Funny you don't sound like it (a.k.a. I can write Southern better than I can speak it)

Y'all, something bad is happening to me: my Southern accent is fading.

What's next? I forget how to make cornbread? My pound cake doesn't rise? I lose my taste for grits? What's happening to me?

I remember talking to this guy on the phone and he teased me about how I drawled out my long "I" sounds. He said I shouldn't try to hide it or be embarassed about it because he thought it was cute.

In college, I remember sitting on the porch, joking around with my fellow Southerners about how you could tell if someone was Southern or not: get them to say, "Big, bright, white, light." If the person saying it was a true Southerner, they would say, "Big, braaaaht, whaaaaht, laaaaht."

Also in college, I struggled with pronouncing Spanish correctly because my Southern drawl would get tangled up in all the pronunciations.

But I never wished to lose my Southern accent. Not only did guys think it was hot, it is (was?) an inherent part of who I am as a Southerner.

How did this loss happen, you ask? I blame it on my Yankee friend from Ohio. We became best friends in the dorm and it just so happened his father had recently been transferred to Birmingham. He didn't have a car, so I would let him ride home with me from time to time. I moved back to Birmingham and he stayed in Auburn, but we kept up our friendship. When I moved back to Auburn and he moved back to Birmingham, we still stayed friends. And when I moved back to Birmingham and he stayed in Birmingham, it was he who helped get me through that which is The University of Alabama at Birmingham, otherwise known as UAB.

Y'all, those people at UAB act like a bunch of Yankees (except for the ones that are my friends), letting doors slam in your face and getting a kick out of saying, "Roll Tide!" to you when you wear an Auburn shirt, even though both of you are going to UAB. (Yes, I do not think there is much difference between Bammers and Yankees, except I'd rather marry a Yankee than a Bammer.)

So, as I was saying, my Yankee friend was the eye of the UAB storm for me. He would invite me to meet up with him for coffee before class by texting me, "Meet you at Foy?” Awww. (For you non-Auburn people out there, Foy was the beloved student union at Auburn University when I was a student there, and the HUC is the "Foy" of UAB. I know that "Foy" is not what all student unions are called, but in my world of commuting to UAB, along with all the people who work downtown, while hung-over from drinking at TC's until the wee hours, just so I could get a decent parking spot all while what I really wanted was "my" Auburn, the HUC would be called Foy.)

My Yankee friend and I shared a love for drinking beer (or wine from a box) until it was all gone and the convenience stores within a safe stumbling walking distance were closed, and coffee to nurse those hangovers, playing pool and darts, and clothes shopping. And Tom Petty. God forbid I forget good ol' Tom.

My Yankee friend and I have an early history of having these atrocious fights. We were young and moody and took our moodiness out on each other. We had our last fight in 2004, and within six months, we were friends again and we've been on good terms ever since. In fact, for about three years, we were practically inseparable. I used to have so much fun getting all gussied up to go to our favorite dive bar with him on Saturday nights. I even was invited to his family's Christmas, y'all. Pretty serious stuff for not being his girlfriend. Then, after I got back together with my first serious boyfriend, he started to drop off the face of the earth again. I haven't seen him much over the past couple of years, but hanging around him all that time prior had done its damage.

Y'all, one day while I was out and about, I was chit-chatting with someone and they asked me, "Where are you from?"

Not thinking anything of it, I said, "From here. Birmingham."

"No, I mean, where were you raised?"

"Here. Born and raised."

"What about your parents?"

"Same. Well, my father was from Walker County."

"You mean you've never lived anywhere else?"

"Well, I went to college in Auburn for a few years."

"It's funny you don't sound like you're from the South."

Y'all, that Yankee and his family neutralized my accent and I don't know if I can get it back!

Just because it's located in the North doesn't mean it can't be Southern

Y'all, have I got a good story for you.

The first thing I remember learning how to cook was cornbread. Hundreds of times my Granny poured ingredients into the plastic bowl as I stirred. Eventually, I began pouring in ingredients, a little at a time, until she said, "That's good." If you know anything about cooking in the South, you know we Southerners do not really use recipes. We cook by intuition. It took me YEARS to perfect my cornbread, and I even managed to give my Granny a secret: add an egg. It won't hurt anything and, for some reason, it always makes things taste better.

Now, I'm not too keen on sweet cornbread, even though I do like it from time to time (even, dare I say, crave it). For me, sweet cornbread, like beer and wine, is an acquired taste. I do not, under any circumstances, like peppers in my cornbread. Blasphemy, I tell you! Dressing is even an acquired taste for me. I used to think it was a waste of good cornbread.

When I was in eighth grade, we were taught that Maryland, even though it's located up North, is a Southern state. I don't quite get what's so Southern about Maryland because I used to know a girl from Maryland and she wasn't that Southern. Also in eighth grade, I went to Washington, D.C. I was forewarned that biscuits would not be served at breakfast in the mornings. When I was in ninth grade, I had a "boyfriend" who was from somewhere "up North" and he told me it was true that grits were not available for purchase at the grocery store up "there". So, everything about the differences between the North and the South, I learned in junior high. In college, I had a friend from Ohio who refused to even try pound cake (but his family did enjoy my pound cake that one Christmas).

Being a Political Scientist, by major, and a Historian, by minor, I was really excited to go to Boston in 2005. We were going in the summer, so I was even more excited to escape the misery that is summer in the South. But, knowing about how Northerners are about cornbread and grits, two things I could not ever live without, I braced myself.

Well, my dreams of a cool August were smashed when I found out it was not cooler up in Boston during the summer. As soon as I stepped foot outside the airport upon arrival, I was hit with a wall of humidity. Just like home.

Mom and I embarked on the scariest cab ride ever from the airport to the Hilton Back Bay. When we arrived, shaken and stirred from the terrifying cab ride, topped off with the cabbie scraping another car just before slamming on his brakes to drop us off at the hotel (yes, true story), our room wasn't quite ready. The hotel let us drop off our luggage and we decided it was time to get some food (after all, we had been up since the rooster cock-a-doodle-doo'd and we had been on two flights, back to back, that only served pretzels and drinks, AND all that combined with the wacky cab ride, we were staaaaaahving, y'all). So, we ask the person at the hotel where to eat and they sent us up the street to this place.

This is where it gets good, y'all. Not that wild cab rides and pretzels and ginger ale mid-flight aren't good, but this is where it gets really good. Mom and I were seated in this AIR CONDITIONED place (not quite to the really good part, but AC is a very good thing) and when they took our drink orders, they put, in front of us, a basket of, brace yourselves, y'all: CORNBREAD. Can you believe it? It is possible to be up North and still be Southern.

And, even though the drivers were wacky, let me tell you, y'all, the people were pretty nice up there. All the time we were asked where we were from, and never once did someone say something ugly about Southerners. They loved our accents (may mine RIP, which is a whole 'nother post for some other day), and one person even marveled over the roller coaster at VisonLand.

Now, I did have one te-niny problem up there: the tea. See, I'm a bit un-Southern when it comes to my tea. I like it unsweet. (Although, like my cornbread, I do like it a little sweet from time to time.) So, you can imagine my excitement about going up North and not having to send back my tea a million times at a restaurant because the server failed to listen to my request for UNsweet tea. Well, y'all, while eating at a restaurant on Newbury Street one day, I was dying for some tea. Just to be sure, since so far my trip had been a dream for a Southerner, I asked the waitress if it was indeed true that the tea was "just plain old, normal" tea. She confirmed. I ordered my tea and when Mom and Brother looked at me expectantly as I prepared to take my first sip of UNsweet tea in days, I just had to ask them if it was, by some cruel twist of events, sweetened. They answered in the negative, so I took a swig. Y'all, don't ever take a swig of tea up North as if you're expecting Heaven to flow through your mouth. Mom couldn't contain her laughter anymore. I finally understood why the Bostonians threw all that tea in the harbor: Nestea, y'all, is nas-tea.

I propose, y'all, that we Southerners adopt Boston as a Southern location. It can't be too hard to fix the tea situation. And I believe any place that serves cornbread upon arrival would be open to grits, so that shouldn't be too complicated to correct. We can just call it polenta, like the Italians do, and they'll totally go for it. Don't you think so?

Watch out or I'll go Julia Sugarbaker on you

Y'all, I have a confession: I'm not one of those sweet, submissive, never see anything bad in anyone kind of Southerners. I consider myself kind and generous, but don't cross my path. I'll go Julia Sugarbaker on you and make you feel about the size of a grit.

I try to be polite at all times, but when some local politician calls me for the umpteenth time and I actually get to speak to a PERSON, you better believe I will take the opportunity to tell them I am sick of getting similar phone calls to the point that I am beginning to find myself apathetic. And I was a Political Science major, y'all. I believe in voting. Well, not exactly right now, but I'm trying to get my faith back in this world. So under prior circumstances, I believe in voting.

If you are a pushy real estate agent (or similar type person) and are really bugging the crap out of me, I will eventually tell you to suck it. Unless I am in Real Estate school and would like to keep all contacts I have in that profession as professional as possible, since I never know where I will be working and who I might be up against in negotiations.

If you are an insurance salesman who, after having me explain to you why I have been denied insurance in the recent past, tells me I can get insurance from you, and when I go to get said insurance, and I am, in fact, denied, I will let the nastiest bad word in the world fly. (And you must know you deserve it for listening to it for a few rounds before hanging up on me.)

Getting to what this post was to really be about, if you are an old friend who sends me inappropriate text messages, I will blush. And if you send those text messages in the middle of the night and wake me up, I will tell you, "Contrary to the version of me you used to know, I am indeed sleeping at 5:00 A.M. I do not appreciate wake up texts asking for dirty things, especially dirty things with no strings attached. Because, also contrary to the version of me you used to know, I settled down with a boyfriend and it turns out I actually like it." That seemed to nip it in the bud for a while, but I really missed my old friend, so we ended up starting to text each other again. It was fun having him back in my life.

Until this morning, at, say 3:27 A.M. when I got a text message too dirty to even attempt to describe in a lady-like way detailing what he did with a girl, who apparently is not one bit a good, Southern, lady. If I knew who she was, I would tell her father what was said about her. Shame on her! Let's put it this way: contrary to common Southern convention, I am by no means a Republican AND I consider myself very socially liberal (remember, I did say I was a bit of a hippie). Not much surprises me. Except at 3:27 A.M. when I get a vulgar text message that was really not necessary. This stirred me so much I wanted to get up and go out to see if Two-Bit and my friend were still hanging around the scene of the crime and I wanted to let my friend have it. I was gonna go Julia Sugarbaker on his sorry buns.

Of all things, y'all. I am STUNNED. Google the "Golden Girls" quote where Blanche is stunned. That's how stunned I am at what I saw in that text message. It was worse than vulgar, y'all.

Now, y'all, he did manage to put a "Sorry" in there. Why, I don't know. Sorry for waking me up? Sorry for tearing apart what was left of my innocence? Sorry for being vulgar? I don't really know, but I know that if he really was sorry, he wouldn't have sent that in the first place. And that, y'all, is what I texted back to him at 3:31 A.M. Only time will tell, y'all. In the meantime, I must come up with and practice a diatribe that would make Julia Sugarbaker feel the size of a grit.

But, being a good, Southern, LADY (ahem, Two-Bit), I will forgive him. With proper apologies, of course. Although, I might need some chocolate and wine (Ravenswood Zinfandel, please and thank you) to settle my stunned nerves first, and, of course, a beautiful bouquet of flowers would help. And if that doesn't do the trick, it's called Pottery Barn and you can check my registry.

The New Home

You can say you saw it first here (unless you're my mom or realtor): my game day condo-tuned-new home in Auburn.

So, why is it not just a game day condo?

See, y'all, while I was laying in bed all Spring feeling ill because of the ga-zillion radioactive tests my GI doctor ran on me before sending me off to the surgeon to remove my gall bladder, I started making lists of what I wanted in life. I was really trying to get myself motivated to go back to work, but it's kind of hard to get motivated to go back to work when you have random abdominal pains and near-incessant nausea. The only cure for that, y'all is phenergan and makeup, jewelry, and pajamas, in the form of retail therapy, and on really bad days, phenergan, ginger ale, saltines, and aforementioned pajamas, propped up in bed on a million pillows while watching "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" or whatever you can stand to watch on TV.

A constant item on those lists was a game day condo in Auburn. It's nothing personal against hotels. I heart hotels. The only thing is if I had a game day condo, I could afford to spend MORE time in Auburn during football season. I could be one of those people who gets to Auburn on Tuesday or Wednesday (Thursday at the latest) and stays 'til Sunday. I could attend every home game, and be in Auburn for the big away games, to cheer on the team from afar with other Auburn fans. I might even start going to basketball games. And I could even go to the A-Day game.

I didn't intend to actually move to Auburn at first.

I had an epiphany as I was watching "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" one day while recovering from my gall bladder surgery: if Dr. Quinn could leave Boston, I could leave Birmingham for Auburn. See, Dr. Quinn's father died, and my Papa had recently died. Dr. Quinn left the big city for the small town, I would leave the big-ish city for the small-ish town. Fresh air, fresh start. It sounded like a good idea.

Being a good, strong, Southern girl, I can't be too far away from my family (unlike Dr. Quinn). I hate driving and I hate flying, so wherever I go will be within a two-hour radius of Birmingham. So, Auburn is still a good choice for me. It's about as far South as I can go for right now.

Not much is more Southern than that

As I was reading through old attempts at being a humor writer, I came across a subject that can't be much more Southern: (o)possums.

First, let's clear something up about the spelling. I know good and well the animal is spelled opossum. But we really say "possum". And I am one of those people who, even though it's correct, gets bugged when I see “an opossum”, because it makes me want to say “an ‘possum” and that doesn’t sound right. So, as a compromise, I will be referring to these mysterious creat-chters as (o)possums. As for the term of endearment, I will be using the word "possum".

When I was a young girl, my Papa affectionately called me “Possum”. Taking him literally, I took all I could stand before I finally corrected him: “I am not a(n) (o)possum! I am a little girl!” I was never called “Possum” again.

When I got the Go-Go Girls, Roxy and Boston, little Roxy Go-Go had the sweetest little ‘possum face ever. I couldn’t help talking about her cute little ‘possum face, but I never once called her “possum.”

When one of my old Auburn neighbors came to visit me in Birmingham for a weekend, and it came out in conversation he had never seen a live (o)possum before, I was hoping I could fix that for him.

Y’all, let me tell you, I was befuddled as to how someone born and raised in the South had never seen a live (o)possum. BE-FUDDLED, tell you.

Earlier in the day, my old neighbor and I went to Oak Mountain to see the Wildlife Rescue Center, and we went to good ol’ Browdy’s (may it rest in peace) for dinner before going to the Widespread Panic concert that night. (I guess now it would be a good time to mention I’m a good, Southern, HIPPIE.) Our relaxed, one-with-nature day, topped off with good food and good music, was capped off with a stop at my favorite bar ever, TC's (may it, also, RIP). Finally, with nothing left to do, we called it a night and headed back to my house.

As I was pulling into the driveway, I saw a raccoon scurry towards the backyard. I screamed at my old neighbor to look. I think he missed the raccoon, but as I pulled on into the driveway, there was the missing piece of the puzzle: a(n) (o)possum.

It wasn't just any (o)possum. This thing was standing on its hind legs, baring its teeth, making the meanest   (o)possum face I have ever seen. And I think it was missing an ear. I locked the doors and insisted we not get out of the car until I had decided what to do. My old neighbor didn't seem to get it. (O)possums are very likely rabid, duh! And judging by the scowl on that one's face, I wouldn't be surprised if it was.

I made us sit in the car for about 20 minutes before I decided it just had to be safe enough to make a mad dash for the house, just in case the (o)possum decided to come back and attack us.

There, y'all. My first REAL Southern post. As I was telling my mother about it earlier today, I mentioned I didn't know what was much more Southern than (o)possums, and she just had to top me with ... (drum roll, please) ... ARMADILLOS (i.e. (o)possums on the half shell). Let me be honest here: I (and I think I am in the majority on this one) don't think I have ever seen a live armadillo. Maybe once, but it was never confirmed, and I don't have a colorful story to go along with it, so y'all will be the first to read all about it when I finally do see my first (confirmed) live armadillo.

The Short Version

2005: First serious boyfriend. He's a good, strong Auburn fan. And twice my age. (I really did not mean for that to happen. It just did.)

2006: Graduate college, begin graduate school (i.e. came to understand how people become alcoholics)

2007: I have a pretty bad meeting with my concentration advisor in grad school ("Frequenting bars is not advised," she told me. That should have been enough for me to get out of there then.) The Boyfriend and I break up a few hours after the deadline for me to drop my classes. I am devastated and rush to make phone calls early the next morning. I could move back to Auburn and totally get away. Unfortunately, I needed my advisor to help me do all that, and, of course, she did not return my calls and emails. So, I did what I knew to do: stick it out and hit the bar whenever possible. Got a nasty stomach bug. Daily nausea. Switch majors in grad school from Education to Public Admin. Get back together with the Boyfriend. Start co-running a dart tournament. Get a couple of stinkin' cute kittens.

2008: Still nauseated. Get another cat. Start working as an elderly sitter. Love the job. Begin the process of buying first home. Become a bartender. Break up with boyfriend. Buy townhouse. Black Velveteen is totaled in a McDonald's drive through line. Get back together with boyfriend. Buy Ava. Bar job sucks! Declare I will move to Auburn in six months if "things" do not improve. Sitting job may end. Hard time settling into house. Bad roommate. Kittens abandoned outside my house and I rescue them. Boyfriend insists on keeping them. Bar job really sucks. Decide to move back to Auburn. Tell Boyfriend, and he starts treating me very nicely again. Move put on hold. Fired from sitting job. Re-hired to sitting job. Sitting charge on hospice. Did I mention the bar job sucks? Sitting charge dies. Phenergan cut off. Devastating bar experience, quit bar job.

2009: New doctor, new phenergan prescription. Stomach bug, take 2. Still can't get settled in townhouse. Want to start a business with Mom. Boyfriend moves in. Start Real Estate School. Stepson comes to visit. Easter hosted at my house. Grandfather goes to hospital. Two and a half weeks later, Grandfather dies. Again, I am devastated. Want to buy a game day condo in Auburn. Decide to break up with Boyfriend. Gallbladder removed. Blood pressure high. Start watching "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman." Decide to move to Auburn. The Guy Who Still Lives With Me takes in a pregnant cat. Five kittens born. Here I am, still nauseated.

While this is the most condensed version I could come up with, I want it to be known that there is a lot to be thankful for and I did manage to let out a couple of smiles, maybe even laughs, during the past few years. It's been a wild ride, not all bad, but there were some bad things that really seem to characterize these years.

I do not intend to run away from my problems, but I do know I need to remove myself from the "situation" for a while. Fight or flight was really kicking in a few weeks ago, and now that this move is underway, I'm beginning to feel much better.

I am looking forward to living in a beautiful town with nice people and fresh air. I am looking forward to downsizing my possessions that I have accumulated over the years. I am looking forward to being single again. I am looking forward to not have a million cats at my feet as I make my breakfast every morning.

And it would be really nice, but it is not a priority, seeing as how I need to heal for a while, to find a good, strong, Southern, Auburn fan down here to fall in love with, get married to, and adopt a kid or two or however many God sees fit.

I'm ready to get on with my life.

Greetings from the Plains

Well, y'all, in just a few days, it will be official. I am moving to the loveliest village on the plains, where the eagles soar and the tigers roar: Auburn, Alabama.

I guess this is kind of sudden to most everyone who knows me, but be honest, y'all, it's not that much of a surprise. Is it?

THE MOVE has been in the works for a while now. If I want to be good and Southern about it, and dramatize how long it has been, I'll say since I was moving out of my apartment in Auburn in 2004. Really, though, it's been about two or three years in the making.

After I took my first serious boyfriend down to Auburn one weekend in the early days of our relationship, I knew I wanted to move back there. After my first serious boyfriend and I broke up the first time, I really tried to move back down there, but it wasn't very practical. When I was in the process of looking for my first house, I peeked at properties in Auburn (and I found THE quintessential Auburn home on Samford Avenue - of course, it sold within a matter of days). And within a couple of months of buying my first house - a townhouse in Birmingham's Highland Park - I declared, "If things don't get better in six months, I'm moving to Auburn."

I gave it well over a year before I actually made good on that declaration.

So, here I sit in my hotel room, about to go to bed because tomorrow is a big day: I have the inspection on my condo. If all goes well, I will be moving in a couple of weeks.

So many people ask, "Why Auburn?" I tell them so I can breathe. I'm only half-joking. The air is fresh, people are more than nice, and I need to remove myself from the bad situation that is Birmingham. Plus, I don't know how much more Southern you can get than Auburn.