A Northern Girl in the Single South: Part 2

"Part 1" = the kiss of death. I've learned the hard way.

If you write this phrase in a title you are effectively making an unspoken contract. If there is a part 1, there must be a part 2. I've tried to deny this many times over the past week but it will not be argued away. Before I can move on to a fulfilling writing career I have to satisfy the demands of that silent tyrant.

Imagine if George Lucas had stopped with episodes 4, 5, 6!

Okay. Bad example.

Anyway, here goes...part 2 of "Yankee hits the dating scene"

AT A BAR:

"Do you like whiskey?"

"Yes, absolutely!" Found a winner.

"Two fireballs, please." Okay, maybe not.

"Alright, lady's choice."

"Scotch." 

"Holy...is it supposed to burn like that?" Yup. Definitely not a winner.

AT THE MOVIES:

"Why are you speeding? We have plenty of time."

"Just don't want to be late. I hate being late for movies."

"And that's why we are parking on the opposite side of the mall?"

"Yeah, there's never any parking on the side with the theater."

Just on the side with the Bass Outlet that you have to walk through to get to the theater.

I hate being late for movies. Except when I'm looking at fishing gear.

AT A BASKETBALL GAME:

"Sorry this was so last minute. I guess you didn't have time to change."

Well that was definitely the most delicate way to tell me I was wearing the wrong thing. Because who wears shorts and a tee shirt to a basketball game, right?

Still, while I may have missed the "country club casual" memo, I wasn't going to let it spoil my evening.

My date was going to do that, by proceeding to explain the game of basketball to me.

"He gets three points when he shoots from behind the arc."

I always wondered why they called it the three point line.

"When they call a travel, it's a turnover. The other team gets the ball."

So that's how turnovers work.

"So when he blew the whistle right there, that was an offensive foul."

I'll show you an offensive foul.

Poor guy. I was the worst girl to take to a professional basketball game: I knew too much about sports and not enough about JCrew and wedges.

DOGS:

(in my neighborhood there are no yuppies...we have dildos. Double income, large dog owners)

"I have a pretty strained relationship with my ex, but I don't see her very often. Only when I drop off and pick up the dog."

I had no words. Even my thoughts looked like this: klhfmn,s;awoprithalkjs;lhr???

"It's pretty tough on him. I think we may have to figure out a different arrangement. Do you like animals?"

So this is an animal we're talking about? I wasn't sure when he mentioned sharing custody.

"Uh, yeah...I like animals." This probably wasn't the time for the story about my pet fish that I may or may not have starved to death.

"Brinkly is almost three months and he's just started talking."

Did I miss something? Are we still talking about a dog? This has got to be a child, right?

"I love animals." 

Nope. Not a child.

"My dream is to make enough money so that I don't have to work and can volunteer for the SPCA."

I don't think our dreams are compatible...

"My only tattoo is of my childhood dog's name over my heart." He dropped his voice and winked at me across the table, "Maybe you'll get to see it later."

Definitely not compatible.   

"And this is why," my coworker patiently explained, "Southern girls were made for southern guys."

*This post brought to you in part by Garlic Parmesan Popcorn and Perrier (in the slim can - because I am the sucker that all marketing companies dream of). Note well: when adding salt do not use the pour option.  

A Northern Girl in the Single South: Part 1

Sometime last year I had my first experience with a Georgia good old boy. This individual dresses in polo, khaki shorts, baseball cap and loafers, plays a lot of golf, and probably thinks Walker Percy is a sports writer, if he's heard of him. Which is doubtful, because I'm not sure he reads anything beyond box scores.

The good old boy has a very specific network of friends limited to alumni from his college and members of his fraternity. He also, as I have discovered, has a very specific type of woman that he is looking for, namely one who doesn't give herself too many wrinkles by thinking hard. Or ever.

The particular good old boy who stars in this story graduated from UGA, fraternity Kappa Sigma. He asked me if I would like to go out to dinner with a group of his friends. Apparently "group" meant two guys and their girlfriends.

Awkward.

All of the guys sat on one side of the table, the girls on the other. I was about to highlight what seemed to me a funny coincidence, when I realized that it was a very well thought out plan. They were eyes up on the screen behind us, watching the baseball game. They had done their job - brought the women out, ordered them some white wine, and now they were free of further responsibility. I was guided to my seat on the girls' side, with the dismissive "Erica, this is Emily, she's also a teacher."

Apparently that resolved any further responsibility on his part to entertain me. I looked askance at the glasses of wine and ordered a beer, trying to hide my legs and their objectionable jeans from the sight of my Kate-Spaded companions. Too late to worry about the fact that I hadn't brushed my hair  - but hey, neither does Giselle Bundchen, and I took what comfort I could from that.

I did my best to carry on a conversation, but it was an uphill battle. I think they had bleached out too many brain cells over the years. Jennifer's idea of a conversation starter was to ask me what my "sign" was.

"I...um, I'm a Scorpio. I think."

"I'm a Pisces. But, you know, I don't know about this sign business. I know a girl who
was born on my same birthday. And bless her heart (uh oh, this wasn't going to be good...never, ever do you want your heart blessed by a Southerner) but I hate her. Her sense of style is horrible. I mean, we could not be more opposite. And we're supposed to be best friends! It almost makes you not want to believe in Science."

Well this was not going well. I couldn't very well hold a conversation with a person whose belief in the order of nature rested upon her horoscope. I looked to the other side of the table in desperation, but turned away in disgust. I had my seat and my drink, and the game was on.

Erica began talking to one of the guys. She spoke for about 5 minutes and then giggled to me, "He never listens. I could talk all day long and not get his attention. Ready, watch this." And she proceeded to repeat his name over and over again.

 "Yes, Erica, I can hear you," indulgently, with both eyes still on the tv.

She squealed with delight.

"I hear everything you say, it's just runs on as a sort of background." he continued absently.

This was answered with more giggles as she turned to me and said, "Isn't that just like a guy?"

No guy that I ever cared to spend time with. I didn't know if I was more embarrassed for her or for him.

At some point during the night, UGA, Kappa Sigma told me that he had never met a girl who could have an intelligent conversation about history and sports and things. I wasn't surprised if that was a sample of the crowd he runs with. Honestly, he was probably impressed to find out I could read.

Still I was hesitant to admit failure. He asked me to come back to his house for a drink with his friends, promising "fancy beer." Twist my arm. I mean, really, every guy deserves a second chance.

Except the guy that thinks "fancy" beer is Bud Light with a Braves logo. I felt I had been lured in on false pretenses. When he saw my expression, he offered to pick up some wine instead.

"What kind do you like?"

"Malbec."

"No, I mean, what kind? Red or white?"

Okay. Failure admitted.

http://static.someecards.com/someecards/usercards/MjAxMy02YTE5MzhiYmNiOTcwMmYw_52445c9e907f4.png

Always Be Batman

Dangerously-close-to-freezing temperatures, coupled with predications of heavy dew and 100% chance of traffic paranoia, have kept me house bound the past three days.

Driving conditions being what they are (I don't think even 4WD can handle the amount of salt on the roads) I'm not tempted to bestir myself. Georgia is closed anyway.

(if you look closely, you can see why #Hothlanta is trending. Help us, tauntauns, you're our only hope.)

http://cbsnewyork.files.wordpress.com/2014/01/atlanta_snow_465784261.jpg?w=620&h=349&crop=1

One of my 5th period students (let's call him Trey) acquired a new sticker for his computer. Stuck in between stickers for The Citadel, Browning Rifles, YETI, and the NRA, it reads, "The more Yankees I meet, the more I wonder how we lost the war."

Well if the winter of 1860 was anything like the winter of 2014, I wonder that the Rebs ever made it out of Atlanta.

In that particular composition class I was trying to impress on my students the importance of using descriptive adjectives, and searching my brain for some analogy. Usually I let my examples come to me on the spur of the moment - Miss McBryan's Grammar Class, unscripted.

Inspiration is a tricky thing. It will keep you feeling like the star of Dead Poets the Sequel until one day it fails you in epic fashion. 

"Imagine," I began to draw a stick figure of a girl on the board, "that this is your sentence. Just a plain Jane girl. And adjectives are like her clothes, they're dressing her up (at this point I was feeling like the clothing analogy was the wrong direction to take but I was too committed to go back). Putting on her clothes, giving her accessories - all of these things are making her more interesting, giving her more definition as a person..."

A hand went up. "Yes, Kyle?"

"Miss McBryan, don't you think it would be a lot more interesting if she was taking off her clothes?"

Next time I prepare. We can't all be Robin Williams.

At the end of the class I was giving details on how they should be writing their personal narratives.

"What can we write about?"

"Anything about you. That's what makes it a personal narrative."

"Can I write about being adopted?"

"Of course. That's what makes it your story."

"Can I write about the time I threw up at school and got to leave early and get a milkshake at Chick-fil-A?"

"If you think that will capture your reader's attention...sure. Anything about you."

Silent James, who has not spoken a word all semester except to be excused for the bathroom, says quietly, "I am going to write about Batman."

"Well, James, that wouldn't be a personal narrative, would it?"

He met my question with a clear expression and asked patiently, "What if I am Batman?"

I wasn't prepared for that one.

By all means, James - by all means.

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq3VnrugbsD7RZ2jDNBUkrS16b19ist0JmhV8NSXrkcQwmuIe4oVjYRoJMIjGyHgeh15rrJ6uECZg73xpBH4xsEgkafepw_kmrKQ3UgaITfqLjREt4pXP3IauLUGtZrx9a0R4dzIBlKQ86/s320/AlwaysBeBatman.jpg

*In other news, the advent of Snowpocalypse the Sequel did not catch me off guard. There is no lack of food in our apartment. Due to the extreme lack of communication between my roommate and me (Love you, A!), half of the dairy aisle at Kroger is currently in our fridge (my apologies to all of you stocking up for the endtimes - we have all the butter).

I began my day by making oatmeal and then remembered all of those sticks of butter crowding our side door. With the simple addition of some of these sticks, I could make portable oatmeal. Really, could you even call them cookies when they were so close to a balanced breakfast?

Whatever you call them, they were delicious. I have failed enough times to know. Follow the link for my recipe!

Go Home, Pinterest, You Are Drunk: Superbowl Edition

I am not one for false humility. I will be the first to admit that I am a dang creative person. I mean, how many people would have the idea to use a radiator as a bookshelf (okay...maybe that's not a great example)...

Still, when it comes to cooking, I've learned from experience not to let my creative urges get the upper hand (let's just say there's a reason why peanut guacamole never took off. Contrary to popular opinion, peanut butter does not go with everything).

So when it came time to make snacks for various Super Bowl  parties, I turned to every girl's best frienemy: Pinterest.

I immediately regretted this decision.

The first thing that came up were directions for building a "snack stadium."

http://coolcookstyle.com/2012/02/04/trending-super-bowl-snack-stadiums/

I did not take this picture. I did not build this stadium. I am anxious about the sanity of the person who can lay claim to having done such.

Or, apparently, the multiple people who are doing it, if the word "trending" can be taken at face value.

I admire the skills of the food architect that produced this monument to the American tradition of eating as many preservatives as possible while drinking beer and watching commercials...ahem, football.

But seriously, people, know your audience. If you are having a party to watch the commercials, then by all means, build to your heart's content, because your guests will probably appreciate your effort. And they may even try to eat strategically to keep it intact as long as possible. But any person that is serious about football will compliment your cleverness, and promptly dive for the meat they have their eye on, regardless of whether it's in the nosebleeds or the foundation.

Also, the guacamole in the middle? Really? It is hard enough to scoop guacamole from a bowl while keeping the chip intact (side note: they should definitely make heavy duty corn chips for this express purpose), but throw in a barricade of deli meat? It's a logistical nightmare.

Passing on the snack stadium.

What ever happened to Lil' Smokies? Pigs in a blanket and football go together like Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. But these days it seems we can't let a good thing be without making it Instagram worthy.

Introducing, "Quarter Pups." (I think the URL pinpoints the problem - this idea is one of 23 cute snacks for your super bowl party).

http://www.diytheme.com/23-cute-football-snacks-for-your-super-bowl-party.html#.Uu7LCGStnU4

I would like to see the person who has time to cut off the 1/3 of an olive necessary to make these snacks. And if I am an example of the average lil' smokie consumer, they will be doing it about 150 times.

Also, this person must have discovered a mustard bottle that comes in fine tip, or else has a very steady hand. Face masks on a mini hot dog? I have trouble making a zigzag on the adult size.

Needless to say, I scrolled passed this snack idea, too, for a more practical option.

Trail mix. That sounded like a good idea. 

5 minute trail mix. Even better. I can definitely get on board with a recipe that involves buying a lot of bags of pre-made ingredients and pouring them into a bowl.

But trust Pinterest to make even this difficult. Sure, it shows loyalty to have only blue and orange M&M's in your mix (Go Broncos!) or only green and blue (Go Seahawks!), but realistically, it turns a 5 minute trail mix into a 45 minute trail mix. And who are we kidding, trail mix is just a vehicle for chocolate anyway. Restricting yourself to two colors is like taking all but the Red Balloons and Rainbows out of Lucky Charms and still expecting kids to eat them. We all know the rest of the colors are going to make it in before the end of the night.

I am not above the cute snack craze. In fact, my snacks were "interesting" before they put a "P" in front of it (during New Year's, Y2K, I made a snack mix that included only "O" shaped things. Unfortunately life savers, peachie-os, and cheerios don't exactly blend). 

However, there is a time and a place (namely, baby showers, bridal brunches, and bachelorettes).

Pinterest: know thy limits.

PS: Here is the recipe for the Banana Foster Bars I ended up making (yellow seemed like a good color for a neutral watcher - you'll get 'em next year, Eagles).

PPS: I use gender neutral terminology on purpose. I recognize that there are girls (myself among them) that enjoy watching the game. I'd also like to thank all the men on Pinterest. You six have really lent a lot of diversity to the site.