I Am More Ghetto Than You Think

Last night, a few friends and I got together to celebrate my friend Mike's birthday (happy birthday Mike!). We basically sat around eating pizza and cake, drinking wine, and chatting about the most random things ever, including the evolution of ghetto speak. I don't know exactly how this subject was brought up. But I do know that I am more ghetto than you think.

Seriously! I was thinking about it, and I throw out more random rap song words in my every day vocabulary than you would imagine for a blonde, white, young professional. I mean, I call my mom "Shortie". She used to look at me blankly when I called her that, but now she understands that most likely, her name will be followed by "want a drank." As in, "Shortie want a drank?" And we usually follow this up with a couple of flutes of champagne topped with OJ. For money, I almost always prefer the use of "bone." As in, this cost me "ten bone." For something more expensive or for a bigger purchase, I may refer to money in "Gs" (even if "G" in my mind only stands for a couple of George Washingtons, or G Dubs, not actual "thousands of dollars" (which I most likely don't have). Example, "so, I went to Macy's this weekend and spent some Gs on a couple of new dresses." Oh and my day is totally made if I can incorporate the word "fitty" into it. As in "fitty cent" or "fitty bone." My car is sometimes referred to as my "ride." The gun I don't own, but would love to is always referred to as my 9, even if if it's not an actual Nine Mil.
The funny part is that these words are incorporated into my daily conversation as if they are normal conversation and are well understood by all the middle-age people that I work with. In fact, this lady at work told me that she was traveling to Detroit for work later than afternoon to meet with our customers. I immediately asked if she was packin'. She said, well yeah I'm packed. The plane leaves at 1pm! I was like, "No no. You misunderstand. Are you packin' as in bang bang, not 'I brought my nice work slacks'? Haven't you ever seen 8 Mile?" She laughed, but did I really need to explain myself for her to get it? A regular Gangster Joe would have got it the first time.

And speaking of Gangster Joe, the most legit way I know that I am more ghetto than you think is because for a while, a real life gangster/drug runner/man looking for love in the all the wrong places was text messaging me on a weekly basis. He called me Sydney and had met me in "da club." Houston I am guessing, just because he had an 832 number, as do I. He had a penchant for texting me details about his illegal activities and other ahem things. I tried to tell him I was not Sydney, but he didn't believe me and responded with a "Nawwwww." Poor sap didn't want to accept that his true luv from da club gave him a random person's phone number. Like my friend James said, he probably thought I was just playing hard to get. Eventually my lil' Thug realized I was playing impossible to get and quit texting me, but in my heart I know I'm legit and can pull off the discourse of street-seasoned ghetto heiress.