Southernly Speaking

As I mark my last month as an official resident of the South, I have to share these fabulous video clips! These are frequently viewed favorites at my Mama's house. We watch them consecutively and make a tally of how many sayings we actually say. So far, we're in the hundreds. You should make a checklist yourself. See how Southern you really are, y'all...

And it gets better....

And because good things come in threes.... Brush up on your Southern Speak one more time!

Lost in Translation

A few weeks ago, I made a trek deep into Yankee territory - a place that will (for better or worse) become home in a few mere months. Many of you know that JP has signed on the dotted line to serve as the DC (that's Defensive Coordinator for you non-girdiron speakers) at Capital University. A DIII gem, the school is located on the outskirts of Columbus, OH in a delightful little town called Bexley. While Bexley is undoubtedly the "Stars Hollow" (attention Gilmore Girls aficionados) of the Midwest, the more urban jungle of Columbus didn't bowl me over with hospitality upon our first meeting. Here are a few highlights from the trip...

The Halls of Justice Have No Signs

This visit was not purely for pleasure. While in Columbus, I took time to be fingerprinted by the Sheriff's Office and FBI (and felt like a felon - despite only being there to become a God-fearing, law-abiding teacher of young minds!). At home, this particular activity is a veritable cakewalk. You walk in, hand them your crisp $10 bill and exchange pleasantries with a fake-nailed, leather-tanned Mammaw who works twice a week doing paperwork for the deputy, who is her nephew or first cousin or best friend's boy. They ink you up, wish you well, and send you on your way in 20 minutes or less. Now, I was not such a country bumpkin to think that Shirley or Thelma or Louise would hand me a peppermint and ask about my Mama here in the Yankee North. But, I didn't expect the adventure that ensued after navigating the narrow catacombs of an underground parking garage. 

After walking several blocks and following several safe looking lawyers with Starbucks and briefcases, I finally found the Hall of Justice located in beautiful downtown Columbus. I patiently waited in line without using my cellphone as requested before stepping up to the metal detectors and light body pat-down that allowed me access to a marble festooned corridor... with not a labelled door or office directory in sight. Undeterred, I cheerfully stopped a security guard and asked about fingerprinting, to be rudely stopped and hustled on without any answers. 

I continued to wander past pajama pant clad truancy offenders headed to family court and court reporters with clicking heels. Finally, a sign that read - SHERIFF'S OFFICE. But to no avail. I was directed to ANOTHER building by ANOTHER non-smiling justice worker. Three doors later and still no smiles, no fingerprints, and no clue of where to go next. Finally, I entered one more revolving glass door and to my relief, saw a sign proclaiming "Fingerprints" and "Conceal/Carry Sign-Ups". Note to self upon my return to the concrete jungle...

An hour and a half later, I made it back to my car. The only kind words or positive expressions noted during this time came from a homeless man lounging on the steps of the Hall of Justice with a shopping cart and a smile. JESUS LOVES YOU! - he called out, waving frenziedly. He must have been a transplant from below the Mason-Dixon....

Don't Bring a Gun on a House Hunt

Despite my lackluster welcome to the Yankee North, JP convinced me to do some house scouting on a beautiful Saturday morning during my visit. He pulled out all the stops, showcasing Short North and the German Village - both quaint, yet reminiscent of the Bardstown Road area (for my Louisville peeps). I was gradually swaying towards deeming Columbus a "livable city" for a Southern lady like myself. And then - it happened. 

As we paused for a stop sign, an aging motorcyclist slowed to turn down the same street. He didn't take the turn well and (slowly) skidded. The bike overturned and he fell to the pavement. Ever the hero, JP threw the car in park, and rolled down the window to inquire as to the Hell's Angel wannabe's well-being following the crash. The man grunted and howled about his knee. As JP opened the door of the cab to provide assistance, the man staggered to his feet and an object clattered to the ground from his pocket. At first, we didn't notice - JP and another bystander slowly ventured towards the biker and then stopped abruptly when he reached to pick up HIS GUN that had fallen from its hidden holster. 

JP immediately high-tailed it to the truck. The innocent bystander also began taking measured steps away from the scene in the street. I suppose all parties ready to assist figured that if the man was packing heat, he could protect himself during this vulnerable time. And frankly, none of us were going to hang around to find out if he felt blame belonged on his lack of cycling skill or our idling auto. We sped from the scene and rode in silence for several minutes... and then began laughing hysterically, calling and tweeting the scenario for all to enjoy. Although in the South we ride with our shotguns and bows (especially during season) and are vocal about our Second Amendment rights, I would feel confident saying that none of us would pack heat on a Harley. 

And so, when Sunday rolled around and it was time to back to the land of sweet tea and country music- I did breathe a sigh of relief. But I'll look forward to returning to the wilds of the Yankee North. Next time, I'll bring my map, my Daddy's gun, and book of Yankee phrases. Because no Southern belle wants to be unprepared or have her words lost in translation while visiting the concrete jungle, y'all...

XO,