Hey Y'all

On New Year's Eve, I was in my kitchen, halfway listening to the pre-show for some bowl game when I heard what sounded like heavy foreign accent coming from the tv. My first thought was that there must be an intruder in the house because my husband would never change the channel from football to non-football unless there was a gun pointed to his head. So I went to investigate, only to find that the channel had not been changed, and that the man speaking was Clemson's head coach, Tommy Bowden. His Southern accent was so thick that I could barely understand him without watching his mouth. I was completely enthralled.*

I have been besotted with the South ever since reading Prince of Tides in high school and seeing Harry Connick Jr. in concert when I was 19. Mmmmm, girl! I would have given it all (if you know what I mean) up for that man and his accent! Seriously, he was so funny and charming and who doesn't love a musician? But then he shoved his Victoria's Secret model wife in my face and I thought that was really rude. And shallow. I mean, I had many journal entries devoted to him and his Southern sexiness. Many. I thought he would come to his senses eventually and divorce her, and then we would bump into each other, just walking down the sidewalk when he was in town for a show. He'd remember me from the concert in 1990, and say "would you like to grab a drink?" and the rest would be history. Then he was looking kind of old-ish on Will & Grace, and the floppy hair wasn't doing it for me anymore, but there was still a tiny spark. I think my bubble finally burst when I saw him in the Heidi Montag Us in the "Celebrities: they're just like us!" section, where he was pictured attending a Knicks game with his 10 year old daughter and they were doing a fist bump and looking all rosy and happy. So, whatever. I'm over it.

I digress. My point is this: I am worried that, with the increasing homogenization of our society, the Southern accent and all of its trappings (rules of etiquette**, funny phrases, love of mamas and SEC football) will disappear. Any lingering racism can die off, of course. But not the other stuff.

My friend Debby was born and raised in Atlanta and moved to Denver 2 years ago. She has the accent and abides by all the Southern rules of conduct, but she's not at all politically correct and has the most hilarious stories. The woman is really fucking funny. Sometimes I even have to ask her to translate herself, like when she says "they're in high cotton." This means "they're rich" or "they're doing well," fyi. She has become my tutor in Southern-ness. Are you interested in one of her lessons? Here are her most important Southern guidelines:

1. Nice girls don't drink straight from bottles or cans. Corollary - only sluts drink from bottles and cans.

2. Nice girls don't chew gum in public. Corollary - only sluts chew gum in public.

3. When a Southerner asks for a "Coke," the appropriate response is "what kind?" because Coke is a generic term for soda.

4. "Bless your heart!" often translates to "F-you"

5. "Bless her heart!" pretty much always translates to "what a f-ing moron"

6. People who don't write thank-you notes are the worst kind of trash.

I love this stuff! I'm not trying to convert to Southern because I couldn't fake the accent for long, and plus, I just don't think it's possible. I think it has to be in your blood. To all of you Southerners out there, I fear that you are a dying breed, and my friend Debby agrees; it pains her a bit that her kids aren't growing up in the South and that they will likely marry Yankees. I'm not going to encourage all Southerners to reproduce because that would include Britney and her kin, but what are you going to do about your rich (as in colorful) American subculture disappearing? Where do you see the South in 50 years? And is anyone else a sucker for a Southern accent? Chime in.

*Any grown man with the name Tommy is all right in my book, and this guy really is quite charming (and probably a big-time good ol' boy). Here is a link to an interview with him so you can hear the accent for yourself.

**Do yourself a favor and read these because they are extraordinarily funny.

For further reading, please see I Love Being Southern

EDIT: Please head on over to In(side) the Loop for a follow-up post that will leave you crying with laughter. God bless the South!

Expand your vocabulary

The beautiful and vivacious JJ directed me to one of my new favorite blogs, Girl Gone Child. You know a blog's going to be good when the categories alone (Vaginas; Hipsters and Douchebags) make you laugh (what can I say, I have the sense of humor of a thirteen year old boy). Here's an excerpt from their ever so astute glossary:

Cheri

N. A haggard, single mother with tattoos.

Back in the day, Cheri was HOT – smoking hot. But she’s never been very bright. She pursued a career as music video dancer and got caught up with a Jake* who convinced her to keep the baby, then bailed once he realized that babies cry a lot. Cheri always relied on her looks to get by, but she doesn’t look that great anymore, and the tribal arm tattoo is starting to fade. Thank god for Gunnar (Cheri’s 4-year-old son). He’s what keeps her going to her job at the tanning salon five days a week.

Usage:

“I feel sorry for that kid’s mom. She must be a Cheri.”

You'll have to go to the site to find out what a Jake is. Happy reading.

Pictured above, Pam Anderson, the patron saint of Cheris.

The Sweet Smell of Chemicals Takes Me Back....

I was at the bookstore today when I smelled a fragrance that transported me to 1987. It was Shaper, the hairspray that all of the popular girls and wannabes at my high school were using copiously to fluff perms and elevate bangs in the late 80s.

If you went to high school or college in the late 80s - early 90s, then perhaps you will know what I am talking about. If you are younger, then God bless you, and remember to wear sunscreen. If you are older, then I was always jealous of you when you and your friends were hanging out with my smoking HOT 18 year old neighbor while I was but a wee 12 year old with braces and a flat chest.

Back to my point. This hairspray was magical, so magical that it crossed geographical boundaries. My friend who grew up in Phoenix coveted it, as well as my friends who grew up in Omaha, Tulsa and Kansas City. My friend from Laramie, Wyoming once had it taken away in lieu of grounding--it was so crucial to her daily routine and such a luxury item that to take it away was most punishing. Maybe its power was limited to the midwest? The smell was so distinctive and so intoxicating due to its high desirability among teens in the late '80s, and it was all but forgotten in my shriveling brain until I smelled it at the bookstore on the highly coiffed woman in front of me in line. I wanted to ask her about it, to share my joy in the aroma of Shaper, but was fearful that she would view me as a perv. So I remained silent and inhaled. I don't use hairspray and haven't for years, so I won't be buying it. Plus, it's an aerosol can and probably carcinogenic. But if someone turns its chemical-ly scent into a reed diffuser, I'm in. So glad to see it is still for sale and not in a time capsule in Wichita, Kansas, waiting to explode.

This picture makes me snort with laughter. Can it actually be real?

To those of you who are of the proper age, do you know of this? Did you use Shaper? If not, how did you get your bangs so high? Do tell.

Just one more thing. The woman in the picture looks so familiar to me. What's her story? Is she still with the guy (who is actually pretty cute minus the hair)? And the child--boy or girl? I swear that the mom and dad were voted "Cutest Couple" at my high school in 1987. I'm getting out my yearbook.

My Unnatural Hatred of Ann Taylor and other Strong Emotions Experienced at the Mall

I went to the mall last weekend, and part of me wasn't happy about it for the obvious reasons: it was packed, I had returns, and I was bound to spend more money. The other part was happy because, well, I was bound to spend more money.

First stop, Anthropologie. I'd like to thank the 20 year old cashier for not being snotty about my returns. I appreciate that, truly. Then I was off to browse, and I spied these:

and I stared at them for 10 seconds, which is a freaking eternity considering my Anthropologie-induced ADHD. It's an ecosphere, a little self-contained, self-sustaining world of tiny baby organisms that move and swim right before your very eyes. Alas, it was $248, so it was not to be mine (but fyi, (In)side the Loop found smaller versions for less at Brookstone). The picture is beautiful, and I assure you that the ecospheres are even more beautiful and fascinating in real life. I'd like to point out that I did not spend a single penny at Anthro. In fact, I made money due to my returns.

Second stop, Pottery Barn. Guess what? I had a 3+ year old gift card (actually it was a paper gift certificate because there were no PB gift cards in 2004) and I was determined to redeem it, even if it meant I had to throw down with the manager. After walking around for approximately one hundred years, I finally found a lovely pillow. In fact, I think it is BB8's Lovey pillow. I braced myself, walked up to the register and handed the cashier my gift certificate and said "I think I'm about to complicate things for you." She looked at it and said, "No you're not," and proceeded to let me pay with a gift certificate older than my 3 year old child (which they damn well should have because there was no expiration date). It totally threw me off. Thank you Pottery Barn. Thank you for not challenging me, because while I was ready to pull the hair of your manager, I really didn't want to.

Then I went to Banana Republic and proceeded to spend all of the money that I had earned at Anthropologie. Just basics--straight denim skirt (to wear with my new BOOTS), cream-colored skinny cords (also to wear with my BOOTS. BR insists that they're boot cut, but not in my book and anyhow, they're going back because they look cheap) and a black sweater (which I'm not even going to link to because it looks like crap on the website. God, BR, would you please invest some money on the website?!).

I wasn't really ready to go home, so I engaged in my own form of mall torture. I went into Ann Taylor. I hate it there. I hate the clothes, I hate their merchandising, I hate the way it smells. I cannot trace the roots of my hatred exactly, but think that it started when several years ago, the most matronly and unattractive (personality-wise) woman in my office proclaimed her love for all things AT. I now see the whole store through dirty, stinky-colored glasses. I do not have this issue with Ann Taylor Loft; they are free to exist and sell and prosper. But Ann Taylor proper can burn to the ground. If you buy from Ann Taylor, I beg you not to hang your head in shame or be angry with me. Please, please know that this is my own personal issue, a sort of sgm kryptonite, and that I am aware that my feelings are slightly irrational. I'm sure that many decent and attractive people wear AT clothes. Its website is better than Banana Republic's; I'll grant it that much.

While I was in Ann Taylor, my husband called with the urgent message that our 3 year-old was CRYING and that I'd better come home with my soothing skills before he had to call 911. Normally I might be a bit annoyed with this request, but not this time because he was still coasting on the goodwill garnered from buying me the Heidi Montag Us magazine before Christmas.

Before I sign off, I'd like to go ahead and admit my love for and sometimes inappropriate use of parentheses. I used 8 pairs in this post, which is a lot, but that's who I am, man. Like it or leave it.

For further reading on malls, I direct you to this, one of the funniest things I have ever read on the web.

Wait! I'm not ready for this

è tutto un equilibrio sopra la follia, originally uploaded by Roby1kenobi.

I'm just barely accustomed to 2007, and now it's almost 2008? Holy smokes. Whatever you do tonight, hope you have fun and feel happy and please be safe. I don't want to see your face when I do a flckr search of "drunk people" (which results in some very funny photos, but some of them depict what must be rock-bottom, which is actually quite sad).

Happy New Year!