna lie, I half expected to be surrounded by the Big Blue Box SWAT team as they separated us and threw us in a gender-appropriate, cinderblock-walled, poorly lit, corporate-equivalent to the Drunk Tank, meeting rooms as they patted us down and read us our rights.
But we were spared once more and walked freely to grab some water from the cafeteria.
And that is where it hit me.
Dammit, I always get in trouble for everything.
The Cheatham Ford Road Fiasco
One Saturday night, a few weeks into my sophomore year in high school, I forgot to mention to Momma that my friends and I planned to attend a party nearly an hour away. Please understand though, when I say “nearly an hour away,” what I actually mean is, “if the roads were f*&king straight in this silly ass town it would probably only take 15 minutes to get to where we were going.”
All the four of us girls were trying to do was pile into our guy-friend’s two-seater manual pick-up, drive all the way out to this house party, drink a couple of Skyy Blue malted beverages, and head back to our friend’s house “in town” (Again, you need to realize that “town” equals exactly one full city block. It ain’t exactly Troubletown, USA.). Harmless, right?
Yeah, well, it would have went off without a hitch and Momma would have never even found out if Kristen, Kayla, and Joan would not have ignorantly left my overnight bag on the top of some guy’s Jeep… sans telling me before they left for home. And honestly, their parents probably would have never found out either if they hadn’t been put in jail… but that’s a whole different blog.
Long story short, I was grounded for like three months during one of the most pivotal points of my adolescence because Momma had to spend her Saturday driving me around the county as I looked out the window along the side of the road for my bag. A bag that, I later found out, was rescued off of the Jeep before I even left the party.
I had to miss Homecoming and the other three got off with nothing… and they went to jail.
Bullshit, I say, bullshit.
But using, “But Ma! Three of my very best friends (whom you love like your own) were thrown into a holding cell last night by our middle school resource officer for sipping sugary malted beverages at this senior boy’s house party and they still get to go to Homecoming!” wasn’t exactly a valid argument option at the time. Nor would it have been in my best interest to rat myself out for underage drinking (Which would have been quite the offense in the über dry Baker Household.) just so I could participate in lame high school Homecoming activities.
Our football team sucked anyway, and besides, there was always next year.
I kept my mouth shut and did the time.
But She’s Not Even 21…
Momma and Dad finally found out about my underage drinking the very first weekend I was away at college. Props go to my nine-years-younger sister, Mace, for this one.
I probably had not been out of the house for a full 24 hours before those creeper siblings of mine were rummaging through my room like a bunch of vultures. They found two (…or three) bottles of vodka hidden under some scarves in the bottom drawer of my antique dresser.
The funny thing is, when those little bastards ran downstairs to tattle, Momma and Dad shrugged and said, “She doesn’t even live here anymore.”
For shits and giggles, my parents waited until I came home from school one weekend to confront me about the bottles. You know, just to see how I would respond.
After all, there was no denying they were my bottles… my name (first, middle, and last) was written on each of them with a big black permanent marker.
Nobody’s gonna lay a finger on my… Aristocrat! Classy, no?
Speaking of underage drinking (There seems to be a running theme here, in case you haven’t been paying attention.), what about that time Kristen and I got a “drinking ticket” in college.
*Sorry, Momma and Momma Kathy, but you may want to cover your ears for this one. (To our knowledge, until this very moment, neither one of our sweet Mommas knows about this dark time in our lives.)*
I use the term “drinking ticket” very loosely because we were never actually caught consuming alcohol. Nor were we ever captured by campus police while under the influence.
In an effort to ostracize my roommate and I even more from our dormitory population (Of this I am absolutely sure. Our entire freshman year at Appalachian State University was spent in the lamest dorm on campus… the all girls dorm. And we all know how popular I am with the ladies.), our super sweet RAs vindictively barged into our room while we were attending class to do a “room check.”
They claimed to have spotted liquor bottles from the doorway.
We found the pink slip stuffed under our door when we arrived home after class.
Little did they know, we were saving those bottles for Kristen’s grandfather.
Yes, Kristen’s Papaw’s favorite pastime is creating light art out of liquor bottles.
They weren’t buying it.
Sure, the vodka bottle sitting next to the television was half full and the disgusting fifth of 99 Bananas sat barely touched on our dresser… but we maintained our innocence!
It was very apparent these girls had been trying to pin something on us for quite some time. And clearly, their only window of opportunity would have been to strike while our backs were turned. Those tricky bitches. They were just jealous we actually had real men coming and going from our room.
Kristen and I believe they were just trying to snoop through our shit because we never made a point to show up to Group Night.
Anyhow, as punishment, the bestie and I had to attend a campus AA meeting (A place where, if I may add, we were the least serious offenders in attendance.), pay a $50.00 fine, and suffer through 90 days of academic probation.
Yeah, I know, you’re telling me!
We might as well have been caught for the third time in California smuggling kilos of heroin in our bums across the border… the punishment most certainly did not fit the alleged crime. And mind you, we never even got our day in court!
And as a side note, do you know how hard it is to thieve 50 bucks out of your own checking account when you: A) do not have a job B) have your mother man your account and C) are only allotted $50.00 a week to begin with?
Needless to say, I hocked the only Valentine’s Day gift my father ever gave me to come up with the money.
As far as the “academic probation” was concerned, we found it very odd that the university would omit that sort of thing from their annual billing to parents. But whatevs. We spent the rest of our freshman year and the better half of the first semester of our sophomore year as convicted felons.
Bring Your White Trash To Work Day
On a hot summer afternoon, Mr. Big and I were pulled over by 3 State Troopers, 2 unmarked police cars, and 1 Sheriff’s Deputy for an alleged domestic dispute.
That’s right; six cop cars swarmed the Danger Ranger all at once just yards away from the central most part of town.
At the time, Big was still working for his Daddy at the used car lot, and whenever he could, he would take me on errand runs to pass the time. On this particular day, we were picking around, play fighting, and acting silly. During the midst of it all, Big could not manage to keep the truck on his side of the yellow line. The person riding behind us called in our plates.
Apparently, you can’t tell through a trucks back glass if its passengers are just picking or if an episode of Cops is truly playing out right before your very eyes.
One of the men in uniform politely asked me to step out of the truck. As he questioned me about my company, I looked down and took in the situation…
Big was a hot mess of cargo shorts and a greased-up t-shirt. I had my bright blonde hair pulled back into pigtails… which worked out well seeing as they complimented my white t-shirt and jean shorty-shorts perfectly. To top it all off, we were in that junk truck of his, sporting a Dealer tag (which always gets questioned), and hauling like 8 cans of gasoline.
Who the hell has 8 gasoline cans in the back of their truck?
My redneck boyfriend was going to jail.
It would have been a wonderful opportunity for me to take advantage of a hilarious situation but I was too stunned to jerk the nice policeman around. So, when they felt certain Big was not beating my ass (Which I resent because I could have very well been kicking his ass. Clearly, I can hold my own. They don’t knooow me. [Read the latter in a hood-rat accent with a healthy side of the chickenhead neck weave.]), all 6+ officers let us go.
Golf Cart Cop
More recently, Big, Wes, Sarah, and myself were pulled over while riding a golf cart. Yep, I said it, a golf cart.
Over our Labor Day weekend extravaganza in Ocean Lakes, South Carolina, we had planned to get really sauced (Mr. Big’s people’s word for “wasted.”) on Saturday night and go to da club (My people’s word for a classy establishment full of half naked underagers with fake ids and henna tattos.). However, paying full price for refreshments is most certainly out of the question, thus you have – the Pre-game (Our generations word for drinking Bud Light out of a can wrapped in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle koozie.).
The four of us sat on the floor of our tiny beach house rental and threw ’em back as we played round after round of Asshole, F*&k You Bitch, and Drunk Driver (hold your balls, it’s a card game not a physical challenge). The plan was for us to get just the right amount of tipsy and eventually call a cab (a.k.a. Big’s parents) to take us to Broadway at the Beach.
However, 10:00 p.m. came too slow. By the time it rolled around the boys had already funneled (Where one pours an entire beer into a funnel [held high above said funneler’s head] and gulps down the entire can of liquid within seconds.) one too many beers and us girls were still not in our best club get-up.
We punked out.
Riding around the campground on our golf cart just sounded so much more appealing.
Pretty lame, right?
Reckless, that is what it was.
Big was driving, Wes was riding shotgun, and Sarah and I were holding on for dear life in the backseat. We did not even get 20 yards down “the strip” before I spotted one of the security officers eyeing our cart. I nudged Sarah and nodded over towards Cart Cop (A you-should-probably-know tidbit: Cart Cop, much to your surprise, is on foot.)… he was on to us.
The next thing I know, Cart Cop (who is pushing the upper end of middle-aged and slightly overweight) had broke out into a full jog and was heading straight for us. He caught Big’s attention and waved him over to the shoulder. Big came to a stop and Cart Cop clicked on his flash light.
Cart Cop: “Good evening fellas. Have y’all been drinking tonight?”
My Rebellious Subconscious: What kind of question even is that? Of course we had been drinking. It’s motha frackin’ Labor Day, you fool.
Cart Cop: “Are those open containers you have there?”
My Rebellious Subconscious: Well hell yeah. We’re on a golf cart in a campground for f*&ks sake.
Cart Cop: “Do you boys have your drivers licenses on you?”
My Rebellious Subconscious: Oh Jesus H. Christ. Why the hell would they have their freaking licenses… we’re on a GD golf cart.
Ironically, the boys had in fact brought their ids. They both politely pulled out their wallets and presented their identification to the officer. (Keep in mind, at the ripe old age of 24, I am the youngest person on the golf cart.)
Cart Cop inspected the plastic cards with his handy-dandy flashlight but he wasn’t yet sold on their authenticity.
Cart Cop: Addressing Wes, “What’s your birthday, son?”
Wes: “August 19, 1986”
Satisfied with Wes’ answer, he moved on to Big (Nevermind the two hot young thangs on the back of the cart, they are obviously of age…).
Cart Cop: “And yours?”
Mr. Big: “June 18, 1984”
Now, this next part will literally render you speechless. Just know, you have been warned.
Cart Cop: “Are you sure about that? Are you sure it isn’t October 18, 1994?”
Mr. Big: Stunned, and now questioning his own birth date, “Uhh no, sir. My birthday is 06/18/84.”
My Rebellious Subconscious/Actual Word Vomit: “Really. Are you f*&king kidding me? He’s twenty f*&king eight years old. I’d be scared as hell if that kid showed up in my dorm room on the first day of college. Seriously, this guy really thinks he’s eighteen?”
Now, please excuse my language and my unacceptable behavior. My Pop was an officer of the law for 30 years and I respect a man in uniform more than anyone I know. But come on. A 6 and a 10 look nothing alike! And Big most definitely doesn’t look like an 18-year-old college freshman… he is 6’6”, 250 lbs., and is usually rocking a full face worth of hair. Sure, he may not look like he’s nearing 30, but for the love of baby Jesus, he’s sure as shit not just barely legal enough to buy a pack of smokes!
Luckily, Cart Cop didn’t hear me.
We were scolded, he recited to us the laws of the campground, poured out the boys’ beer (Because he didn’t seem to notice [or care] that Sarah and I were on the back of the golf cart guzzling beer and frozen drinks. Us girls were able to keep our booze.), and sent us back to our site with orders to stay in and consume.
You could probably guess what we did.
Oh we went home all right… and grabbed fresh drinks, some solo cups, and headed back out – under the influence – in the golf cart.
After 45 minutes of dicking around on the golf cart, stopping to use the bathroom twice, and avoiding Cart Cop at all costs, we made it back home unscathed and with no fatalities.
For the rest of the evening, Wes and I played Go Fish on the living room floor… refusing to speak in anything but English accents.
The list is endless.
Seriously guys, I cannot make this shit up.
My life has been an ongoing cat and mouse game for the past two decades. I get in trouble for the stupidest shit.
- There’s the time my sister, Christina, and I got in trouble while on vacation with my father for taking mints for the whole family out of one of those donation boxes without dropping any money in the slot… we were like eight.
- Once, Big and I had a cop come and scold us for sitting in an empty parking lot at night… we were really only talking.
- Oh, and what about that time Dad found a beer can in our mailbox… I didn’t even drink beer at that time.
- I spent my whole high school career being hounded by a not-so-nice female vice-principal who had it out for my wardrobe… it was the early 2000’s and bare midriff was still very much in the “in.”
It is all very ha-ha-ha now, but at the time, each situation above had my stomach churning.
I am a good kid.
Really, I am.
My record is clean (Well, I am not entirely sure if the “possession of alcohol paraphernalia” ticket was a true-life offense. If so, we are most certainly willing to contest.). I do not have piercings, my limbs are not covered in tats, I keep my whoha to myself, and aside from the booze, I have never dabbled with any sort of recreational drug use (No, seriously. Do a hair test, bitch.). I am just your run of the mill twenty-something-year-old who makes silly decisions with her cronies. The only difference is, I get caught… every. single. time.
But I guess one has to think on the bright side, you know, find the silver lining in things.
Without each little shenanigan above, I would not have turned out to be the bad ass I am today.
Addendum #1: Today, while Wes and I were badging out of Big Blue Box’s fancy glass turnstiles, Wes was the victim of one of the oddest forms of inappropriate corporate behavior I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing.
A stranger piggy-backed on him through the turnstile.
Ballas, what you must understand is that Big Blue Box most certainly did not skimp in the fancy glass turnstile department. Those bitches are smart. Like smart enough to close on your silly ass if you aren’t going through them properly… I know, I’ve seen it happen.
To make a long story even longer, I was in mid-sentence when I watched this HR-worthy act go down. I locked eyes with that personal space invader as my mouth dropped and the turnstile alarm went off. And you know what he did? That douche bag kept walking!
Wes and I turned to each other and said in unison, “Did you just see that?!” Still stunned, I said, “Did that rando really just piggy-back on you?! Little does that asshole know you only have two strikes left!” Wes replied with, “I almost threw my arm up and said, ‘You better back the f*&k up!’ I’m going to be pissed if I get written up for this shit.”
I lost it.
Addendum #2: I Gmail chatted BFF to let her know that I would be announcing to all of our friends and family that for the past 5 years we had been fugitives on the lam. Thought I would share with you all our conversation:
me: I may be mentioning the time we got a drinking ticket in college in my next blog…
Kristen: I am down with that.
I mean, what is my mom going to do to me?
me: My thoughts exactly.
Kristen: I am almost 25 and have been drinking since I was 16.
And we took care of it like f*&king champions.
So if anything, our parents should be proud.
me: Uhh we’ve been drinking since we were 15…
Kristen: I was trying to give us the benefit of the doubt.
All in all, I still blame Mr. Big for that.
He was the one buying us all that damn booze.
me: EXACTLY. Contributing to the delinquency of minors… where the hell was his
Kristen: And if it wasn’t for his stupid ass then I am positive we would have gotten it
cleaned up before class.
Also, I guess I should mention that the stories you see above are all sorta like the side-view mirrors on your car… they aren’t nearly as dramatic as they appear. Trust me, if anyone had gotten into any real trouble, the story wouldn’t have made the cut : ).