I was told recently by a family member in my home state of North Carolina that she was going to revoke my “Southern Belle” membership card.It seems, according to a family member that will remain nameless for their own safety, that the North has in a sense, tainted me.
Over the last fifteen or more years, I have moved back and forth between my Southern home and the Northland that somehow sucks me back like a pool vacuum trying to get the smallest piece of soot from the bottom of the pool…it is relentless.Like that last piece of pool gunk; I have finally given in to the pull that I cannot resist; my fate is inevitable.Although my changing ways were vividly apparent to my family; I denied the accusations that I was somehow being “influenced” by “those damn Yankees”.
The irony of the situation is that to my friends in New England, I currently live in Hillbilly Country.I try to remind them that just because we like our “throwed rolls” and our okra fried, it does not mean we are backward in any way.My friends in the first thirteen find it funny that I have to explain the difference between tin and ten to my children; not the actual definitions of the terms mind you but the way the words are pronounced.
Looking back, I suppose it started after attending school in Missouri. I moved back to North Carolina where I announced in mixed company that I did not care for sweet tea.You could have heard a pin drop.That’s right folks; a pin, not a pen.The family blamed it on the six months I spent in Connecticut.I attributed it to the fact that I like my syrup on pancakes, not in a glass.
The hardest thing for my family to swallow is that I refuse to eat anything that I have affectionately named “geriatric food”.You know what I am talking about; meatloaf, gravy, and beans.These foods require absolutely no dental tools that should be used for consuming sustenance.I just have a problem eating food that I could drink through a straw.As you can imagine; the fact that I “suddenly” will not eat brown gravy was like personally going to the cemetery and rolling over every ancestor I have.
Fortunately, I was given a very short probation period. The committee gathered around the kitchen table while playing Pinochle, and after a heated debate on the merits of my home made pie crust decided I had not shamed the family enough to take my card just yet.I was given a strict diet of pecan pie, Sundrop Soda, and NC State.I think it is fair to say the punishment fits the crime.Now where did I put my Wolfpack sweatshirt?
I rarely write about my family other than hubs and the boys. I guess I feel like the family beyond the nucleus should not be subjected to such scrutiny. This story, however, was just too good to pass up.
A woman (she is in her early 30’s) recently told me the most hilarious story I immediately told her it would be blog fodder but I would not mention her name. Imagine, if you will, a woman. This woman may not be all that endowed. She is wearing something that warrants not wearing a bra. This woman prefers to not show off her nipples so she get some “pasties”. See, here’s the thing; some woman feverishly try to prevent their nipples from showing and others just don’t care. I am of the don’t care group. But I digress.
So my lady friend attends a backyard party and leaves to head to the next event with her beau. The night continues with a couple more parties and my friend heads home. Upon taking off her clothes to go to bed she notices she is missing a pastie. Not much to get worked up about right? Probably in a back yard somewhere; even if someone finds it they will not be able to figure out to whom it belonged. Or so she thinks.
Seems her soon to be mother law stayed behind at the first party. Something catches the eye of said mother in law and she asks another guest what it is. The mother in law picks it up and makes her own assessment. The next morning my friend listens to a somewhat serious voicemail from her soon to be mother in law asking my friend to return the call as soon as possible with the closing “we need to talk”.
It seems that the mother in law was under the impression my friend had lost her diaphragm. I did not know that was a common occurrence or that pasties and diaphragms look alike for that matter.
My friend is slightly embarrassed and assures her soon to be mother in law that it was just a pastie. I guess the mother in law is not quite ready to be a grandmother.
I think it is obvious at this point that I have my pet peeves. Rather than dissect my laundry list of issues with others, I will concentrate on just one; eye contact. Worse than a hand shake from a cold, clammy, dead fish; I cannot stand it when people do not look at me when engaged in conversation. I am an eye person anyway. Some woman like full lips, tight butts, strong arms, long hair, etc. The first thing I notice on someone of either sex is their eyes. The infamous “they” have said that the eyes are the window to the soul. I am not sure if that is true, but I believe they can tell a lot about a person.
When I first meet someone I can tell how they feel about themselves by whether or not they look at me when introduced, and for how long. Eye contact tells me they are confident but not necessarily cocky. If they look at me too long I can get a little creeped out. You know what I am talking about; that guy that is still looking at you well after the introduction is over and you are looking at the introducing party. Weirdo.
When I am talking to people I also pay attention to how often they look away. It is one thing to get distracted by someone or something going on the room; especially if in a public place. I too can get distracted by shiny objects.However, if I am having a one on one conversation and the other person looks away often, I start to wonder what they are hiding. I read once that “A person who is looking to his left is accessing the memory; he is trying to recall the facts before relaying them to you. A person who is looking to his right is accessing the creative part of the brain. He is inventing a version of events or story to tell you.”I rarely pay attention to the direction someone is looking, I just get irritated they are not paying attention to the conversation.It’s just a mutual respect thing.
The one part of eye contact that we have no control over is the size of our pupils. In 1975, a study discovered pupils do more than simply react to light. When we are interested in the person we are talking to or the subject we are talking about, our pupils get bigger. When we’re bored, they get smaller. To verify this, next time you’re hanging out with a friend or significant other, talk about something you know he finds interesting, then suddenly change the subject to changes in this year’s tax laws and watch his pupils change. I have tried this with hubs and can verify the validity.What do you think I chose as my subjects?
I was told recently by a family member in my home state of North Carolina that she was going to revoke my “Southern Belle” membership card. It seems, according to a family member that will remain nameless for their own safety, that the North has in a sense, tainted me. 
I rarely write about my family other than hubs and the boys. I guess I feel like the family beyond the nucleus should not be subjected to such scrutiny. This story, however, was just too good to pass up.
I think it is obvious at this point that I have my pet peeves. Rather than dissect my laundry list of issues with others, I will concentrate on just one; eye contact. Worse than a hand shake from a cold, clammy, dead fish; I cannot stand it when people do not look at me when engaged in conversation. I am an eye person anyway. Some woman like full lips, tight 
