One night, in the dead of the worst, apocalyptic, soul crushing Massachusetts winter ever, my husband was all “wanna move to North Carolina?” and I was all “Yeah. totally…” took a sip of my wine and continued to watch Ray Donovan.
Turns out, he was serious. So a month ago, I quit my job, packed up my kids, dog and martini glasses and headed to the dirty south.
And then, I woke up and I lived in the south. Like for real life.
So…I joined a gym in an effort to meet
drinking buddies friends. Except everyone here is 25 years old, looks like a Skipper doll, drives a Range Rover and is like absurdly nice. I feel like Fat Amy at barre class.
Seriously. Picture the all american girl next door, wearing a pearl necklace (like real pearls) and you. In an adult ballet class. Raise your hand if that makes you want to die a little. Nexxt.
Side bar: Googling images for “girl next door” and “southern belles in pearl necklaces” will get your ass on a watch list. Like lickety split. Or a Tinder account. NBD.
Let’s just say there are some serious differences between living in the north and living in the south. And before you southern hoes go all like War of Northern Aggression or whatever on me, read on.
1.) It’s Fahrenheit 451 down here. Like Qatar hot. I go outside exclusively to go to Harris Teeter. I should have a fucking camel to get around. My son went out back to play one day and I had to tie a rope around his waist and duct tape a water bottle to his chest. BUT, at least we won’t be buried alive in snow this winter. Again.
2.) Speaking of Harris Teeter, this store is on point. You can get organic veggies, Nair and wine all in one place. No extra trip to the liquor store necessary. Which is good because you’d burst into flames if you actually had to make two stops.
And YOU GUYS, a handsome young manchild escorts you and your wine out to your car. I thought this was a classy southern touch, until I learned that it’s so your dumbass doesn’t get jacked in the parking lot. Neat.
3.) When I talk to the locals, they just stare at me, mouth agape, in virtual silence. At first, I would just run away. Now, I’ve gotten to the point where I ask if they are choking, if I need to rephrase my question or if they just simply hate my face.
4.) People here are REALLY nice. Like chat your face off while you’re just trying to pump gas nice. (Not that they will understand a fucking word you say. See #3.) This chat your balls off thing took a little getting used to. The first time it happened, I was all “Da fuck you say to me?!” and the elderly pharmacist was all “Um, have a nice day ma’am?”
5.) Critters. There are wasps the size of fucking helicopters down here. I’m talking Wu-Tang Killa Beez. They like to nest on my front porch. One basically handed me my mail the other day. Which was very helpful because of the heat. See #1.
Some loose translation of common southern vernacular:
“Bless your heart” is like a real thing. It means “you’re a fucking moron.”
When someone responds “You’re alright” when you say “excuse me” it means “get out the way, you fucking moron.”
“Y’all” means a.) you all b.) all of you or c.) YOU GUYS
I, personally, like to combine all three into “Bless your heart, you’re alright, y’all.”
6.) Things down here are just a little slower. Like move in reverse slow. This could be a good thing if you’re accustomed to being a psycho from the north. There is no timeline. This isn’t a race. So pump the brakes, yankee and have some sweet tea (scotch).
Guys/Y’all, holy shit, this has been an adjustment. But life is about adventure. Right?
Well, bless your heart. You’re alright. Glug glug glug.