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Monthly Archives: April 2008

Day 2: Drive to Charleston and The Wedding

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The second day of the Trip of Northern Aggression began even earlier than the first one did– we had a long Atlanta-to-Charleston drive ahead of us, as well as a wedding (our actual reason for this trip in the first place) to attend that evening. No time for Greek delis this morning, we wheeled our trusty suitcases over to the deck where GP’s friend, D, parks his car. He had generously offered to lend it to us for the weekend, as he had no out-of-town plans and easy access to pretty fabulous public transit.

So, here begins the list of things that I would import from the South, if I could (hey, I had to do something to keep occupied during the drive, and list-making appeals to me!). Thing number one? Crazy well-maintained roads! I don’t know if it’s that California has no money, no interest, or what, as far as it comes to road maintenance, but let me tell you something: our roads are pure crap. Sometimes, it’s just painful. Not so in Georgia! Every inch of our drive from downtown Atlanta to the SC state line was gorgeous and smooth. Oh, and thing number two, which I also discovered en route? Chick-Fil-A. Someone tell me why we don’t have these in the Bay Area? I suppose it’s for the best, though, because I would never be able to stop eating those nuggets, and then I would be that lady that has to be lifted out of her cat-filled apartment by a crane. Also, Chick-Fil-A was the site of my discovery of thing number three: crazy politeness! This man approached our table while we were eating, and, rather than spitting on my tray or asking for spare change (which is what would probably happen at most places in California), he asks, “Ma’am, can I refill your drink?” I was so taken aback by this teeny random (really, not random at all, but whatever) kindness that I said no, even though I was hankering for some more Diet Coke. Why can’t we import this politeness, even if it is perfunctory, to the West Coast? It would be so…nice.


Finally, we arrived at the beach house. Even though the wedding was taking place at an old plantation-type house in Charleston, the couple figured that it would be more fun to have everyone stay at the beach, so a few houses were rented in beautiful Folly Beach. One was for the bride, R, and her bridesmaids, another was for T, the groom, and his groomsmen, and another was for various family members that had come into town for the festivities. We ended up at the boys’ house, which was full of guys finishing getting ready, as well as a couple of their girlfriends who had arrived and started getting ready. As T and the groomsmen headed out, he informed the girl who had slept in a room with a king-sized bed the previous night, that the room was to be mine and GP’s that night. She was fine with this, and it seems small now, but it will become important later, I promise.


We finished the preparation, which included a search for usable bath towels (seriously, how are there not enough towels in a house that sleeps about 15?), but was otherwise uneventful. It was marginally awkward because GP and I knew no one else but each other, but everyone was nice enough, if a little more college-student-y than we are (read: not able to really deal with people outside their immediate friend circle, and a bit clique-y). With the address to the wedding venue plugged into our trusty GPS (what? We take it everywhere!), we headed out with time to spare. When we got there, I was really amazed at how gorgeous it was– the parking was a little removed from the grounds where the ceremony and reception were, and there were little trams that took us where we needed to be. The ceremony took place in a grove of Spanish Moss trees (which are fascinating and will always seem so romantic to me, I don’t know why), and made me tear up because I am a sucker for cheesy wedding stuff. The only troubling part was when the pastor took great pains to mention (multiple times!) how “God invented marriage for men and women so that they can contribute to the betterment of society, and bear children…” Not something I would choose to have anyone say at my wedding (what with my San Francisco values and all), but I did love the 1 Corinthians reading, so I suppose I am just conflicted all over.


Bubbles were blown at the recessional, which was an adorable touch, and we headed to the reception, which took place under two tents that were arranged in a “T” shape. Everyone, including us, headed to the (open, of course) bar first, then into the house to grab some food. All the food was Southern-style, from teeny crab cakes with remoulade to mini-meatballs on lollipop sticks and shrimp and grits served in martini glasses. Had I known that was it for the food, I might have stocked up a bit more, but everything was so delicious that I’m glad I didn’t– wouldn’t want to test the Assets even more than I already was! Dancing was minimal, as there was a band and GP is not much of a dancer, but we did manage to squeeze in the last dance, to a song that I would like to think holds some significance for us.

Though many of the other bridesmaids/groomsmen and their dates (as well as T&R, which I find amazing after what must have been a super-long, crazy day) were going to downtown Charleston to go to some bars and clubs, we passed on that because we were ready to pass out. Heading back to the beach house, GP and I speculated about the other people whose stuff was in “our” bedroom coming back to “claim” the room, but we decided we were safe because we would be the first ones there, and surely no one would kick the slumbering Californians out of bed, right? Soon after we arrived, another couple (one of the groomsmen and his girlfriend, who live in Charleston) came back, bearing wedding-food leftovers, and we all hung out in the kitchen, munching, until they left to “go get ready for bed.” In our room. Where all their stuff was. Minutes passed, then we realized that too much time for regular bed-prep activities had elapsed. What were they doing in there?

They were straight going to steal our room, y’all! Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion to this tale, as well as the Day 3 report, coming tomorrow…!

Shop It To Me Tuesday!

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Don’t worry, there are three more days of Tales From the South, but I had to squeeze in some lovelies that showed up in my inbox this morning. Basically, when you sign up for Shop It To Me, you input your size and brand preferences, and they send you things that are on sale from various online retailers. If nothing else, it is a great way to get some online window shopping done, plus they’ve already found your sizes! In short, everyone wins.

First, we have the shoes. Shoes generally come first, right? Some red Nine West d’Orsay pumps from Endless, for about $50 (although I am already the proud owner of a pair that look a lot like these, plus a bow, that I got from Le Target for about $25…)

Then there are the following purses…I am having a big Cole Haan love affair right now. For instance, with this:
Which is still about $320 on Zappos. Not now, Cole Haan, not now. Oh, and I want to get this bag into my life, too…

Now, the two skirts– one from Vera Wang Lavender Label, and the other from our friend Marc Jacobs…


And, finally, the dress parade. I have few occasions at which it would be appropriate to wear these, but I like to fantasize about a grand life that enables me with the funds, body, and venues to show these off.
What do we think, is the bubble hem a yea or nay?
Faaaabulous!
Now, I suppose it wouldn’t be inappropriate to own this, but I am trying to break into the world of “color” right now, and escape my black-and-white leanings.

I mean, come on…tomorrow is payday.

Day 1 – The ATL

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See, Atlanta and I are so close now that I get to call it by its nickname! Or…something.


Anyway, our first day began fairly early, as GP’s friend (who was our gracious host for two nights of this trip) knocked on our door to wake us up at about 8:30am as he headed to class (he’s a grad student at Tech, where he and GP met as undergrads). Knowing that we had a full day ahead of us, we got out of our Lucy-and-Ricky beds, showered, and headed out the door to the Greek (?) restaurant downstairs for some breakfast– I decided on a biscuit rather than a bagel to get that extra-Southern touch, which I was determined to do just about everywhere we went. From the diner, we headed past the CNN Center (still surrounded by scaffolding after the recent tornado) and into Centennial Park, toward the Georgia Aquarium and the World of Coca-Cola.


We decided to hit the Aquarium first (btw, GP and I decided that aquariums need to be included in Stuff White People Like), and bought a combo pass that would allow us to go to the Aquarium as well as the WoCC in the same day. Having been pretty recently to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and having seen the whale sharks of the Georgia Aquarium on the Today Show (back when I still watched), I was pretty excited. The combination of zoo and museum is always an enticing attraction– I mean, I am a nerd, and I feel like I get bonus points for doing “educational” things on vacations. Because it was a Friday, there were fewer tourists, and mostly school groups inside: tons of children in matching shirts seems like a bad idea, especially when I noticed that they were wearing nametags. We were able to get through the five or so areas of the Aquarium in roughly 2 and a half hours, and we even got to see sea otter feeding and sea lion throwdowns!


Having seen all the fish, we decided it was time to learn more about Coke, so we headed across the way to the (new) World of Coca Cola. Stopping to grab a bite on the way was helpful, plus we got to enjoy some Coca Cola beverages ahead of time (hello, Diet Coke Plus! You mean I can drink some Diet Coke and have some vitamins? Sold!). The kickoff to the tour is a little vamping by a greeter-type lady, who says hello in many different languages and challenges the tourists to identify the languages of the Coke propaganda that is all over the anteroom (I was the only one to guess the Vietnamese one properly, but missed getting credit for it because I am not a shouter by nature). After we had been subjected to enough Awkward Tourist Greeting, we went in and watched an extended version of a Coke commercial that is usually shown in movie theaters, which was a big pile of meh. Then (then!), you are released into a sort of atrium, that strongly resembles something out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, with white walls and vibrant, design-y stuff all over. Very fun.


Other highlights of the World of Coke included a Pop Art exhibit, a 3-D movie (similar in quality to the “Honey I Shrunk the Audience” show at Disneyland, but in this one we learn that love is the secret ingredient in Coca Cola…because cocaine is illegal now), a bottling works (where you can geek out on cool factory stuff), and a tasting room, where you can taste disgusting soda from all over the world. I was a big fan of the Asian and African sodas, but Europe and South America are too full of radioactive and/or blackcurrant nastiness to be very enjoyable. I was bummed that I couldn’t find any Coca Light, but GP was elated that they had blue Powerade.


After buying the obligatory Christmas ornament at the Coke Store and collecting our souvenir “specially bottled right here in Atlanta” bottles of Coca Cola, we were ready to head up to the Georgia Tech campus. It was only fair that we go there, really, because I have dragged GP around the UCLA campus a time or two, and we are in LA much more often than we are in Atlanta. I was expecting something much more urban than Tech really is, but I think it’s nice that it’s a little college bubble right there in Midtown Atlanta– it’s hard to imagine GP living there, though, but that’s probably because he graduated about five or six years ago. Highlights of the tour included the Tech Tower and the ADPi house, in front of which I made GP photograph me, because I am a sorority dork. Yes, I was throwin’ up the hand sign, too.


Because we like to eat roughly every ninety minutes, we stopped at The Varsity before hopping on MARTA. While we were enjoying our Naked Dogs and onion rings (and Diet Cokes! I can’t get enough!), we saw Bill freaking Cosby. It was so awesome, but awkward for me because my back was to where he was, standing near the door; I made GP give me a play-by-play of what was happening (“What’s going on? Is he wearing a Cosby Sweater?”) Because I am not a fan of Celebrity Encounter Awkwardness, there is no picture, but believe me when I say it was all I could do not to ask the man for some pudding.


We rode the MARTA back to our “home base” and got ready for the last Atlanta Activity of the day, a Braves game at Turner Field, against the Marlins. I believe they had lost the previous evening, but I had high hopes that GP would bring the winning spirit needed to get the job done (’cause God knows Smoltz isn’t up for it). Maybe it was because it was Chipper (LARRY!) Jones’s birthday, or maybe it was all the screaming and foam-tomohawk chopping that GP did (seriously, he is still hoarse), but the Bravos pulled it out, and my first experience at Turner Field was pretty cool.


Get excited! Day 2 was the Drive to Charleston and Former-Roommates Wedding day! (Also, I have some sweet Shop It To Me finds, if anyone is feeling generous and wants to buy me some beautiful clothes.)

I’m ba-ack!

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Dude, I hate unpacking…

Hello, friends! Before I launch into the multi-part rehash of the Trip of Northern Aggression, I have to thank my wonderful guest posters, who definitely brought The Awesome while GP and I were busy soaking up the charm and humidity of the southeastern United States (for real, y’all, it was a bit much…and it’s only April!). We technically returned last night, landing at SFO a bit after 9pm, but there was no way I was getting a post in, as our biorhythms (or whateverthehells) were still determined to be on East Coast time and we were pretty wiped, despite the relative awesomeness of our Delta flight.

At any rate, the trip began early Wednesday morning, when we woke up at 5 to make it to the airport for our 8am flight. (Note: if any of you decide to visit me– and why the heck not? I’m fun, and I have multiple fold-out couches, as well as an OG Nintendo, where you can play Mario to your heart’s content– please try to fly into SJC, as that is a mere 10-minute drive from The Apartment. I’m just sayin’.) My dad had stayed over, and had graciously offered to drop us off. The flight itself was fairly unremarkable, as far as cross-country flights go, but it had been awhile since I had flown Delta, and I was pleased to find a super-sweet in-the-back-of-the-seat-in-front-of-me video monitor, where I could create playlists from the roughly 75 albums (ranging from High School Musical soundtrack to Feist and Amy Winehouse) and play trivia with my fellow passengers (you know I kicked their asses, too). Landed in ATL a bit before 4pm, grabbed the luggage, and hopped on MARTA.

I’m giving MARTA its own (pretty brief) paragraph here, because I think it is merited, and because you, internets, are not the boss of me. As far as mass transit goes, the MARTA system is, I think, pretty typical of what most American transit systems are; it doesn’t extend much past the dense center of the city, despite extensive suburban surroundings, its fee structure and ticketing interface are a bit confusing, but it gets the job done. After listening to GP bitch about the layout and flow of the ticketing kiosk (he’s an interface guy, it’s what he does), I was not ready to be friends with MARTA, but she was redeemed by running a healthy number of regular trains, which is refreshing given the scarcity of our local light rail trains and my general impatience with life. Luckily, Atlanta has the good sense to extend their mass transit to the airport (which BART has only done in the last few years), and the airport is within about six stops of where GP’s college friend lives, in the Five Points area of downtown.

We arrived at the friend’s apartment, which is inside a cool, early 20th century building, but sadly unairconditioned due to some freon deficiency, and settled in with some beers and a rooftop tour of Atlanta’s downtown. From the building’s roof, you can see the CNN Center, Centennial Park, the enormous Grady Memorial Hospital, giant buildings for AT&T, Coca-Cola, and SunTrust, and a bunch of other general Big City-type stuff. Our dinner place was in the hilariously named Poncey-Highland district, and was quite reminiscent of a lot of places that we have here in California: dark and loud, with more personality than quality. There was a bit of confusion with our waiter, who I am pretty sure may have just been a busboy and knew nothing about their wine list…but I will stop before I sound like an unreasonable snob. Determined to have an Authentic Southern Experience, I was polite and ordered some gumbo and a cheese plate to go with our bottle of California wine (come on, I drank tons of bourbon later in this trip!). The food was delicious, and we returned to the apartment so I could watch the boys play some RBI Baseball on the NES (because we are classy and it is 1985), and then pass out on one of the two twin air mattresses that constituted our bed (it was very I Love Lucy).

Oh, and what did we do on our first full day, you ask? Nearly all the things. But you’ll have to wait for the next chapter in my ToNA miniseries to find out exactly what…

Spring in the South

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Hey everyone, it’s my FIRST! EVER! GUEST POST! *gasp* I know, I bet you thought I was more experienced but, I am just that good at faking it. I should introduce myself shouldn’t I? Well I’m Heidi and I hold down the fort over at Life in Pink. Ya’ll should go check it out!

Anyhow, whilst Megan frolicks in the South on her trip of Northern Aggression, I’m here to share some of my favorite things about the south. You’re probably thinking “why should I give a rats butt about her favorite things about the south?”

Well you shouldn’t. But I’m going to share them anyhow. Because I’m in charge for the day…so ha!

Anyhow, I grew up in Vermont and went to college for five years in Boston. While I’m not a Red Socks fan, I do love all things New England…like you know…seasons, the NY Yankees (it’s a half and half thing…), the New England Patriots (I cried when they traded Adam Vinaterri to the Colts…), Baked Beans, having ridiculous holidays (like St. Patrick’s day in Boston – it’s Evacuation Day and Patriots Day better known as Marathon Monday).

However, after a bad breakup and a stifling step mother, I packed up my bags and headed south of the Mason Dixie to Washington DC (which is still debatable as to whether it is but I think it is so for all intent and purpose today…it is.)

I moved in with a kid who went to the Citadel in South Carolina who had a girlfriend who went to Finishing School in Atlanta. By the end of that first summer, I was having a love affair with the South.

What’s so great about the South??

For starters, until that summer I had never been to a waffle house…if you haven’t been…consider yourself MISSING OUT. Southern food is pretty great if you haven’t experienced it – I’m not a HUGE fan of everything but hush puppies? okra? BBQ?! Oh em gee…strap me to a treadmill…Ima need it after some REAL southern cookin’

There’s nothing more fun than a drunken sing-a-long to Dixie. Try it with a bunch of southerners on Fourth of July…that day I probably could have told you the big Southern Generals in the Civil War but probably not found my hometown on a map. I’m a traitor I know.

In the south, they don’t call the Civil War the “Civil War” no no…it’s “war between the states.” I giggle when I learn about how they teach basic history in places like…you know…France, England…and the deep South in the great US of A.

Also, I have developed a secret infatuation with the music of such country western bands and artists such as…John Denver (who doesn’t love Country Roads), Alabama (dixieland delight anyone? Anyone???) and Alan Jackson (he’s like effin’ Jimmy Buffet from Texas. It’s great.) My family unfortunately, being the rednecks they are from Vermont, will tell you that I’ve always loved country music but that was only when I was younger and…had no taste in tunes. I blame southern boys for bringing me back to my…music roots.

And speaking of Southern Boys…have you HEARD those accents??? I mean…talk about being able to make you weak in the knees with a simple “hey y’all..” Geez. Gimme a fan!

Unfortunately, for as much as I love my lil’ fling with the South, I know I’ll be back to the North sooner (hopefully rather than Later). I mean, in January? It gets to be 20 degrees but no snow. No no…just rain.

Washington, DC is kind of the bastard child of the south. They call it the city of “Northern Hospitality and Southern Efficiency”…Southerners don’t live the GO-GO-GO! lifestyles of us northerners, and well Northerners aren’t known for their manners so go figure. If it wasn’t the bastard child and would stop straddling the line and pick a side, we might be able to make this a little more long term but I don’t think I could ever say ya’ll seriously, nor do i think I could ever grow to love grits – that icky breakfast food.

For now, I’ll stick to my JCrew, pearls and listening to country music…that’s about as Southern I’ll get but once I throw back a couple beers, and start cursin’ like a sailor, my lil “I want to be southern too” facade is all over.

So that’s all for me. I hope I was a reasonable substitute for meghan and all her fabulousness, but if you want more “i wish i was southern action” hop over to my blog! Happy Spring everyone (and by spring, it’s 90 degrees out with an unreasonable level of humidity for April….I think we skipped that season 😦 bah!)

Sloppy Firsts

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When Megan mentioned she was going on her fabulous Trip of Northern Aggression, the words of Michael Scott immediately sprang to mind. “Abraham Lincoln once said, ‘If you are racist, I will attack you with the North.’” I could really go for some colored greens right about now…

(Side note: We’ve come a long and weird way since the Diversity Day episode of The Office. I loved last night’s bizarro episode, but that never would have flown two or three seasons ago.)

(Side note to self: Gretchen, you don’t just launch into a critique of your favorite show without properly introducing yourself!)

Oh hai! I’m Gretchen, a.k.a. Gretch-a-sketch if ya nasty. I’m your Friday Fill-in!

Traditionally, I make top three lists. Without further ado, here are the Top Three: Reasons I Adore Megan…

1. Hello, cute shoes! The pictures speak for themselves.

2. She makes me laugh and I’m always secretly thrilled when people that make me laugh are willing to be my friend, too.

3. She’s super sarcastic, but also incredibly sweet to send me books when I need good reads.

Confession time: I’m a virgin guest poster…this is my first time. I think it’s only appropriate to tell you all (‘scuse me, y’all) about another first time. (Disclaimer: I’m really, really Mormon. Therefore, this is going to be a very PG-rated story, but in the good Pixar-way, not in the lame Disney-sequel-way.)

I’m talking about the huge event in every young LDS girl’s life—leaving the VL club.

It was October of my senior year of high school. (Back story: Six months earlier, I met a boy we’ll call Denny. We met at a…you guessed it…Denny’s in SoCal during band tour. I was an orch dork, he was 100% band geek.) I asked him to the Dogpatch Dance (my school’s version of Sadie Hawkins) and had a decent enough time. It was a reaaaaaalllly long date, so by the end of the night I was pretty much sick of him and ready to go home. Naturally, we went out again three weeks later and held hands.

There was a whole lot of convoluted high school drama for the next few months. I won’t bore you with the details, we’ve all been there. ANYHOW, exactly six months to the day after the dance, we were hanging out with some friends. It included a movie and Jamba Juice. At Jamba, Denny and I split a Raspberry Lime Sublime and shared the same straw.

Holy cow, this was a big deal to me at the time. You see, we’d been side-stepping around the kissing issue for a good two months or so. We were both chicken, so nothing transpired. I thought for sure he’d take the initiative during Band Tour 2: Electric Boogaloo, but NO.

But this night, I knew for sure something was going to happen. There was a long walk around the park and a longer walk up to the doorstep (at least, it felt like it). I’d be make this clear right away—the doorstep scene? Was about thirty minutes long. About ninety-nine point seven percent of that was spent either a) talking about the fact that we should just get the kissing thing over with already or b) in silence, awkwardly hugging. Add this to the facts that the whole neighborhood could watch if they felt so inclined and that my parents could possibly hear the whole thing from the bedroom window equals one very surreal experience.

Basically, our conversation went something like this:
G: Thanks! I had a great time tonight.
D: Hey, me too! So…uh, you know that thing I’ve been wanting to do for a while? Do you think we should? [The word “kiss” was never said the entire night.]
G: I dunno…do you?
D: Yeah, but I mean, how…um…how do we go about this?
G: I don’t know! You’re the guy in this relationship.
D: Well, you’re the brains!
G: sighs Okay, well, um, maybe we just…I don’t know, are you sure you want to?
D: sighs Yes, I’m sure.
G: Okay then.

This is where I nervously lick my lips and pull away from the hug to face him. Then I freak out and go back into the hug stage. We repeat this about twenty times, which is NOT an overestimatation.

Finally, it gets to the point where I know I have to just get it over with or I’d go inside and nothing would ever happen. So, I face him and begin to slo-o-o-o-wly lean in. (The whole 90-10 Hitch rule wouldn’t come out for another year or so. This was definitely a 50-50 effort.) Once our mouths meet, there was a slight attacking on my part, because I want a good first kiss, dangit! However, I think his train of thought went, “Choo-choo! All aboard for the Awkward Express! Next stop: Gymclassville. Your conductor would also like to note that apparently just touching lips is enough to count for a first kiss.” Holy miscommunication, Batman! I stop, because he isn’t kissing me back. Not good. There’s a fair amount of tense laughter and then he has the gall to suggest we try it again! Oh yeah, he also adds, “My way or your way?”

Me: what the huh? Your way, I guess.

This time goes slightly better, but it’s still just a peck.

Repeat AGAIN.

Curfew rolls around and I start to go in to my house. He stops me and asks me if he can kiss me goodnight. It’s short, but really quite sweet. I step inside, check in with my mom, and get ready for bed. I look in the mirror and I believe my exact thought was, “Wow. That was weird and not really very fun. What’s the big fuss?”

The kissing definitely improved, although things didn’t work out with Denny in the long run. And there you have it, internet. I’ve told that story a million times over to roomies and friends, but never seen it all written out like that. Feel free to cringe, since I know I did.

Come and say hi!

Because you all takes too much time to say…

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Howdy, y’all! I’m EP from Stylish Handwriting, and today, I’m holding down the fort while Megan continues her Trip of Northern Aggression.

And since Megan is (kind of) visiting my neck of the woods, I want tell y’all about some Southern things. Because I am a Southerner despite my Louisiana friends calling me a Yankee AND there’s something fun and sweet and soft about the drawl even though my voice doesn’t show it.

I COULD tell y’all about our granma’s and ma’s (and maybe our own) ability to fry a chicken or a turkey like y’all wouldn’t believe and our love for some home-cooked, tasty grub. (OK, the first part is stereotypically Southern and doesn’t hold true some of the time, but you’d be surprised how many great cooks there are down here).

I could also write about Southern hospitality and how I think it’s one of the greatest things in the world. I mean, how many other places in the world can you walk around on a (football) game day and be offered a plate of food AND a beer by strangers because you “look like a poor, starving college student?” Yes, please, I would LOVE a third helping of your jambalaya, thankyouverymuch. Is it cool if my friend Emily grabs a plate, too?

But what I really want to say?

I love the contraction and second person plural pronoun y’all. A lot.

OK, please don’t stop reading. I promise there is a better reason for it than me loving whenever Brit Brit slurs it every once in a while. Because I like to think it sounds prettier when I say it than when she does. And it sounds a lot prettier than the way it looks/reads.

Y’all is one of my FAVE utterances. It works in SO many different contexts. And you’d be surprised just how many times a true Southerner can use this word in a string of thoughts.

Don’t worry – I won’t try to impress y’all with my fabulous y’all-writing skills (even though everyone should know that my y’all-speaking skills are much stronger). Y’all should already know that once I get on a roll with this, y’all will be thrown out numerous times. I can guarantee it. And this gets really, really bad whenever I have had a little too much to drink.

A born and bred Tennessean, I grew up thinking y’all was a word everyone used. But whenever we visited the Pennsylvanian cousins, my sister and I were mocked because, apparently, we “speak slow” and they don’t understand why we use y’all. Because their second person plural, you-uns, makes SO much more sense. *rolls eyes*

Twenty-three years later, they still don’t understand, and the mockery continues.

But it got me thinking today. Why DO we use the word y’all and, more specifically, why do I love it so?

Well, I certainly don’t know its history and the first man to utter it, but I can tell you it’s a whole HELL of a lot easier than saying you all. Or you-uns.

And in my opinion, y’all flows beautifully. And, as a Southerner, I appreciate words that float off the tip of my tongue, sound sweet and are relatively easy to say. That’s why I like to say ‘preciate instead of appreciate. And I don’t call it a soft drink, a soda, a pop or a Coca-Cola – I ask for a Coke, even when I want a Dr. Pepper, and specify after I’m asked ‘What kind of Coke?’

The way I see it, y’all is my ONE word to show I am a true Southerner. And I use it with pride because I can. And y’all will notice that whenever I let myself go, I say it a whole hell of a lot.

So please don’t judge me just because I adore this word and wrote it, like, a million times here. (OK, only 19, but who’s counting?)

Y’all will find that when you start using it, it’s hard to stop. And maybe Megan is being indoctrinated right now so when she comes home from her Trip of Northern Aggression, she’ll have a little Southern-ness about her.

OK, probably not, but it’d be fun to hear/read a California girl saying y’all. Am I right, or am I right?