Never Thought It Would Happen To Me

Quick Update/Note: I'm so happy to report that my niece continues to recover and in doing so has gotten her smile and sense of humor back...and so it seems have I. Our family has finally reclaimed the levity lost by the seriousness of Haleigh's illness and what better way to celebrate that than another self-depreciating blog post about the fumbles and follies of a Southern girl in San Francisco? Thanks again to everyone for your well wishes and support. ~Caroline

There are many things that happen to a girl on the road to becoming "citified."  Like assimilating to a foreign country, it is important to learn the customs and rules of your new surroundings.  In Britain, you  learn to drive on the opposite side of the street.  In San Francisco, you learn that green does not automatically mean "go," rather scan the crosswalk for pedestrians and THEN you may go (and may I just vent for a moment here?  San Franciscans, I realize that it is your God-given, er...state-mandated right to be in said crosswalk. Could you not act as if you are on an evening stroll down Pier 39...giddy up, peeps!  Do you know how hard it is to make a left turn in this city?!)  Sometimes less overt changes happen - issues of Mother Jones are pushed through our mail slot alongside Southern Living Magazine, the word "barbeque" is used less as a noun and more as a verb, at the first sign of a cold, you email your herbalist instead of making an appointment at the Minute Clinic...but this....this I never thought would happen to me:

Secret is out in favor of Soap Walla's All-natural deodorant cream.

When I first moved here, I marveled at how San Franciscans embrace their "natural oils and odeurs."  Not unlike the French, but somehow just not as glamourous.  I even hatched a new "necessity is the mother of invention" idea.  You know those air-curtain-thingys that some stores have above their entrance doors?  Well, what if we fashioned them to spray bursts of deodorant along with the cool air?  It could be kind of a dual purpose "free deodorant dispensary" and "service to the olfactory-sensitive public" all in one. If you've ever ridden BART on a hot San Francisco day, I can almost guarantee that you would identify with the latter population.  When those doors close and those "natural odors" putrid B.O. invades your nostrils, you will know I speak the truth...and once you are in the tuna can that is a BART car, there is obviously no escape. Ick. (Playing devil's advocate here for a moment, I'd like to point out that Southern women have a tendency to layer on the perfume...which perhaps not quite as bad, a sensory invasion in itself.)

So back to the point...after reading an article about the presence of aluminum and other icky things found in anti-antiperspirants, I turned to my old friend Google to help me search reviews of natural alternatives.  Not surprisingly, most of the reviews were pretty bad.  I had almost resigned myself to the fact that the heavy metals would have to remain as my underarm accessories, until I found a blog by a girl who had tried 7 of the leading hippy-dippy alternatives, ranking each by her own set of methodical criteria.  This totally resonated with the data nerd (and budding hippie?) in me.  (see also: I am a sucker for infomercials and a sales person's dream. Although she did not benefit directly from this, her sales pitch of sorts had similar consequences for my AMEX)  Furthering my journey down Assimilation Lane, I was soon the proud new owner of a vat of Soapwalla All-Natural Deodorant Creme.

After my next shower, I dug my fingertips into the foreign consistency and lathered it on.  It smelled pretty darn good.  I remained optimistic - this Faux-B-O  repellent might actually work! Day 1 was a success!  I even recruited Lew as a second guinea pig for my trails.  If this stuff could stand up to man-stank, then I knew I could easily convert and never look back!  Day 2, both guineas remained stench free!  However, on the third day of Stench-mas, my true love gave to me, a reality check via sweaty Hanes Tee.  This delicate deodorant frosting didn't stand a chance against 18 holes of golf and a 74 degree San Francisco "heat wave."  Turns out, it would fail the she-male as well.  About a half-hour into a cardio workout, I felt like the Peanuts character with the cloud of dirt wafting from him...except in my cartoon version, the wafts would be a pea-green color to represent the stink emanating from my pits. Gross.  While not a total bust (if the weather is chilly and my plans de jour include mostly sedentary activity, I see no reason to "aluminate" my armpits), but not exactly a score either.  On to the next conquest...

Should I go "tout naturel"with brows as well?

In Defense of Ig'nant

 

Ok, so I’m a little tired of everyone picking on the South (even though I will say the jackadoodle-doo that pulled the stunt with Jim Cantore didn’t do us any favors in the image department).  I agree that, as a whole, we could have done a little better planning for "Snowmaggedon I" and now its bitchier sequel "Snowpocalypse - Fo'Real This Time."  May I humbly point out that we just aren’t equipped to handle the powdery stuff?   It doesn’t make sense to invest in the equipment it takes to properly clear roads when its use is only necessary every 5+ years (which brings to mind a personal lesson learned – the beaucoup bucks one shelled out for a fancy Jack Lalane juicer was not the best use of funds for the “Detoxifying Juice Cleanse” a certain someone has done…well...once in 5 years and reason #305 why I shouldn't be allowed to watch infomercials).  Instead of seeing a bunch of ignorant, bumbling simpletons, I saw something beautiful.  We Southern people banded together and truly had each other’s backs.  In Atlanta, people took to the interstate and offered food, rides, and lodging to those who were stuck or out of gas. Someone started a Facebook group that, within hours, had 20,000 members designed to match those who were in need with those who could offer assistance. People were freely posting their addresses and what mile markers were closest in order to open their homes to perfect strangers so they wouldn’t have to sleep in their freezing-cold cars. Mother Theresa put it beautifully when she said, “If we have no peace, it’s because we’ve forgotten that we belong to each other.” My darling fellow Southerners just demonstrated that sprit in this beautiful outpouring of love and made me so very proud to be among them.  

As many of you know, my niece Haleigh has been in the hospital for almost 7 weeks now. Through this very difficult time, I have seen such generosity and sincere kindness.  Almost immediately, friends and family organized a schedule to make sure meals were delivered to the house (‘cause that’s another thing about Southerners….ain’t nobody going hungry on our watch!).   One of Haleigh’s nurses went to Target to buy a few pairs of those footed PJ’s with the zipper thinking that if we put it on backwards, it might help HJ to keep her Central Line and GButton in place. She did that with her own money, on her own time, with her own love for this little kid on her rotation. Talking to a woman here at the hospital in Charlotte, we heard of a mama who has been with her baby so long in ICU that all she had were summer sandals.  What did that woman do? She went to the store and bought that mama a pair of shoes and had the class to leave them at the nurses’ station as to not embarrass the woman with a face-to-face handout. So yes, there are times when I shake my head at the latest "drunk man falling off his tractor" news story coming out of Anals (sic) of Dixie, but these beautiful expressions of selflessness and “we belong to each other-ness” make this girl proud to be among this tribe of ig’nant Southerners.

Damn You, Norman Rockwell



Alright, Norm, thanks for setting unrealistic expectations.

 

So, it appears I am officially a "grown-up."  For the first time in my 30-*ahem* years, I am hosting Thanksgiving.  A meal that comes around once a year....the meal that people look forward to and have such nostalgia about. The centerpiece of the meal is one of the most dreaded culinary feats.  The damn turkey wants to be dry the moment you take it out of the plastic.  Just look at those happy faces...clearly Mrs. Butterball has had years to perfect her bird. I get one shot at it. (Plus a wise man once told me, "you don't practice for company" - meaning work the kinks out of your recipe before your dinner party. My dad is a very smart man.)  If only clicking my heels together and calling out, "Auntie Jane, Auntie Jane!" could summon the Thanksgiving matriarch in my family to bestow her magic to my kitchen! There's no place like home, there's no place like home!

I was seriously having anxiety about this whole turkey thing.  While laying in bed reading the latest Food & Wine mag (and hoping that turkey prep knowledge would permeate my hands via osmosis), the most genius thought comes to my brain...Greenburg Turkey.  A few years back, daddy read about this company out of Texas that has been smoking turkeys since the 1940's. Oprah even had them as one of her "Favorite Things." A bird endorsed by Oprah...you know it's good!  But with an endorsement from the goddess herself quickly sets into motion the economic principle of "supply and demand." (They even have a name for it called, "The Oprah Effect," really, they do.) That's a huge win for Mr. Greenberg, but not so great for us plebeians who have to plan far ahead to score one of these delicious birds.

Just as soon as my elated brain begins to process this thought, the realization that they are likely sold out by now begins to steal my joy. I reach for cell phone on nightstand and do a quick Google check...and what to my wondering eyes did appear? It's a Thanksgiving MIRACLE, Charlie Brown! There are turkeys! Must order immediately! And so, that's what I did...at 10:30pm last Friday eve...

I sprang from my bed to procure my AMEX, knowing I wanted MY turn to come next, 
One click of the mouse, a few taps on the keys, soon gave me to know this T-day would surely be a breeze!  
An animated turkey, I'll call him Tom, came across the screen at Gobble, Gobble DOT com. 
I heard him exclaim as he strutted his tail, don't worry Caro, this year you can't fail!

and then visions of smoked turkeys danced in my head...

Mad About Plaid

Wow. Two months since the last post. Time flies when you're having fun grad school classes suck up every ounce of brain capacity not allocated to basic survival measures (you know...like food, shelter, and trips to procure "sanity juice" from BevMo). It's been a busy few months. My DVR also tells me so. The menacing "percent full" keeps increasing. Hubsy starts to get antsy if the percentage goes above 85%. Things begin to get deleted. Important societal dramas such as "I Dream of NENE - The Wedding" lost. (Btw...let the record show that I am putting in my request to come back as NeNe Leakes in my next life. The perfect mix of southern sass and New York brawn - all wrapped up in a divalicious black woman.)  Anyhoo...let's just say I've gotten behind on a few things. Here's one I just need to check off my list...

Dear Project Runway contestants,
 The "modern southern woman" does NOT wear head-to-toe plaid.  (nor does she shop for clothes at Belk, but since you are obviously accepting advertising dollars from whatever source comes your way (Yoplait frozen yogurt challenge. Really?!), I'm just going to overlook this one for now.

I'm not quite sure where this vicious stereotype began, but let's please set the record straight. Plaid = cowboy. Cowboy does NOT = southern woman. I realize that the South is probably not on your "fashion capitals of the world" list of places to see, but a quick Google search of "Garden and Gun" magazine would have at least been a start. We like classic, clean style...and monograms...we monogram EVERYTHING! In a nutshell, I'd have to say the "modern southern woman's" style reflects her roots.  A hint of tradition mixed with a few bold statements...think A-line dress plus metallic cheetah print heel.

There are, however, a few exceptions to this rule: 
 (1) Burberry plaid is ALWAYS sheik.
(2) A checkered plaid button-down can be sharp when paired correctly.
(3) At Alabama tailgating events, you will see southern women sporting generous amounts of houndstooth, while not plaid per se, perhaps its (much lovelier) distant 3rd cousin.
(4) In a brief instance of being caught in a bad "plaid fad" a few years ago, a certain southern girl may have momentarily lost her way and donned a tablecloth-esque number. As you can see from Exhibit A. this was a poor choice and shall forever be filed among the recesses of poor fashion choices alongside stonewashed jeans and floral Laura Ashley rompers.

Let us never speak of this again, k?

Blame It On the Barbicide

One strategy for passing time on a long road trip is to take the roads less traveled. If time allows, I like to forgo part of the interstate and take the scenic route in search of hidden gems.  You never know what Route 66-esque filling station or fun antique store you may find. On the 8 hour road trip from Charleston to Tampa a few weeks back, we decided to do just that. It was in a little speed trap town of Starke, FL that we discovered this...

While not exactly a charming portal to a bygone era, a treasure in its own right:

Hairy Business in Starke, FL

~Are you ready to count the cliches? Inspired by the crack minds featured above, I just couldn't help myself but to rise descend to their level. Consider yourselves warned.~

Not only are the creative masterminds at "Hairy Business" able to come up with such a imaginative title for their salon, but check out the innovative hair fashions created within.  A spider web buzz cut - Paris and Milan, you'd better be on notice, this truly is cutting edge fashion! Annnnd...this isn't the only business that's hairy in Starke, for a mere $15, your locks can be entrusted to Audrey and her "Flair for Hair." Is there an end to the shear genius happening in this small town?!  If these two places are a little too shee-shee for you, there's always the "Econo Cut Styles and Nails" down on Brownlee Street, fiercely undercutting the competition at $6 a do. Hey, we all have to shave costs somewhere.

We started to notice a theme among these salon think tanks. We even made a game out of it - an "I Spy: Hair Salon Edition" of sorts. After all, hair "arteests" have different aspirations and inspirations for their work. That absolutely should be reflected in one's salon name, right?!

And why should hair be taken so seriously?! After all, it will always grow back - not to worry! Save the stresses; entrust your tresses to the jovial jokesters at:

Cutt'n Up in Stake, FL                                               Just Teasin' in Summerville, SC

Then you have the mane battle between "Mane Secret" in Lugoff, SC and "Mane Attraction" in Lake Lure, NC.  Though, from the looks of it, the Lugoff location is a pretty popular spot given they have such plush seating outside. I can only guess this is to accommodate the long wait times this in-demand House of Hair must experience. Apparently, their Secret is out.

Mane Secret, Family Hair Care in Lugoff, SC                              Mane Attraction, Lake Lure, NC

A few notches further along the Bible Belt, you will find the "Hidden Hair" Salon in Old Fort, North Carolina which sounds more like a place for full blown medical procedures, if you ask me.

Then there's the Hair Color Xperts in Alparetta, GA. Given that these virtuosos can't seem to spell properly, I think I'd listen to the ominous message at the bottom of their website and "skip" this place all together. After they make an appointment with a Mrs. Merriam-Webster, then maybe we'll talk.

Who knew there were so many poets disguising themselves behind those swanky black smocks? I may be splitting hairs here, but I do hope you all save some of that sharpness for the scissors.

Song, Song of the South

Well, friends, I'm finally back after doing some field research on the East Coast. I'm starting to once again get adjusted to long sleeves, foggy days, and a nearer to 0% blood alcohol level. I have so much to share from my time back home, but since I currently have a song craving for it, I will start here:

Discovered this little gem on the drive back down from the small mountain town of Lake Lure, NC. Radio stations are scarce (as is forward-thinking, it appears) and are pretty much limited to the Bible Beat or Country. If nothing else, country music almost always promises a good story. Think of it as a redneck book on tape, if you will. In "The Boys 'Round Here," Blake Shelton hits on the Good Ol' Boy trifecta. He mentions (1) the man upstairs (2) 4-wheel drive (3) beer while achieving bonus points for the addition of chewing tubacca' and dirt...and let's not leave out the girls. According to Blake, they "all deserve a whistle" for "shakin' that sugar, sweet as Dixie Crystal." Apparently chivalry is not dead. whew. 

Backwoods legit

Do Not Talk to Strangers

Growing up Southern, there is a certain code of manners that is pretty much instilled from birth (I promise this is not another diatribe on my mother's mandate for "etiquette classes" at the age of 8. Though I did just recall licking my butter knife at the graduation luncheon at the Omni hotel. My teacher, complete with perfectly coiffed bun, pursed lips, and breathy Charlestonian dialect, shunned me by saying, " Miss Cah-ro-line, we dohhn't lick our silva-wahaya." Perhaps in my own subconscious way, it was my version of a protest.)  We learn to say "yes ma'am" and "no sir" about the time we utter our first words. It becomes automatic and of second-nature. I remember around the age of 10, new neighbors from New York moved in. Being the polite little Southern girl I was raised to be, I'd dutifully answer Mrs. Diane with a "yes ma'am" or "no ma'am." She recoiled with a laugh, "ugh...please don't call me 'mam!'  It makes me feel like an old woman!" Ut oh. This was going to be a problem. Try undoing 10 years of programming. Not easy.

Another line item on the Southerner's Code of Conduct is to offer a friendly hello or at bare minimum flash a kind smile as you make eye-contact with passersby. It's just how we do. Nothing makes a person stand out as a foreigner more than to inadvertently snub a Southerner exhibiting this innate behavior. Unaware that this Code does not necessarily follow one across the Mason-Dixon line, I found myself quickly becoming the "odd girl" when I'd take Ollie for a walk around the block. I slipped into my usual routine of smiling or saying hello when we passed someone. I did not always receive the same reaction back (and noted to self that reaction varied depending on if recipient was of the male vs. female variety). Telling Lewis about this, he warned me that exhibiting this behavior here meant something ENTIRELY different than it means in the motherland. Lone blonde preppy girl + smile + hello = signal that you'd like to be asked out for a artisanal draft beer at the latest hipster bar.  Not at all my intention. Armed with this information on my new culture, I vowed to be stoic and practice my new "citified persona." It was HARD. For the first few weeks, I felt so rude! It went against everything in my nature, but after a month or so of practice, I'm happy to report, that I was able to successfully walk past someone without the need to react. (perhaps this should be considered my second graduation from etiquette school - West Coast edition.) Success.

This behavior has become the new normal for me - so much so, that I'd almost forgotten that it was ever a struggle...until a few weeks ago when my mother came for a visit. Being the original Southern Belle whom I credit for many of my social graces, my mother was the new stranger in a strange land. She said hello to everybody. Not so much an issue when Lewis was with us, but when we took off on our little road trip to wine country, we definitely dealt with some fallout.  Picture the below scene:

See that vacant table adjacent to us? Now picture a 50-something single man approaching. Primal Southern Belle instinct - smile from my mother + friendly hello. DUNNN DUNNN DUHHHHNNNNN. ALERT! WRONG SIGNAL FIRED! We spent the next 30 minutes trying to send opposite signal: Please let us enjoy ourselves sans your banter about sea otters. At least our suddenly cool demeanor lessened his interest to intermittent at best. Channeling my husband's words of wisdom, mom and I had a little chat about how she can't say hello to everybody.  Unfortunately, she couldn't help herself and the very next night inadvertently beckoned a very drunk man in a suit. He quickly offered to buy us drinks at the bar while simultaneously talking about how much he misses his wife when he is away on these business trips. He proceeded to come back by our patio table each trip he went to smoke, each time getting more and more brazen. Sorry sir, but one of these things is not like the other. Shoo fly, don't bother us...and how 'bout go call that wife you profess such love for? And dear, sweet mama, please zip those Southern lips, bless your heart!