Welcome back to the world of Lingo. I would call them Rachelisms, or Rachelese, but in most cases I cannot take full credit for this language lexicon that only I and those closest to me understand. So here’s another peek into the secret society:
Clock Says Country–When it’s time to do something you don’t want to, when it’s a dreaded moment of the day, the clock says country, my friend. It originated in Maryland, November 1997 when my dad died. My family and our significant others–I had Arty Party in my corner, who my family (not immediate, mind you) considers my significant other, so whatever, I didn’t have a man to comfort me, I took my best friend, leave me alone, I’m grieving over here without pills or alcohol or dick–had headed down to Baltimore to attend his funeral, which my stepmother thought would be a good idea rather than have it in Philadelphia where all dad’s family and friends were. Again, whatever, we do what we have to when the clock says country. So in my hotel room were me, Mom and Arty. The alarm went off the morning of the first day of the wake and my mom gently woke us up.
“Girls. Get up.”
We both mumbled ok, Mom decided to give us a few minutes more and went into the bathroom first, took care of bizazz, then it was time for the next person. As I was the most pathetic of the three of us, Mom nudged Arty again, leaving me to sleep until the last possible minute.
Now, before I go into the next part, let me remind you of that sleep-state we all have been in; okay, I named it Gaytown when I was twelve years old. More lingo, before it was politically incorrect to use the word “gay” to describe something weird. Gaytown is that place you go between sleep and awake when you have no idea what strange things are coming out of your mouth. When you’re about to go to sleep and remind the person awake that the cows are escaping the barn when the apartment you rent is in New York City. Gaytown originated when at a sleepover with a bunch of girls–all of us struggling to stay awake to see who was the biggest party animal–in the dark one of them asked me if I liked Tim Murphy. “With panties?” I asked. Two of the girls chuckled, I woke up and said, “Oh, sorry. What did I just say? I was in Gaytown.” So there you have it. So anyway, Arty was in Gaytown when mom told her to get up. So she asked mom, “Does the clock say country?” Mom paused, then said, “What?” By now Arty was coming to, leaving Gaytown in the rearview, but still had to save face. “Yeah. Does the clock say country?” Not knowing what to say, mom said yes, time to get up, the clock said country. Don’t want to leave the restaurant to go back to work? The gynecologist appointment arrives? Nut up, sweetheart. The clock says country.
Bip–Used as a noun, a bubble-gum cracking, empty-headed girl who bounces rather than walks. Likely to laugh after everything she, you, anyone says whether or not it’s funny–even if it’s tragic. First time I ever heard it was at a club in Philly where I went to see a band with a group of girls. The meanest of us–the one the rest of us called Amazon once we weren’t friends with her anymore–alerted us to the entry of possible competition with, “Check out these two bips bopping in.” I looked over and saw a lot of tanned skin, Maybelline shadow, Final Netted hair and stone washed denim. They were holding hands and giggling. To use bip as a verb means you are enamored with someone, a groupie of sorts, defender of all he does. For example, when a guy I used to see was cutting up one of the guys in the band I followed around Philly, I said, “Oh, come on, he’s not that bad.” “Oh, you so bip for him!” he accused me. Whatever. He was right, the bastard.
Thanks Ru and Jessica for sharing your lingo with me. Jefe, you may have spread some cheer, too. Any more? I love learning new languages. Talk to me out there.