around the beehive

Is FaceBook the New Starbucks?

This morning when I checked my FaceBook account I had 31 friend requests and 117 other miscellaneous requests and notifications. As I think about the time it will take to get caught up, I absolutely dread it. I have to click through profiles, figure out if I really know those requesting my online friendship—or if they are randomly trying to befriend people so they can inundate inboxes with junk emails. I am sure there will be people I am happy to hear from, but the energy it will take overwhelms me. I have been avoiding FaceBook with the same passion as bill collectors. Am I alone here?

I am not sure why I have resisted advances in social networking. I blog and email, isn’t that enough? Creating profiles and exchanging information online wasn’t even on the radar as a teenager in the nineties. The most my high school classmates hoped for was a couple of pictures in the year book and being crowned class clown or most likely to earn a million dollars before thirty. It baffles me how at the young age of 31, I’m a dinosaur because I don’t use my smart phone to check-in with FaceBook every hour.

Newsflash...While I encourage online dating sites, meeting men on social networking sites is virtually impossible. The only thing these sites are useful for is investigating someone you’ve met via other means or tracking them down later. I never found much use for MySpace until I needed it to track down an ex who owed me money. Bastard. (Ooops, did I say that out loud?) Guys with 400 female friends—all of whom look like they used their XM centerfold to create their profile—are not the type of guys you want to settle down with.

When I first got on FaceBook late last year, I felt I had almost completely missed the boat. It was like a co-worker having said, “Let’s get Starbucks” and I leaned in and asked, “What’s that?” How deep was the hole I had been living in? Discovering this new form of rich mocha latte that was free, at the tip of my fingers and close as my computer screen—it only took a few days before I was hooked. An absolute addict. I was on FaceBook before work, during lunch and at the end of the day. Each time I looked at a friend’s profile or found a long lost BFF, it was like taking another deep gulp of caffeine crack.

Then one day, I got over it. It was like realizing that Dunkin Donuts had pretty good coffee too. I no longer craved “social-networking” Starbucks or sending and receiving gifts on FaceBook. I didn’t have time to update my status or see what a friend in California was doing with her extra 3 hours late into the evening. I went from one extreme to the other. Even as email notifications in my inbox taunted me, I managed to go months without logging in.

The crazy thing is, my reluctance yields nothing—I am still plugged into the machine. I cannot escape. It dictates my life whether I pay attention or not. I have missed critical updates from friends and family, because I haven’t logged on. Friends have said, “You didn’t know? I posted it on FaceBook.” This is true FaceBook frenzy. Give in or tempt fate. Advance or regress. Use FaceBook or risk extinction with the rest of the dinosaurs.

What's the Basis? Part 3: The Exxon Experience

PREFACE: This is Part 3 of a series called "What's the Basis?"  In this series, I will examine the things that happen to me and my girlfriends that are examples of the madness we experience in the dating world and beyond.  Ever had a guy show up for a date with a duffel bag and say, "I didn't know where the night was going."  That's a "What's the Basis?" moment.  Clearly the brotha was just trying to be prepared; he didn't realize he was totally off base with that one.  It happens daily!  Please email me at bericka@gmail.com if you've had a "What's the Basis?" moment. 

What's the Basis? Part 3:  The Exxon Experience

Every time I start to think my life is ordinary and uneventful, something happens to remind me that week-to-week, my life is no less than straight, unadulterated comedy!   The Exxon Experience left me completely speechless, seriously.  After the events unfolded, I stood dumbfounded and waited for the camera crew to come from behind the surrounding cars.  Surely, I was being Punked! 

It was a normal weekend; I had a date—okay, maybe a couple of dates—but I was only excited about one of them.  As a single woman, it is required that you date and date often.  This particular weekend was like a grand finale: bomb, bomb, bomb.  An evening at the club with an old guy-friend, a dinner date with a man I'd met earlier in the summer, and a Sunday morning church/brunch date with a pastor--don't ask--you'll bust your gut laughing at this story.  LMAO (Seriously...)

As I anticipated, only one of the dates turned out to be worth my while.   But this new friend had a work-related obligation after dinner, so our night ended early.  I, on the other hand was still wide awake, so I decided to go dancing with a few girlfriends.  Why waste a perfectly good Saturday night by sitting at home staring at my cats?  I walked in the door at exactly 8:52 pm, changed clothes, checked myself in the mirror...mmm! flawless!  And ran back out the door in less than 30 minutes.  I raced down I-295 (hair whipping in the wind), safely exceeding the speed limit and not drawing attention to myself from the cops who normally stake out the highway.  I made it to Martini's Bar and Lounge in Fort Washington, MD by the free cover charge deadline: 10:00 pm. Aaaah, victory.

 

It was a pretty good night.  The DJ was on point, the drinks were strong, and I was carefree.  I walked around, danced a little, but mostly sat at the bar reflecting on my date from earlier in the evening.  I wanted to text him.  Should I?  "No--be strong Bee," I told myself.  I couldn't, I wanted to reiterate that I'd really enjoyed our evening.  I sent the text, but got a message back from my phone saying that it was a land line.  Oh, I had accidentally programed his home phone as his cell phone.  I thought, Good!  I don't want to seem too pressed.  Gotta love the game!...

Nonetheless, it was a seemingly normal night until around 2:45 a.m. when I decided to leave.  I needed some gas and figured it was a better idea to gas up at the corner by the club instead of waiting until I got back home to SE where the streets would be empty.  Safety FIRST ladies! 

 

While digging around in my purse for my check card, I felt my car shift.  I thought WTF!  I looked up and there is a gray Jeep Cherokee kissing my car!  The windows are tinted so I can only see the outline of a person behind the wheel.  I sat there for a second, my head cocked to the side, thinking, "what is really going on?  I can't believe this guy just hit my car!"  I dropped my purse, got out the car to check my bumper after he backed off of it.  Lucky bastard!  There were no scratches or dents on my car.  His license plate must have hit my license plate.  I went back to my car to retrieve my check card without taking my eyes off of him--he's continued to sit in his car.

 

Shaking my head, I walked over to my gas tank and proceeded to fill it up.  The man behind the wheel finally got out of the car.  OMG.  I knew him from the club.  He frequents Martinis and Zanzibar.  I didn't know his name, but I knew his face.

He stutters but says, "I'm sa-a-a-aying dough, c-can I take you tu-u-u-u Sunday Champagne Brunch?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.  I know he didn't just say what I think he just said!

"Ye-eah, I thought you mi-i-ight like to go out wit' me tomor-r-rrow."  He was slurring his words.

"No, I don't think that is going to happen." I was condescending.

"Why, not?  You're a good looking woman, brunch would be on me."  His eyes were closed, he was swaying.

"Well the fact that you just hit my car is a start!"  I was fuming.  Did this man just hit my car, and then ask me out on date?  And how did he know what I looked like?  His eyes were closed.  My tank was almost full.  I needed to get away from this creep.

"Se-e-e-e, now dat's ya problem.  You don't even know a good thing when its staring you in the face!"

Was this joka serious?  As he walked into the gas station hopefully to get some coffee, he retorted,  "And that's why you're SINGLE!"

UHM. UHM. UHM.  My question is, what's the basis for all this madness?  Ladies, when a man like this is your only option, do yourself a favor.  Stay single!  AND if you meet a brotha at Martinis or Zanzibar with an older model gray Jeep Cherokee, holla at your girl.  I would love to help save you from the drama of this "good man."  *smile!* ;0)  ~bee

What's the Basis? Part 2: Club Etiquette 101

Okay, I admit it.  I have club-head tendancies.  I accept certain aspects of this title with the caveat that it simply means I enjoy going to the club.  You will never catch me exhibiting the behavior that one assumes normal of a club-head.  When I go out, I conduct myself like a respectable woman.  I enjoy dancing (and occasionally dropping "it" like its hot :0), but only because dancing is at the top of my list of pleasurable forms of exercise. 

And Lawd knows I am not looking for love in the club! Ladies listen: nine times out of ten, a relationship with that joker you met at the club is doomed.  History has proven itself, time and time again.  Whenever I met a man at one of my local hangout spots, it was a matter of days before I regretted giving him my number.

Beyond that, I'm tired of women disrespecting themselves in the club.  Everytime I see a woman allowing a man to put his hands all over her, I think wow, she either thinks she looks cool right now or she doesn't care how she looks.  Every weekend, without fail I see a woman bent over in front of a man to the tune of "shake ya money maker..." or some other song with degrading lyrics, but a good beat.

The last time it happened, I thought, "it's obvious the two of them just met."  I wanted to pull her aside and say, "He clearly isn't your man, cuz a man who wants to honor you wouldn't put you out there like that.  And clearly he doesn't want anything more than a quick thrill in the club, cuz he's just as guilty of acting like a fool as you."  

All I am saying is, can we have fun without all the lewd behavior?  I suppose this is why people shun the club environment.  When people go out and get a little bit of liquor in them, anything goes.  I wonder what will happen that night I am fed up, and I actually decide to go have a heart-to-heart with that woman shakin' her money maker?  Hummm.  I hope my girls got my back...

Ladies, Protect Yourself!

Ladies, nearly 1 in 20 people in the District of Columbia is living with HIV/AIDS.  (Think about that every time you go to the club.) 

Encourage your girlfriends to be sexually responsible.   Help her understand that some men out here want to play, and they don't want to be safe about it. 

Moreover, just because she's dated him for a few months doesn't make him safe.  If he cheats he opens up the relationship to fatal repercussions. 

Softly preach and then practice what you preach.

Looking out for my sistas...

~bee

What's the Basis? Part 1: Standing Outside of Panera Bread

The other day I was out in the burbs (a city girl in strange territory) standing in front of Panera Bread, wrapping up a conversation on my cell phone.

While standing outside, I noticed the weather.  I love late September and early October, because the midday sun is strong, but there is a cool breeze blowing between the buildings.  I also noticed the perfect little nuclear family with two small girls exiting Paneras with their doggy bags.  Before I could finish imagining their perfect little house located on the corner of their perfect little neighborhood (do you detect a wee bit of jealousy?), I hear the rattle of a Chevrolet Capris and the boom of bass approaching.

As I look up at the guy driving by, my ears are violated by music engulfing the local zip code.  Ugh!  Most rap is tolerable at best--so I am completely sickened by the lyrics ranting something about "burn dat bitch!"  My embarrassment was only surmounted by my rage.  I thought about those two little girls, their parents and the bad wrap our hip-hop culture gets in instances like these.   

Yes, me and my girlfriends joke and call each other bitches, but the context that oozed from the Capris on that beautiful October day was defeating.  It's the same word with two very different meanings.  Hate and endearment; the ultimate duplicity.

All I could do was look Mr. Capris in the eye, suck my teeth and purposefully turn my back.