DMV Adventures: Hey, Where’d Your Wedding Ring Go?

Sometimes it just takes too long for me to write about the randomness in my life. Here’s Part II of my visit to the DMV on Labor Day Weekend. Read Part I here.

Day 2 of our Girls Trip to the DMV was under way. We’d obsessed over what to do, where to go all morning, and the standard answer was still, “To the District.” So, off we went.

After clowning with the staff at Ben’s Chilli Bowl (They were singing MJ’s “PYT,” and I line danced in the middle of the restaurant.), we strolled down U Street to see what the rest of the day had in store. A gorgeous guy, skin kissed by the sun, stood outside of a cafe and motioned for us to come in. Surprisingly, it was a day party, and behind those doors, people were getting it in.

Almost immediately, some guy approaches me and begins dancing. I can appreciate a guy who doesn’t want to bump and grind or  challenge me to a dance-off, so I two-stepped with him for a little while. He was nice-looking, but I could tell he was slightly older. (I have to remember to stop saying “older,” as if I won’t be 30 soon. Le sigh. ) He wore a cap, a tee and what my girls coined as “dad jeans.” Hilarious. Atleast he didn’t have on K-Swiss to complete the look.

Before he could ask my name, he  spouted out all types of “compliments.” I wanted to say, “Thanks, but you make the truth sound so disgusting.” He was thisclose to calling me a “tall drink of water.” I sensed that this was a Living Single club episode waiting to happen.

In an instant, he’d swayed me to the bar for a drink; I obliged. Don’t judge me. The entire time, my girls are laughing as I make funny faces over his shoulder. I noticed they kept throwing their hands up, pointing to and wiggling their ring fingers. Was “Single Ladies” on?

Nope. Ohhhh, I get it.

After a few sips of  my cocktail, suddenly, I didn’t feel like dancing anymore.I thanked and chatted him up, I was on to next.

“So, your friend with the “Dad Jeans” had a wedding ring on. You didn’t see it?” one friend asked.

“He did? Nah, didn’t see it.”

“Yeah, while you were ordering your drink he stuck his hand in his pocket to take it off,” the other chimed in.

Oh yeah? Men. As if him being married was the only barrier between us.

Before I could respond, Mr. I Don’t Wear My Wedding Ring was back in my personal bubble trying to dance. It became painfully obvious that this was first time out in a long time without the wife. He was just too damn eager. Poof, be gone!

It took me atleast 15 minutes to get away from him. Not to mention, he kept coming back around to ask if I was ready for another drink. What do I look like, a fool?

“No, I won’t be getting another drink. This is enough,” I said. “I think you’ve had enough, too.”

“I’m just gettin’ started!” he replied as he continued to dance himself silly.

I gave him the side-eye of all side-eyes. I could see the imprint of his ring sitting snug in the bottom his left pocket, but I didn’t even mention it. It was unnecessary to point something so blatantly obvious out to an adult who knows right from wrong. If hiding a symbol of your marriage is part of a scheme to test if you still have your mojo, there’s nothing I can say or do to help. On top of that, I didn’t even know the guy. Why not leave on a high note?

“Okay, well good for you. We’re leaving now. Nice meeting you.”

I left him standing there. The last time I saw him, he was doing something like the Reebok on the patio, scoping out his next victims, some college girls with bad weaves.

In the words of the great lyricist, Silkk the Shocker, “You ain’t gotta lie to kick it.”


DMV Adventures: No-Go at the Go-Go

There’s always fun and the unexpected when my girls and I get together. We decided to visit DC again. The last time we were there it was President Obama’s inauguration. We did everything, from joyriding with strangers near Club Love to defending my southern twang from the back of a police car–all while managing to visit the historic Fortitude on Howard’s campus, saunter down U Street, attend a party and get a pretty close look at the Prez taking his oath. Little did we know while visiting, one of us would be moving there just a few months later.

That brings me to now. Homegirl became apart of the Homeowner’s Club in Maryland, so a visit was in order. Consider this Part I of my Labor Day getaway to DC.

Our entire weekend was planned from the time we stepped off the plane to the time we boarded. The first night would include dinner at The Park, clubbing at the K Lounge, followed by the Go-Go, as suggested by her cousin, a DC native. I’m all about the Go-Go. Walk down any crowded street in the district and you’ll find guys beating the bottoms of paint buckets. It’s a go-go beat that you can’t help but dance to. If you’re not familiar, here’s an example of the crossover go-go song:

Who doesn’t like “Da Butt”? I was all in. Leaving The Park, we engaged in random conversation with the doormen/valet guys, who were all dressed in Lifeguard shirts and khaki shorts (still trying to figure that out). “So, where are you ladies going now?”

“We’re supposed to go to a go-go tonight, somewhere in Maryland.”

The guys looked us over, then back at each other. “Wait, you are going to a go-go? Who’s doing it? You said it’s in Maryland? What part?”

What’s the big deal?

“You ladies don’t look like the go-go type. Look at how you’re dressed! You have on dresses and heels, when you really need jeans and sneakers. Ya’ll are not prepared.”

The tall guy jumps in. “—-Unless you’re going to a Chuck Brown go-go. That’s for the grown folks. You can two-step all night. You’ll enjoy it.”

Cool. We took our chances and drove to Maryland.

The closer we got to the venue, we saw it was packed. Cars were everywhere, but we didn’t see anyone….until we pulled into an alternate parking lot. Have you examined your surroundings and instantly knew you weren’t supposed to be there?

It became crystal clear that we were out of our element. Rather than get in the mile-long line for admission, we stood back and people watched for a while. I saw people young and old(er), mostly women, dressed in boots (it was 80 degrees atleast. Maybe it’s a regional thing), cigarettes in hand, mangled weave and yes, even a few pairs of “church shoes”. Nothing but obscenities flew from their mouths about having to pay $40 for the “fake-a** VIP line,” as one girl described it. I failed to mention the suspect number of police cars already parked in the lot. The go-go didn’t start until 11:30 p.m. It was 11 p.m.

My girls and I looked down at our stilettos, cutesy dresses and handbags and decided to sit this one out. But before we left, I just had to know what the go-go was really like. The self-proclaimed spokesperson of the group (I’ll talk to anyone.), I approached the group of policemen. They looked so excited about their night ahead. One was leaning on the car, while another was popping sunflower seeds in his mouth.

“Excuse me, officer. We were about to go in, but things don’t look too favorable….We’re from out-of-town. What’s goes on here exactly?”

You and them wanna go in there?” He laughed. “Why? Look around. It’s obvious this isn’t where you need to be.”

We scanned the crowd. He was undeniably right. So were the guys at The Park.

“First off, you all speak King’s English. You’re dressed nice. You’re not, you know, ghetto.”

He went on, “You see, by the time 2 a.m. comes around, we will have broken up atleast five fights. These people over in the “$20 line” don’t know it, but they’ll never get in. This entire lot will be filled with police cars. It’s all typical at a go-go. I wouldn’t advise it.”

His sunflower seed-popping partner gave us a “that sucks for you” look and nodded in agreement.

“You might be right, ” I said. “But I really wanted to go. It would’ve been fun.”

Suddenly, there’s commotion at the door. A tall, slender girl wearing a half-top, whom I’d just spotted in line runs out of the club, adjusting her bra because apparently it’d almost been yanked off of her. She says, “F*** that b***! She knows where I stay. Come see me!”

Following her a short chick comes out pulling her dress down. It was obvious she was Tall Girl’s opponent, and even more obvious that she lost. Tall Girl beat that ass. We’d just seen this chick. She went in the club looking like Beyonce and came out looking like Sonic the Hedgehog. Tall Girl clearly pulled every track (except three, no lie) out of her head. Bleeding and barefoot on the glass-filled pavement, she was a certified mess. Her friend, however, dressed in a long-sleeved black liquid leather dress, was flawless. I guess she didn’t jump in.

Mr. Officer heaved a deep sigh, “See what I’m sayin’? I’ll be back.” He slow bopped over to the girls. To support his argument, after about 10 minutes, he returned to report that the girl wanted to go back into the go-go after she cleaned up her bloody wounds. Really? It’s that popping in there?

No. Ma’am. We couldn’t take anymore. We said our goodbyes to the DMV’s finest and chunked the deuces. It was definitely a no-go at the go-go.

To be continued….