When southern girls get married

I realize that there are probably weddings in Oregon that look and feel like southern weddings. I’m guessing that they’re for rich people whose families have ties to the East Coast - but I don't know a lot of those people. I’ve been to probably a dozen weddings since I turned 18. I've attended everything from a quick wedding for two 18-year-olds (graduating the next day) who rented the local Moose Hall and had their aunts hang some paper streamers to a $30K+ affair with late night dancing, gorgeous flowers, fancy cocktail dresses and passed finger food.

I’ve only been to one southern wedding.

However, I first suspected that some things about weddings would be different when, shortly after arriving in South Carolina, my boyfriend’s stepmother, I guess in an effort to gauge the seriousness of our relationship, asked if we’d picked out a china pattern.

“Um, no,” I stammered. “Do people … still do that? People my age?”

She laughed and said that maybe she was just old-fashioned.

But the southern bride whose wedding I just attended, she’s not old-fashioned. Modern girl, this one. And she picked out formal china, informal china, Christmas china and FORMAL Christmas china.

Touché.

Also, the southern wedding I recently attended took place in a church. I have not been to a church wedding since I was a kid – I know they still happen, but I do believe they’re more rare than the ballroom, or outdoor park, or wedding venue style-affairs that are de rigueur out west.

Unfortunately, my date and I arrived only 10 minutes early for the wedding, something I hadn’t intended (my beau’s wardrobe malfunction [read: lack of planning when it came to ironing] was to blame), but I still thought would be OK. But no. The chapel was full so we were put in the overflow room with the other derelict guests. There was a big screen TV with a live video feed from the chapel. This is another thing I’ve never seen before.

But when the video feed went out, the other guests looked around and agreed it was time to hit the bar, I realized that there is at least one important nuptial factor that is universal from coast to coast: booze.

Thank baby Jesus.

The level of formality is another factor that is different from Oregon. This is something I anticipated. See, in the entire state of Oregon, there are probably two restaurants where you can’t wear jeans. And if you’re the governor of the state, you can wear jeans anywhere you damn well please. Not the case here. Example: A Southern girlfriend of mine believes that male guests at a wedding that is held at 6 p.m. or later should wear tuxedos.

Yeah.

So, my beau and I had some trouble figuring out what to wear – mostly because we’re poor, but also because he spent the last decade working in the outdoors, so he doesn’t own a tie. Me, I pretty much only own dress-up clothes that could be seen as too loud/quirky for southern affairs (I had to be talked out of wearing a short black dress and hot pink tights to the wedding and I’m still kind of miffed about it). Also, my fancy clothes just aren't fancy by southern standards. I do not own a single sequin. I don't really do sparkles. Or bows.

We figured it out, but we ended up looking dowdier than  most of the other guests. No big deal, as far as I'm concerned.

But this is all leading up to my proclamation. In my view, the 2 best things about southern weddings:

1. *Seersucker suits with bowties. There were dozens of them, on everyone from little boys (!) to grown men. I will admit that, unfortunately, I didn't see any of the older gents wearing them, so suspect they could be trend that I just hadn't been exposed to before.

*I do know some folks just see the seersucker thing as an affectation. Some sort of old-money, stodgy ... really, I don't know. I haven't been here long enough to understand the intricacies of Southern affectations. Regardless, I find boys in seersucker and bowties adorable and charming. If I still worked at a newspaper this post would be headlined "A sucker for seersucker." Or some such thing.

2. The electric slide.

Now, I don’t do the electric slide. I learned it at some point, but I’m terrible at remembering dances that require specific moves at specific times. But southern ladies like their electric slide. And we're all the better for it.

On humidity: Part 1

Oh, humidity. You wicked, wicked bitch.

On a recent day, I was feeling hi-tech, so I looked at the weather indicator on my iPhone. Our house is temperature controlled, and it seemed easier than going outside. It said the day's high would be 77.

Since I'm an idiot, and I lived in the desert for five  years, I put on a pear of jeans and a breezy black blouse with cap sleeves, plus a jaunty little blue hat I bought on impulse at some cheapass shoe store in the mall (I look really good in hats, as long as I can get them on my giant head).

A pair of earrings, some flip flops, and I'm set to go.

Ha!

You southerners already know my mistake. 77 with 10% humidity is jeans weather. 77 with 99% humidity means you'll be peeling those fuckers off when you get back to the comforts of central air.

Stupid.

So I changed into a sundress, and I thanked Jesus for giving me blonde leg hair.

Actual conversation between me and Roomie:

"Uhg, I just don't want to shave my legs."

"I don't care."

"Well lucky me, because I'm lazy."

"It just lowers the chances of some southern hottie stealing you away from me."

That's love, people.

*Update: The following day, when I woke up, I looked out the window and saw a sort of low-hanging fog that, if I lived in London or the Pacific Northwest, would mean a cool, gray day was ahead of me. Here, it's just the hot morning mist. I walked outside, and it felt like I'd walked into a dog's breath. The high tomorrow is 91. (p.s. It's still May, right?)

I begrudgingly shaved my legs, and in the process shaved a chunk out of my ankle about the size of my pinkie nail.

Blast you humidity! Blast you (said whilst shaking bloody Venus razor at sky)!

It's going to be a long summer.

The Bootie Bros. - Florence, SC

An approximation of a recent IM convo I had with a friend at work:

Red: Girl, I think I need to pay me a visit to the bootie brothers.
Me: ?
Red: The bootie brothers?
Me: I don't follow. Who are the bootie brothers?
Red: You've never heard of them?
Me: That's what I'm saying.
Red: We have to find one of their commercials on YouTube ...*
Me: ?
Red: It's a boot shop.
Me: Oh! Boots! I know those.
Red: I'm going over for lunch. Want to come? I need some cowgirl boots.
Me: Of course I do.

(*Apparently these commercials were awesome. I can't find em, but I didn't look very hard. If you come up with something, please share.)

Now, I've been to Western wear shops before. There's a lot of phony-baloney cowboy crap in Oregon. But this place is something special. Partly, I was impressed because most of the shops I've previously visited have either been A) in a mall or 2) made to appear as though the buildings they were housed in were built from rough-hewn logs. I hate fake log buildings. To me, they reek of faux-country rich boy "ranchers" and "cowboys." Think George Bush. Or the Pioneer Wife's hubby (Or so I hear. I've never read her, I just read about how she never mentions that her "pioneer" husband comes from a shitload of money. And like any self-respecting liberal, I dislike rich people I don't know personally.)

Alas, behold:

While you try on boots, a dude with a sick southern accent vaguely flirts with you (if you're as cute as Red, you'll get comments on your toenail polish and offers to help roll up your pant legs). Plus, these are damn fine boots.

If anyone's taking notes I want these:

They's so pretty I had to get multiple angles. But if you're not into $300+ boots, worry not. There's something for everyone at the Bootie Bros.

 
These were the winners. Red said the insides feel like tennis shoes:

So, this may be the best part: Remember how I said I had NO idea what Red was talking about when she mentioned the Bootie Bros? Well, the night after we stopped there, I realized I drive by a gigantic Bootie Bros. billboard on my way home from work every single day.

I'm super observant.

Oh, and the following morning, I realized I drive by another Bootie Bros. billboard every day on my way to work.

Really. I hope I never witness a murder.

"Um ... I think he was wearing a green shirt? Well, it might have been a woman ... wait, did you say they were aliens? Huh. I didn't even notice ..."

Ch-ch-ch-chaay-yanges (and also some notes on trends in the south)

First off, I got a new layout (which I'm also hoping to ditch soon) and changed the way I do comments here, because I want you to know when someone replies to your comments. I think this means I'll be commenting as Serial here, just to confuse folks (did I mention I'm terrible at blogging?) -- though it's really a nod to folks who knew me back in the day.

Please tell me if you hate. Or if love it, I suppose. But to do that, you'll have to comment. Bwa ha ha ha ...

Second: I'm now going to paint an entire region with a very broad brush based on limited experience. Ready, set, go!

So there's been much ado about the DIY trend in the last few years, no? How now it's cool to knit, and to make your own food, and cook, and locally source. How it's fine and all to drink good beer, but to make good beer is truly divine.

But if you not only do all that but also grow the hops for your beer? Organically? Right on, man.

Right? I feel like I've seen this all over the place. Moms make their own baby food. Crafting is in. Store-bought is out -- or out-ish, anyway. I mean, it's really fun to make a sweater, but it takes a REALLY long time to make a sweater. So it's hard to actually stock your closet with shit you made, but oh, wouldn't you love to try! And wouldn't it just bake take the cake to make your own yarn? Except, who the crap knows how to make yarn? Or has the equipment? I think you use a spindle, right?

Actually, now that I'm thinking on it, I could probably have left my house in Bend, started knocking on doors, and within an hour turned up a guy with a spindle, and someone whose sister down the road raises free-range llamas. People where I'm from make sport of DIY. Homemade jewelry. Creating entire meals made from food produced within 100 miles -- this in the high desert, which has a ridiculously short growing season.

I thought this was a widespread trend. I know it is in a way. It spreads from places like Bend, Oregon, to Brooklyn, N.Y. And Bend's a pretty small town!

But Bend ain't the south. And I live in the legit south. Not a hip version of the south. Where I live in the south has no university, no cool music enclaves of hipness.

Now please don't think I mean the people here are backward. Some most certainly are, but for the most part, that's not the case. What I'm saying is that what's cool here has a different flavor.

I was recently asked by a co-worker if Roomie and I were "stay-at-home" kind of people (I resisted the urge to proclaim myself a former party girl, because, although it's true, bringing it up seems idiotic at a certain point) as opposed, I guess, to people who go out. She asked me this after I mentioned another fabulous meal we'd made at home (homemade curry with homemade paneer cheese with punjabi garam masala we'd ground ourselves. Ahem).

The question made me realize that the fact that we don't have kids and still prefer to stay home makes us ... kind of odd here. Now, the woman who asked is no 21-year-old partier. She's in her mid-30s, she's totally together. I just get the impression that she would rather have someone else make her good food than make her own. She likes to dress up and go out. That's something that to me, sounds nice on occasion. Most of the time, though, it doesn't appeal to me. My girls back home and I were far more apt to load up on fancy cheese from the market and stay in, sans heels. Sometimes we'd go out, but it was usually to a chap place with a stiff pour, and we were just as apt to get together on a weekend and make soap. Seriously.

I don't know anyone here who's interested in knitting. Or sewing. UNLESS they're, well ... how do I say this ... you know ... country folk. Or church ladies.

It seems like the hip girl (and boy) fondness for old world craft doesn't apply to the hip kids in this part of the country. And my theory is this: Here, raising chickens for free-range eggs ain't cool, it's farming. Sewing? Grandmothers here never stopped sewing. Same with all versions of canning, preserving and pickling (and I don't suggest you even mention kimchi). Potlucks are for church functions.

Maybe it's that when the country is gone from your life (as we pretend it is on the west coast and it most certainly is in actual urban areas), things country people "did" seem cool. When those country people are still doing them, and you can see the country folk selling that shit on the roadside to tourists, it doesn't seem cool anymore.

Am I right (or am I right)?

*Note: All of this pretty much ignores the existence of the midwest. Where I guess (based on the 3 people in my world who live in the midwest) people are into knitting and scrapbooking, despite their farm ties? Is it because the midwest has a better relationship with its rural roots? I'm sure some of my midwestern (bred, at least) readers will fill me in.

Not dead!

Hey y'all! I'm not dead! And I didn't murder anyone.

That last part is very, very important.

There's no possible way to tell all of the awesomely blog-worthy stories from the past week I spent at home. Plus, I've been told that I'm not allowed to tell at least some of the stories (especially the story about how I woke up in a hotel room one morning and looked over and there was a naked man in the next bed. Deffo not supposed to tell that story).

So, here's a list of memorable items, some awesome and others decidedly un-awesome:

• My sister (32) and I (29) stayed up past 5 a.m. two nights in a row. My sister and I realized without a doubt that we are too old to stay up until 5 a.m. one time, let alone two nights in a row. The day after the double-header was like walking around with a mixture of hot sauce and cement in my veins. Slow and painful. (How's that for a simile, suckas?!)

• One morning, I found myself walking in downtown Portland in last night's little black dress, practically bare-footed in my black tights,with my boots in one hand and a borrowed black purse in the other. No one would return my calls, so after leaving the most pathetic message ever on Roommie's phone (Wah wah wah I miss you wah wah these people are crazy wah wah wah I just walked by a used condom wah wah wah I think I'm still drunk), I decided to go for some breakfast, hoping that while I ate someone would call me back and come pick me up. The first restaurant I encountered was called "Pho and Toast." I tell ya, a steaming bowl of noodles is the BEST hangover cure ever invented. Well, maybe the second best. They didn't sell bloody Marys. However, they did sell diet cokes, and then they tried to charge me for a refill. You betcherass I marched up to the counter in my little black dress, smeared mascara and frizzball hair and complained until I got that $1.45 taken off my bill.

• I was confronted at my high school reunion by my first boyfriend -- a guy who really does not strike me as a blog reader -- for writing about him on DatingIsWeird.com. He quoted the post almost word for word. I was flabbergasted, because really, it had never occurred to me that he'd ever read it. But also, I was kind of delighted. He read DatingIsWeird! He's one of the smartest people I know! And, if you go read the post I linked to above, you might get why this is just so perfect: In his rebuttal to what I'd written in the post, he quoted Corinthians. Also, he's now dating the girl to whom I wept (in the high school girl's room, of course) when he dumped me. A girl I later made out with. Ah, beautiful world! How small you are!

• My sister and I made it SIX DAYS without fighting. Then we screamed at each other in front of the kids and stormed out of the room in separate directions. But we made up after that. And seriously. Six days is pretty effing good.

• Two days before my sister's wedding, took the kids for hair cuts. Imagine the embarrassment when one hairdresser approached grandma and said she couldn't cut the hair because of the schoolhouse scourge: Head lice. Then imagine the best auntie ever (that would be me, in case you're confused) hunched with her sister over a giant head of hair, painstakingly combing through the strands to remove all the lil bugs. I think that's when the pain in my neck (I'm speaking literally here) started.

• While I was in town, I signed up for a trial of Bikram yoga. I learned quickly that Bikram yoga doesn't suck, the BEND Bikram studio does. The instructors at my local studio are vibey as all getout. They talk shit to you, loudly, if you drink water before they want you to or if you modify a pose. In the studio in Portland (link here if you are interested, there's one in Beaverton and one in S.E. Portland. I really recommend them), the instructors were kind, encouraging, and understanding. Before my first class, they told me to listen to my body and be my own yoga teacher. They didn't wear little headphones, either. Oh, and one of them was super hot. However, be warned that if you go to Bikram yoga super hung over, you very well may pass out. And if you have arthritis and still go all out on the back bends, you might not be able to turn your head to the right the next day.

• The night before the wedding, Roommie arrived in town. But he didn't find the place I was staying at until 1 a.m. You see where this is going? It was an early afternoon wedding. I had to get up at 5:30 a.m. day of. That's right, I did the Maid of Honor duty (if you've done it, you know how rough it can be. If you've done it twice ((ahem)) my hat is off to you. At the rehearsal, my mom referred to me as The Wedding Nazi. I'm thinking about becoming a professional MOH. But I will charge exorbitant fees.) on four hours' sleep.

Oh, and the wedding? It was lovely. But with no wedding coordinator, you can bet your busciuts I ran my ass off all day long. Fetch grandma for pictures. Go get the wedding certificate. Go cut the cake. Where are the flowers? Can you find the photographer? Come kiss the baby! You have to dance to this song with your boyfriend! Where's my toothbrush? We're out of food?

My sister owes me. Huge. It's a good thing I love that beyotch more than my luggage (points if you can name that movie).

Now, here's something I'm ashamed to admit to y'all. I got caught, in a photo, in my MOH dress and crocks. It's on Bookface. I don't even feel like I should explain how or why this happened. I think I should just say my fifty hail Mary Janes and be on my way.

Final countdown

So this blog was supposed to be about my transition back into running. Specifically, I was thinking I'd have my stupid plantar fasciitis all cleared up and I'd get to running in time to do another half marathon, as I did last year about this time.

But no. Instead, it's been a place to document my failures. Failure to heal, failure to trim up before my sister's wedding -- now one week away, and with no improvements in ye olde waistline -- oh and my high school reunion's also this week. My 11 year. Yeah, I know. I went to an odd high school.

I'm close to considering the surgical option, though I hear that even that has risks, including flattening the arch in your foot, which can be an even worse fate than what I'm dealing with now.

Fuck. Yeah.

But I was thinking recently, as an ad for American Apparel came up on my computer, about skinny people. They're responsible for a lot of stupid trends. I wonder, if I became one of those skinny people, if I'd suddenly get cool and trendy and start wearing leggings. Or, worse yet, if I'd see these and think, "Oh, those are really cute formal shorts."



















OK. I know that's ridiculous. I mean, I don't like imagining the kind of brain trauma that would lead me to such insanity.

As long as I don't have to be the pole

Some co-workers and I talked awhile ago about doing the Pole, Pedal Paddle this year. It's an annual event that I avoided even spectating the first four years I lived in this town. Last year, though, I ran support for my pal SGL, who did the whole thing by HERSELF.

In case you don't know how crazy that is, let me outline the event:

First, you go to Mount Bachelor and ride a chairlift up to the top, put your skis or board in place then walk down hill 200 feet. Why do you walk downhill 200 feet? Why, so you can run uphill in ski boots, of course! It's even more fun than running in soft sand.

Then you ski down to where a friend (like me!) is waiting to exchange your board for your cross country skis. After a quick change, you slog through five miles of melty mashed potatoes and gravy spring snow until you meet up again with your pal to trade skis for bike.

Next, you bike 22 miles. Now, in fairness, most of the bike is downhill, since you're coming into town from a mountain, but those uphill stretches are a real bitch.

Still standing? Good, it's time to run five miles through town. The nice part is that we have a friend who lives on the route, and she sits in a lawn chair with a cooler of beer and a fifth of Jack Daniels for anyone who's gotten parched.

The boat portion involves paddling "upstream from a put-in point for 1/2 mile on the Deschutes River" then "back downstream for 3/4 mile, then back upstream for 1/4 mile." Yeah, up, down, up.

Oh, and then you have to run again. This time, it's even supposed to be a "sprint."

So, SGL may be a little crazy. I definitely can't do the whole thing. In addition to my serious lack of physical fitness, I also can't downhill ski. But I can ride a bike (though I don't think I can use my single speed '68 Sears Spider for this race. A damn shame, because my sparkly purple banana seat would probably really help my performance), and maybe by the end of May, I can run five miles? I mean, I still can't run, the heel's still effed, but maybe by then I'll be in ship shape again?

The real question though is costumes. Some teams dress up in leis, or with bridal veils. I saw a pretty sick cops and jailbirds team last year (the cops had thick handlebar moustaches and wore hotpants, natch). What should we out of shape cubicle jockeys do?




Google, from whence I stole this picture, seems to think this woman's name is Karen.

Getting some restraint

I finally found my motivation to run. It was in my bra.

Really. See, I have big boobs. Not porn-star big, but run-of-the-mill D-cup big. And up till now, running has been an ongoing attempt to minimize vertical movement of the boobs while simultaneously trying to maintain forward momentum. If that sounds easy to you, then you're a dude and you can bugger off. As even small-chested women can attest to, running brings a lot of up-and-down action to the torso, and boobs, being subject to the same physical laws as the rest of the planet, respond by bouncing. The bigger they are, the harder they bounce.

Which is why a good sports bra is critical. Now those racer-back stretchy kinds may be fine for your average A cup or B cup. Hell, I could get away with one of those, too, if my physical activity was limited to a spirited game of mah jong. But running? Those bras just aren't up the the challenge.

Enter the Enell. This miracle of engineering doesn't have the typical "give" of a sports bra. It's made for well-endowed women and the thing is like body armor -- my boobs in this bra are immobilized like Abu Ghraib prisoners. No bounce. No jostle. No nothing.

So after I worked my girls into the bra and put on my shoes, out I went for a test run. And what do you know? I ran farther than I ever have before, and didn't stop to walk one time -- a first for me, even on my relatively short running route. I felt invincible. I felt great. I ran.

Who knew my boobs could have been holding me back so much? Turns out, all I needed for a successful run was the right bra.