Bragging Rights

Okay, Internet. If Brian gets on here and reads this he’s going to either be a) mad that I shared this with you, or b) really happy that I’m so proud of him. At the risk of sounding a little hypocritical (you know, after my High Maintenance post the other day), I really am proud of my husband. He makes me nuts a lot of the time, but he is so smart, so responsible, so put-together, so completely opposite of me that we just work. Can’t explain it, just is.

Brian has been actively pursuing an MBA for a couple of years now. In both our graduate school cases, we decided to take three courses first before officially applying to our programs of choice. The advantages to that are that we can get a good idea of what the programs are like, get to know the faculty a bit, and have professor recommendations when we actually do decide to officially apply. The other thing you have to have is a certain score on either the GMAT or the GRE, depending upon which program you enter.

I’m a fairly decent test-taker, or as I like to call it – guesser – but BB gets super stressed out and has quite a bit of test anxiety. Consequently, he’s had to take the GMAT several times, along with some test-prep classes to help him get a grasp on the material. Every time he studies for that thing, I look at his notes and I’m all Are you kidding me? That’s MATH? Looks like a bunch of doctor scribbles to me, if you want to know the truth.

In reality, Brian is super smart and has taken to these classes like a fish to water. Something about that GMAT though, just gets him every time. So yesterday afternoon he headed off to Raleigh for the third and final time to just make damn sure he gave that GMAT all he had. Internet, it was 3 1/2 hours of hell and…

HE PASSED!

He needed a certain score to guarantee him admission to his MBA program and he got it, plus some. I could not have been more excited if I tried, I swear to you. I called my mama, his mama, my aunt, my best friend, everyone that knew he was trying and we all squealed together because finally, finally he relaxed enough, believed in himself enough and had the courage enough to prove to himself what we have known all along: that he could do it.

And y’all, that’s all the Christmas I need right there.

9 Clues You’ve Arrived Down South

They’re baaa-aaack! (My lists!) This week I’m giving you an inside look at what it’s like to be innately Southern. Just because you moved here from Ohio doesn’t mean that you really know what’s going on. Here’s some help:

1. I am the seventh person in my family to be named Margaret Elizabeth, though not necessarily in the same order. Also, my brother and my cousin have the same name as my grandfather, ditto for most of my other cousins and their immediate families. I pity the fool that has a baby and picks a name because they like it. Possible grounds for getting disinherited.

2. My husband prefers bow ties to neck ties. Because they’re hot. And he thinks it gives him a better chance of getting laid. (He’s not entirely wrong.) Also, neck ties are kind of passe. Down here, at least.

3. We recently joined a social club whose sole purpose is to get a group of people together for drinking, dancing and debauchery. It’s called Cotillion and it could not be more Southern if it tried. Also, it’s awesome.

4. We refer to people’s houses as “The Austin House” or “Bloom Farms” or “Mulberry Hill” with a straight face. And if we live at such a place, we add that title to our return address embossers.

5. I wouldn’t dream of calling my friends’ mothers by their first names, unless a) they have instructed me to, or b) I put Ms. in front of it (e.g. Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Anne!).

6. I am in stiff competition with the rest of my friends and family for “The Refrigerator with the Most Party Invitations.” The more covered your fridge door – particularly with Crane’s or Caspari invites – the more popular you are. And speaking of popular, it is custom for us to sneak into our friends’ kitchens and spy on their fridge doors to see what parties we weren’t invited to, and who isn’t getting a Christmas gift from us this year.

7. When someone invites me over for a glass of wine, I dare not show up empty handed, unless otherwise indicated. Acceptable take-alongs are cheese straws, pimento cheese and crackers, a cute package of cocktail napkins or a bottle of wine. (Side note: this is the perfect opportunity to regift those ugly napkins you got last year for Christmas or to get rid of that expensive Costco cheese you thought would be delicious but which actually tastes like shoes.)

8. We kiss cheeks. Doesn’t matter if you’re married, single, man, woman or child. When I hug you, I will also kiss your cheek. Might tell you I love you, too, if I’ve had a couple drinks. But don’t worry, it isn’t a come-on, it’s just a term of endearment.

9. Every Southern woman knows where to find the perfect ham biscuits, because chances are, she can’t make them as good herself. Ham biscuits are good for breakfast, brunches, company, cocktail parties, tailgating, and the list goes on and on. Once you find that lady out in the country that makes them by the hot, buttery dozen, you can bet on keeping her in business for as long as she’ll make them.

For other Monday listers, visit Anna @ abdpbt.

It’s not Wednesday anymore, but it IS another day

Internet. We have to talk.

Something’s happened to my mojo, my inspiration, my desire to get out here and kick blogging ass. What is it? I don’t know. Let’s explore:

1. First of all, I’m a big fat liar. I said that I was going to provide you with a little video where you [finally] get to hear my voice in all its awful glory but y’all, I swear I haven’t had time. It’s on the to-do list this weekend. Really. It is. See? I can’t even keep my promises, much less get inspired to blow you away with my blogging prowess.

2. Birthdays abound this week, as do visits with people I never see. All this social excitement is apparently taking away the usual excitement I have for writing things down here. Don’t get me wrong: I realize this interests you none. But it is worth exploring for the purposes of figuring out where my mojo’s gone.

3. I am on . . . medication. Not the OTC pain relievers, not the good stuff with the codeine that the doctor gives you when you have a sinus infection, but the really good stuff. The stuff that makes me measurably less crazy than I was before I was on it. That’s the up side to this. The down side is that my husband is going to have to hire a hooker one of these days and again, I can’t blog to save my soul.

4. I got this new monitor at work, which I adore, but for some reason office visitors feel like it’s license to walk around to my side of the desk. If anything, I thought that this would be one more barrier between me and the panic-causers, but that’s not the case. Alas, I minimize screens a lot and body block with my feet on my desk. It’s not attractive, and it wastes time. (Time that should be spent working? No, silly! Time that should be spent blogging.)

Alright, so here we have four whole reasons that I think this blog has suffered lately. Feel free to post additional reasons below. But not before you peek at this picture of my mommy and me, taken last night at dear Ruthie’s fabulous birthday party.

Look how pink I am. I'd prefer to think that it's from the wine, as opposed to what it actually was: a hot flash. Damn you, good medication!

Hey guess what? I joined a club.

So I started to write a list yesterday. I was calling it “9 Clues I’m Southern” until I realized that if you don’t already know I’m from North Carolina then you’re not reading between the lines very well. But then I got distracted. (Stupid work. I swear if it weren’t for the paychecks I would SO not show up here.) And then it dawned on me that my lists haven’t been very funny lately, and that you obviously are not enjoying True That? Tuesdays. What is it, Internet? My embarrassing moments aren’t good enough for you? FINE.

Today is Tuesday, and you will note that I am not telling a story today. You’re welcome. Well, actually, I am going to tell a story, but it’s true and you didn’t even have to guess that! Again, you’re welcome. This story is about – WHOA. I just remembered one of the dreams I had last night, and LBD if you’re reading this – DUDE. You came over for a visit with your little girl, Grace, and she looks JUST LIKE YOU. I mean, seriously. I’ve never met your kid, but in my dream she looked like you did when we were 10. Except she’s only 2. Or 3. I can’t remember which, but it doesn’t matter because she could talk in WHOLE sentences, which frankly is something I haven’t accomplished at 31. So good job on your kid, she’s a genius.

Anyway, back to my story.

Once upon a time there was a small town in North Carolina that prided itself on its gentility, manners, beautiful people, overall wealth and ability to throw good parties. This town – around since the 1770’s – boasted large houses and even a river. Seriously, we have a river that runs right through town. Except that Brad Pitt hasn’t ever lived here, and if he did, he probably wouldn’t wear those fly fishing outfits like he did in that movie about the river and how it runs through something. That would be really cool if he did live here, though. Anyway, so in the 60’s (the 19-ones, not the 17-ones), a bunch of people that lived in this genteel small town decided to start up a little dance club. They wanted to take lessons, become fabulous dancers, and invent more reasons to drink martinis and bourbon. So they formed a club, invited people to join them and – 40 some-odd years later – they invited BB and me, as well. It’s called Cotillion, we no longer take dance lessons, and we had our first function of the year on Friday night.

That's BB and Anne. They're drinking. We had a pre-party in case they ran out of booze at the actual party.

After our pre-party, we headed over to the country club for the dinner and the dance. There was some eating, a lot of drinking, and some really bad white people dancing. See?

That's BB dancing with my mom. It looks painful and somewhat tortuous, which is why I'm behind the camera.

After a while, we stopped caring what we looked like:

BB, HC, me and Crazy Joe pose for...something.

And we started thinking about a) our besties and b) how tired we really were:

Anne and me

Daddy-O on the couch outside the ladies room. Who says my family doesn't have class?

There are more incriminating pictures out there, but I kind of like the people in them, and I don’t want to make enemies just yet. That’s for later down the road. We won’t have another Cotillion party until the spring, which is probably a good idea, since my liver held up a white flag Saturday morning and begged for mercy.

In other news, if you haven’t been over to More Women yet, you are seriously missing out. There’s a new product review blog, where I am planning a few posts about things I use that either a) make my life a hell of a lot easier or b) should be pulled from store shelves immediately. All in my opinion, of course. Check it out, have fun, meet some new people.

Finally, I haven’t watched the Gossip Girl threesome OR the Mad Men finale, so kindly hold your horses for my TV roundup until later in the week.

PS – Did you notice that I didn’t talk NOT ONCE about anxiety?

PPS – Did you also notice that I didn’t tag this post “Anxiety?”

PPPS – You SERIOUSLY need to start paying better attention.

How I spent one Saturday in October

So in all the hubbub of this past month and it’s, um, SHIT, I have not gotten around to telling you about what we did during October – and Internet, I hope you find this as hysterical as I did. First of all, BB was on vacation (thank you Pepsi for taking him back) for 10 days. On some of the days, if he hadn’t been around, well, I don’t want to know what life would’ve been like. Other days, I’m like DUDE. MOVE YOUR FACE.

Anyway, so one Saturday morning BB got up at the crack of dawn and wanted to ride a few hours towards the coast to his hometown. His father is buried there and his grandparents’ house is still there and his high school and the Peanut Festival and his aunt and uncle and WHAT? Did I say, PEANUT FESTIVAL?

Oh yes, Internet. Yes I did.

Today’s list will introduce to you to the 34th Annual Peanut Festival Parade (and surrounding attractions), featuring tractors, Mr. Peanut, high school bands, the Peanut Queen, some horses and more people crowding the streets of Small Town USA than we thought actually lived there.

1.  Some old tractors. Seriously, the first part of the Peanut Festival Parade was just a line of old tractors, driven by mostly teenagers – I use the term loosely because they were maybe 13 – and some old men.

2. I’m not sure if this chick is Miss Chowan County, or Miss Edenton, or Miss Peanut Festival, but she was in the parade and was mighty proud of it.

3. The rest of the parade was super boring – a couple of high school bands, some old cars, a few horses. Then we get to the good part – the county, which is (out there) pronounced “cown-y” with some really round o’s. And in the county, guess what you can see?

Cotton!

4. And . . .

More cotton!

5. And . . . wait for it . . . the whole reason for the Festivus . . .

Peanuts!

Seriously y’all, those are peanuts tangled up in all those weeds. Whole clusters of them. And that dust in the background is from the peanut picking machine (I’m sure it has an official name but I haven’t bothered to learn it) that turns over the peanut plants to expose the nuts.

6. Then we went out to the river, where BB did some thinking:

7. And I played around with the camera:

Check out those mad skillz.

8. Then we caught a glimpse of the Chowan County Fair (not to be confused with the Peanut Festival, occurring simultaneously) from the car:

And then we came home, because that was a little too much fun for one day.