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!

Crimes of a Cat Lady

In an attempt to combat the onslaught of cat hair in our house and on our clothes, we made an appointment to get Gracie shaved. When I lived back in SC, I used to do this every summer to help her stay cool and to prevent her from shedding her winter coat all over my furniture. Since moving to San Francisco, I felt I didn't need to do this since the temperatures are pretty consistently cool. Gracie did not feel she should return the favor and has continued the yearly tradition of shedding her coat. Please allow me to quantify this for you...this is not a gradual process. We're talking clumps of hair left Hansel-and-Gretl style throughout our house. Try to give some kitten affection and you're left holding an unwanted dander bomb.  We were going through lint rollers faster than a roll of toilet paper. It was gross. Now add to this Oliver's need for year-round molting and the poor Oreck (or my nervous system) didn't stand a chance. Something had to be done. We had to shave the cat. After researching places that will "accept" cats to their grooming service, we wait the  - yes - THREE WEEKS  - for the appointment date. Seventy-five dollars and several kilos of hair later, this is what we got:

 I have to admit that it took us a full day and a half not to laugh every time this rodent-esque creature slinked in to the room.  Even the poor cat seemed embarrassed and would retreat under the bed every chance she got. But...wow whatta' difference. It was so nice to be able to enjoy our pet once again.  I was not prepared for the side effect of guilt that would come with this decision. The poor cat was cold. My moment of shame caused me to drive directly to PetSmart for a kitty sweater. I was about to be schooled on all things Vestment du' Pet. Did you know that there are "designers" that fashion Pet Wear? Nope, me either. Martha Stewart, Disney, and Bret Michaels to name a few. Also, it follows the two main fashion season - Spring and Fall.  Seriously?  As you can imagine, there were slim pickin's this time of year.  Most of what was there would require duct tape and a straight jacket to keep on the poor, tortured animal. Not gonna happen. I head to the clearance section in hopes of something promising among the dregs. I concede to the red Minnie Mouse "sweatshirt" dangling sadly from its plastic hanger. Once home, I wrangle the cat into her second skin and marvel at the cuteness staring back at me.  My guilt has been appeased...for now.

Function over fashion...or perhaps a little of both.

Martha Stewart's Spring Line -  I'm not so sure it's a "good thing."

Brain Blockade

So it's been a shameful two months since I've last posted. It seems I've been afflicted with the sometimes long-term malady known as duh duh duhnnnnn....writer's block. I've had every intention of sharing my adventures in Thailand, but each time I set my mind to do it...nothin'. I guess it's a bit overwhelming trying to compile so many experiences into one entry. My English 101 professor once told me, "The cure for writer's block is  - just write. Don't worry about if it's terrible, just write." Seems rather obvious, but let's give it a try...

This time around, I knew a little more of what to expect. Unlike my little brother who gets his jollies from jumping out of perfectly good airplanes, diving with unpredictable sea life, and scaling sheer rock faces, I do not thrive on challenging situations. Much to the dismay of my hippie-at-heart husband, I like to plan.  For EV-ER-Ything. So this time, I found myself much more at ease.  It did not surprise me when the "toilet" was a bucket in the ground or when the power and "fan of mercy" ceased at 11pm. Cold showers - got it...I knew exactly what to expect. What I did not expect was to fall even more deeply in love with Thailand.

Here's a snippet from my journal entry when we first arrived:

December 14-16 Bangkok - New Siam Riverside

Almost missed connection in Taipei due to late departure from SFO.  Cute Thai student studying "drawing" in San Francisco told us there were no spots left on the next morning's flight so we might be in for a major headache.  Fortunately, they held the plane for us and we made it aboard.  Unfortunately, we weren't able to be seated in the "extra leg room" seats that we'd arranged to be in [this was following our 14 hour leg from SFO-Taipei, now entering another 4.5 hours to Bangkok]. Our hearts and my knees were sad.

Our heads touched the pillows at New Siam around 4 a.m.  We had been sleeping on and off on the plane so we awoke around 8am congratulating ourselves that we were now on Thai time.  Nice buffet breakfast on the river.  Runny eggs=bonus.  Took off for a little shopping on Khao San Road.  Bought unfriendly flip-flops that gnawed away at my toes (was cursing myself for ignoring cardinal rule of traveling - make sure, if nothing else, you have comfortable shoes.  The song, "Stupid Girl" by Garbage played in my brain. Early dinner then off to bed.  

I woke up with the numbers 2:48 staring at me. Ugh. It's such a helpless feeling when the Sand Man is not your friend.  I laid there for another hour then finally conceded. I grabbed the iPad and made myself a fort under the sheets to shield Lew from the light coming off the screen.  Thankfully Lew woke up early and we went to breakfast. Had an easy day since we had big plans to meet with Jamie and Sa that evening.  When Lew asked the desk clerk how long it would take to get to the restaurant, she told him, "with traffic, about an hour."  In a B-list romantic comedy, this little detail would serve to foreshadow the rest of the evening.

Hailed a cab outside.  The cab driver negotiated 200 Baht and we piled in. Traveled about 40 feet before the road became a parking lot. Roughly 45 minutes later, the cab pulls over and asks to see the address again.  Not a good sign.  We call Sa and have her talk to driver in Thai.  10 minute exchange = bad news.  There wasn't a consensus on where in Bangkok we were. I'd just spotted a hotel with "Millenium" (our intended destination) on it.  We decided to bail out of the cab (turns out we'd been "bangkok-ed" as the fare should have been around 80 Baht). Lew tossed 100 Baht at the driver and we fled.  It was the most like Bonnie and Clyde I've ever felt.  I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to find an irate Thai man chasing after us.  We turned the corner optimistic that we were close.  Turns out it was the wrong Millineum hotel. Curse word!  At this point I am at risk of total toe amputation from walking too much in cheap flip-flops.  Stuuuuupid girrrrrrrurrrrrllllll.  We are beyond frustrated and starving so we commit to going to the very next promising restaurant we see. The Rib Room.  Ahhhh.  Enter fancy hotel.  Press button for "Rib Room." Ascend to very top floor.  Continue to ignore blatant signs and warning bells that we are headed to a significantly fancy resutrant.  Get seated. Open menu (guilded with gold pages) and narrowly avert heart failures at sight of prices. Steak - $100. Heart palpation.  At this point, Lew remembers he didn't bring the AMEX and retreats to the bathroom to count our money to avoid embarrassing incident when check arrives.  3,500 Baht. This should have been enough for several DAYS worth of meals, but here it bought us each an appetizer and one drink.  Our waiter happened to be from California and took pity on us sending out fun sherbert dessert for us to try.  He also told us we were still about 45 minutes from our intended destination. ughhhhhh.  Mustered energy and hailed a cab (of course Paranoid Patty was convinced that we'd run in to cabbie we had "stiffed" and insisted on doing a visual scan of the inside of the cab before agreeing to get in.)  Although we were exhausted, we had a fabulous time with Grant, Kate, Jamie and Sa and were so glad we pushed ourselves to continue on. I will say though, that this "bangkok-ed" pair can't wait to be on Koh Phayam.

Being back in the States, jet lag hit my like a smack in the face. I had such a hard time getting back to reality. I found myself oddly down for the first few weeks. I missed Thailand or more specifically the little island of Phayam. The outlook there is one of gratitude and appreciation. They aim to never be wasteful. They use everything they have for as many uses as they can. While we strive for those things here, it seems like the overall agenda is to make you feel as though you are lacking. You must buy things. You need that new car; those jeans you are wearing are SO last season.  There is so much excess, but it's easy to feel like we never have enough. Outwardly, Koh Phayam may look meager and simple with its lean-to restaurants and bare-footed citizens, but to me, it is Utopia. In my eyes, they are the ones that have it all figured out.

The end justifies the means...finally celebrating with our friends in Bangkok

My Utopia