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.

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!

Probably you already knew that. But what you might not know is that it is the combined birthday of two more of my most favorite people.

My BFF Kathy turns 30-ish today, and I wish I could find words to encapsulate her right here, but I don’t have enough storage space on this here blog. Kathy has more wit than Jon Stewart, better taste than Clinton Kelly (sorry Clinty, you know I still love you oh my god we are SO soulmates please don’t leave me please please), fiercer loyalty than a golden retriever (no, Kat, I’m not comparing you to a dog) and was a better roommate to me than Chandler was to Joey. Also, she does a mean running man. I adore her in every sense of the word and strive to be like her every day. (Except on the days that I’m lazy. On those days I’m not like her at all.) She knew me when I dated my husband, she put up with me for a solid year when we were wedding planning, and she has remained my steadfast and true blue friend even after I’ve become a jaded, cranky wife. The only supper club I have ever belonged to also belongs to her, and I’m eternally grateful. Happy birthday, Higs!

Finally, I have to wish my aunt Ruthie a marvelous *&th birthday. (I’m not naming numbers, even though I think it’s incredibly exciting, but let’s just say it falls somewhere between 69 and 71. Approximately.) Ruthie is the fabulous little devil that sits on my shoulder day after day to tell me that life can be more fun if you make it that way. She is the person in my life who reminds me not to set limitations on my dreams and my talents, and she is one of my most vocal cheerleaders. Ruthie will drop everything in a second to be with her friends when they need her, and I’m proud to say that our baby pictures look eerily similar. If that’s a sign of what’s to come, I’m gonna continue to be smoking hot for quite some time. Ruthie is a spitfire, she is a treasure, and she’s mine all mine.

I love you both and wish you the happiest of happy days!

So you know how when you wander around on the Interwebs, discovering bloggers and blogs, and seeing people all over Facebook and such and you’re all Hey! Check out that chick! and stuff? And while you’re doing that, you picture them in your head except not really because you’ve probably already seen their picture and so in your head you just imagine their voices and their gestures and stuff?

I’m completely disturbed at how off base I was about one of my blogger idols, Jenny Lawson aka the Bloggess. For some reason I thought – no lie – that she would have this sort of authoritative voice – not boomy, but just in-charge sounding – and Y’ALL. She totally does not. She’s got this tiny little girl voice that makes me want to put her in my pocket and carry her around, wig and all. No lie.

That said, I started thinking that maybe you all wonder what I sound like. Do I have a Southern accent? Do I say “y’all” and “um” a lot? The answers are YES and YES. Would you like to hear? Should I promise (this time with makeup and un-scary hair) to post a video here tomorrow? Or better yet, after a glass or 6 of wine TONIGHT?

So actually, I have misled you a little bit, because the girls I’m about to brag on are not at all spooky. However, today is Friday the 13th, also known as ALISSA’S BIRTHDAY! and aren’t all Friday the 13th’s a little spooky? I forget why…

Anyway, this weekend two of my besties are turning, um, 30ish and I want to tell you a little bit about them. So here goes:

Alissa, of haley+rose, is one of the sweetest souls in my life. She is thoughtful, kind, creative, loyal, fiercely awesome and is my stationery hero. When I think of her my face lights up from the inside out because she’s one of those people that makes you feel warm and sunshiney, even if you’re not. Happiest birthday to you, lovey! Alissa lives near Hollywood, which, according to Miley Cyrus, is the land of fame and excess. I would not say that Alissa fits the excess mold, but she is famous and I am lucky to know her.

Alissa, Elizabeth and Josie

And Josie – oh Josie! – Josie is my partner in several crimes, none of which you will find out about here. She writes over at She Don’t Know Come Here From Sic ‘Em, where you can learn about a) her pregnancy, b) her love of the law and c) Hubs, an Army dude that supports her in her efforts to take over the world. Josie tugs on my heartstrings because she lives so far away, and I can’t rub her preggers belly like I want to. (She’s filing a restraining order RIGHT NOW.) She turns 29 (again) tomorrow, and if I were in Louisiana, I would bake her a big cake and let her eat the frosting with her fingers.

November is full of friend-type birthdays, so you can expect some similar posts to come. And if you don’t like to read about how awesome my friends are, SUCK IT. Happy Friday!

. . . 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?

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.

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?

…You crawl in my lap to get a little love, throw your paw up on my arm and start sniffing it like it’s glue. And then, when I look down to see what’s going on, I noticed that your perfectly white paw is not so much white, but more like BLOODY PINK, and then I realize that you are not the domesticated creature I thought you were. Also, thanks for leaving your murder victim in the driveway for me to run over this morning. You rock, you dirty hunter, you.

True or false? Post your guesses below.

I loved my Honda Accord. The day I got it was the day I received a surprise phone call from my parents. They had been looking and looking for something to replace my 1989 Oldsmobile Cutlass, the one with the burgundy interior and the luggage rack on the back. The one I had wrecked in a snowstorm on my way to Chapel Hill for a Friday night frat party. Finally they’d found the replacement, but I needed to drive from my college down to NC to trade the old one for the new one. I was dying to find out the color. What did the inside look like? Did it have a sunroof? More importantly, did it have the capability to play both tapes AND CDs? Was it leather? (Also important because leather, you see, doesn’t clutch the stench of cigarette smoke quite like upholstery.)

An hour and a half after that phone call, I pulled up in the parking lot of a BBQ joint in a small town off Highway 86. I didn’t see my parents, but I did see a sparkling green Honda, four shiny doors, no tacky spoiler, was that a sunroof?, parked in the second row, away from the BBQ drive-thru. I squealed out loud, jumped out of the car and ran to meet my new beloved piece of machinery. The love I had – will always have – for that car cannot be measured with words or even pictures. The love I feel for every inch of that Honda can only be measured by the buckets of tears I cried the day I – a married woman with a job and a mortgage – sold it to illegal aliens for under-the-table cash.

We went through a lot together, that car and I. There were the many road trips back and forth from state to state, moving boxes of my belongings from dorm to house to apartment and finally, into my permanent home. There were carpet stains from someone else’s children, dings from parking too close to my neighbors, scratches from fallen branches covered in snow. But the biggest dent, located just under the left headlight, came from what started out as a well-intentioned errand.

No one washes their car as much as they probably should, and when you find yourself too busy to breathe, much less get your chores and errands done, important things inevitably fall between the cracks. My Honda always had its check-ups on time, but not so much with the washes. Out on the main drag in my town, there is an automatic car wash that is convenient to a lot of places. On the one particular Sunday afternoon I decided to stop by there, I was lucky – and surprised – to not wait in line for my turn, especially after I did what I did. You know the timers on the outside of the car wash that tell you how long you have to sit under those giant dryers? The big tall digital ones with the red glowing numbers? The ones you can’t possibly miss if you tried?

Turns out, it IS possible to miss them. In fact, it’s entirely possibly to finish your car wash, turn to the left, KNOCK OVER THE TIMER and not realize what you’ve done until you look behind you and see the evidence, collapsed on the concrete with its tangled wire guts sprawled out for all to see. It’s also possible that no one saw you or your car, which is why this particular Sunday afternoon I raced out of that car wash as fast I could, called 13 different friends in panic and waited for the police to come arrest me for property damage.

Oddly enough – security cameras and all – they never came.