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.

At the risk of alienating my readers…

. . . I am linking to this article in Jezebel, which discusses, um, relations (Hi, Mom!) during a woman’s monthly visit from Aunt Flo. (I would like to note for the record here that whoever coined the term “monthly visit from Aunt Flo” should be shot.) Anyway, not to pass judgment and all, but seriously, there are women out there who don’t mind this? Because quite frankly, GUH-ROSS.

I realize this lands squarely in the category of disgusting, right up there with Dooce’s poop posts and The Bloggess’ weirdo trip to Japan, but I gotta know: am I alone in my thinking?

In support of the everysize girl

There’s a great discussion going on over at BlogHer today about Glamour magazine’s plus-sized photo shoot. I highly suggest you check out the discussion, because not only is it informative, it also really gives a woman some food for thought (no pun intended?). Since I read Susan Wagner’s post, I’ve been thinking about designers and stylists in general, and what they are doing to our self images.

Media is flooded with talk about the fashion industry, and what it means for society. Little girls are obsessed with their bodies, and who do we blame? Do we blame magazines? Television? Mothers? I say we blame none of the above. What I noted in the BlogHer discussion, and will note here, is that the designers we all love are being supported by both the model-thin and the plus-sized and the everything-in-between. Don’t we buy Marc Jacobs handbags no matter what size we are? Don’t Jimmy Choos fit most every girl (regardless of whether we can afford them)? Haven’t we bought the “frugalista” lines of Anya Hindmarch and Anna Sui and Isaac Mizrahi? When the economy tanked, high-end designers found a new niche: Target shoppers. You can’t tell me that only the model-thin shop at Target, because I shop there and to think of me as anything but larger than the average girl is laughable.

It’s no secret that very few women are sample size, much less smaller than a 12 (I believe that’s still the national “average”).  Certainly we should all strive to be healthy, but as Oprah, Kirstie Alley, Valerie Bertinelli and I know all too well, it takes a while to get where you’re going. And sometimes you go there and come back – several times. I’m not saying here that I think more or less of someone because of their size (except YOU, Blake Lively, I do hate you and your tall skinny self) but I do think less of designers that limit their products to the very rich and the very skinny.

Rachel Zoe

I love fashion magazines. I watch Project Runway and The Rachel Zoe Project. I see Rachel’s collar bones and spine sticking out like a sharp coffee table edge, and I see the models the Runway hopefuls design for. We support their shows and their work; it’s time for designers – and the magazines and shows that feature them – to support everysized women by designing for ALL of us. Haute couture will never be within my financial reach, and to be honest, I wouldn’t wear half the crap that goes down the runway each fall and spring. BUT – and this is a big BUT – Americans are bigger now than they were last year, and I don’t see that trend changing much. We’re not all getting gastric bypass for Christmas, so until the national “average” turns around, design some decent-looking clothes for the rest of us, would ya?

Renaming New Year’s Eve

Conversation between Kathy and me this week:

Me: Dude, this year has sucked some major balls.

Kathy: Um, yes.

Me: I mean, really. Think about all the shitty stuff that’s happened. I am SO over 2009. I should make a list.

Kathy: I don’t think we need a list to remember all the bad stuff.

Me: Maybe not. But that’s not the point. The point is, 2009 needs to be done.

Kathy: Yeah, I am with you on telling 2009 to peace the fuck out already.

And so this, Internet, is my new mission. Get through the end of the year, get through the messy holidays, the impending bad stuff, the doctor’s appointments, the final exams, the WHATEVER, and get to New Year’s Eve. This year, New Year’s Eve will be known as “Peace the fuck out already, 2009″ Night.

You think if I sent out invitations to a party celebrating “Peace the fuck out already, 2009″ people would come?

The one where my head turns into a TV set – the old, console kind.

Have you seen that commercial for Bing, the new search engine? It’s the one where everyone is spouting out all this useless information that has nothing to do with anything, except someone asked them a question and they’re all Search Overload! Search Overload! Part of me thinks that commercial is funny, but the other parts of me want to rip my TV out of the wall when it comes on.

My brain feels kind of like that right now – kind of like Overloaded! Please press f6 to reboot and start over! – but I think it has less to do with the amount of Internet searching I do and more to do with the fact that I have been MIA for the last 5 days because SOMEONE GAVE ME THE FLU. I’m looking at you, BB.

Well, it might not be the flu flu. I mean, it technically could be the flu if you consider the chills and aching and head congestion and coughing and misery and insomnia and WILL SOMEONE PLEASE HAND ME A GUN ALREADY? But I haven’t had a fever (someone told me this was the good news) and I don’t so much think I’m going to die today as much as I thought I would on Saturday, so probably I’m in the clear.

But that’s not really my point. My point is: I have watched so much television in the last 5 days that I am pretty for sure that if you asked me a random reality TV question, I would not only ace it, I would also be able to give you background research and statistics and maybe some genealogy (re: the Kardashians, the Lamases – wait, how do you pluralize “Lamas” when it’s a last name attached to people who should not reproduce?). I can tell you about ALL the balloon boy interviews, the number of houses HGTV helped sell in the last month, how many people are left in the running for the next Iron Chef and that Shakira wore the same outfit to SNL that she had on for last week’s Dancing with the Stars performance. I can tell you that Dexter’s hair is longer this season than last. I can tell you that on October 28th “The Proposal” will be available OnDemand, and also that Nightline is rerunning its story about evangelist Benny Hinn again tonight.

My brain is tired.

I think normal sick people probably sleep, or read books or newspapers or something, but not me. No sir. I have had at least one cat attached to my thighs at all times, and my right hand has the remote. Left hand free for phone, Kleenex, juice, whatever. Right hand on the remote at all times. I woke up yesterday morning and the damn thing was still in my hand, right where I left it the night before. I think I need some help.

So, for those of you who called to make sure that I was alive – not because you were necessarily concerned that I might be dying of swine flu, but because I haven’t posted in days – settle down. It’s taken me 5 days to move myself to the computer and I can’t make any promises until my head has finished exploding from all the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader high kicks.