Charming, but single

(Note: I started thinking about this because of a comment from Ms. Virginia Belle yesterday.)

People from the South are quick to point out how we are different, especially where I live. More relaxed, very centered around big families and lots of food. We’re gossipy and social and friendly and kind.

Say what you want about the South and our sometimes backwards ways. I don’t agree with everyone from down here and there are certainly things I would change, but the calm sweetness of a no-frills good ol’ time certainly is not one of them.

Men down here, a lot of them anyway, are smooth Southern gentlemen, chivalrous to a fault, because it almost seems insincere. They’re friendly and chatty and it can make a grown woman crazy trying to figure out if they’re flirting with you or if they were just raised right by a Strict Southern Momma who taught them that a Lady comes to expect certain things and a Gentleman should always oblige so to not hurt her delicate sensibilities (which are mostly a front, to be honest).

Not all of the men are like this. There are the hicks who act as if they’ve never seen a push-up bra before and the jerks who are, for lack of a better term, jerky. (You know ‘em when you see ‘em.) And yeah, guys are guys and a large subset is interested in beer, sports, whiskey and Jenna Jameson. At times, I feel like the Southern Gentleman is an endangered species, a creature to be protected and cultivated for the future.

He is friendly. He always shakes your hand and smiles when he meets you and he makes a point to repeat your name back and be formally introduced at all parties in a group. He teases in a good-natured way, always opens doors and pulls out chairs. He includes people in conversation and is a fan of casually touching you when he talks. On the shoulder. On the knee.

The Southern Gentlemen I know are mid-to-late twenties (or early thirties), preppy dressers in professional jobs. They may name drop a bit (that’s the Good Ol’ Boy in them), but they’ll listen when you name drop right back. They all own at least one pair of seersucker pants and do not be surprised if they wear them out, at night, with docksiders and a white polo and wonder why you (in your dressy jeans, neatly done hair, high heels and sparkly evening top) complain that they look like your grandfather. (Even though you think they’re adorable in seersucker.)

They have a sweet tone to their voice, a slow drawl that makes the words sound dramatic. “Well, don’t you look nice tonight,” sounds ever more so sincere from a Southern Gentleman with a thick accent and a big smile.

These guys are genuinely nice and they will compliment every woman around them because it is the polite thing to do. They will never let you stand, always give up their seat. Smile and wink at women and give a good hearty handshake to their male brethren in passing.

They drink scotch or whiskey on the rocks. A double, please. Always. Or beer, but probably not Light beer. They play Hank Williams on the jukebox and will pull you to your feet and dance with you in the middle of a crowded bar. (And yes, they will swing you around and dip you and you will squeal like a little girl and blush and turn red.)

Some people may think these guys are cheesy. Or that they’re just playing to get a woman’s attention. And that may be true at times. And these   guys do have Alpha Male moments and they do like to be manly at sometimes they’ll leave you and the girls to talk shoes (thankfully!) and make silly chauvinistic comments because they can get away with saying just about anything in that sweet tone of theirs.

But the manliest of the Southern Gentlemen do fall when they’re smitten with a woman. I have seen them walk a straight line behind a petite blonde with sparkling eyes and shiny hair as she squeaks out her drink order or throws her own soft Southern drawl right back at them to soothe them into doing her bidding.

(And don’t be fooled by these Southern women. They seem fragile and gentle, but they turn when their hand is forced. Steel Magnolias, every last one of them.)

I used to dislike these guys, because I didn’t think they were genuine. I thought they were obviously looking for trophy wives to help plan their law firm’s Christmas Party or to smile and nod (and pack and extra flask) while they entertained clients at weekend football games. I found them and their sweetness to be patronizing.

But lately, I’m thinking that maybe these guys aren’t so bad. I like boys who open doors (as long as they’re doing it to be polite) and I may have judged them a bit too quickly.  

Turns out I’m a sucker for an accent and a kiss on the cheek after all.

I was in a bitchy mood Friday night. Tired from work and annoyed that I take some work things so seriously and so personally.

At dinner with Southern Belle and her coworkers, a male friend of theirs (classmate from Law School) stopped by to say hello while we scarfed down what is probably some of the city’s best spinach and artichoke dip.

The guy was nice and he seemed to be kind of in to one of the other women I was with. When he left, they all started giggling and explained to me that many many years ago, this guy had won a beauty pageant and was “Little Mister [Small Town]” when he was very young.

Now, this would have been funny enough without alcohol involved. But two Chardonnays into the night, it was quite possibly the most ridiculously hysterical thing I’d ever heard.

Flash forward a few hours and we’re sitting in the next bar when Little Mister Small Town himself and his friends (the Future Teacher and the Professor) stroll into our little hole in the wall. I am possibly too tipsy to contain myself, so when the guy (to whom I have not been formally introduced) comes over and offers his hand for a shake, I did something incredibly bitchy.

“Well, I see that we have Little Mister Small Town in our presence,” I said. I meant to be coy, but I think it came across more cheeky and sassy.

He seemed mildly embarrassed. I immediately felt bad for being so rude up front, but my girlfriends were laughing like crazy. (As were his friends.)

The Future Teacher was nice, a year older than I am, and friendly. The Professor was probably a few years older than I am, very nice, and a bit shy. We had a nice conversation about some serious things and how he ended up here. It flowed pretty well, even though I felt at times that I was almost interviewing him. But we joked back and forth and it was nice.

After awhile, Little Mister Small Town seemed to forgive me for my indiscretion and started chatting me up a bit. (Even though I maintain that he seemed very much interested in one of the women I was with.)

“Who told you I was Little Mister Small Town?”

I pointed to the guilty party, the other woman drinking with us.

We talked about our jobs. I asked what kind of law he practiced and where he worked and he pulled out a business card and slid it into my hand.

“Impressive,” I said.

“I’ll keep this in case I break any laws.” I hit coy this time, as I tucked the card into my purse.

“You do that.”

We talked some more.

“Honey, I know you probably wouldn’t believe it from looking at me now, but at work I have a secretary and an office with ‘Mister’ in front of my name on the door.”

For some reason, it was sweetly cute and not pompous at all. Perhaps he just seemed so non-threatening and mildly sincere. We chatted some more. I stopped drinking, had several tall glasses of water and then left. I smiled and gave hugs and kisses around before slipping into the night and falling directly into bed.

It was a good night.

After a salad and a glass of wine too many, I went with Southern Belle and her boyfriend and two of her coworkers to a newly opened bar. I was underwhelmed by this overcrowded hole in the wall. I already HAVE a random, hole-in-the-wallish place, about two blocks away, much bigger and with a better crowd.

Ordered a Sauvingon Blanc. (More expensive and less tasty that at the OTHER bar, natch) As we fought for barstools and watched the crowd of late-twenty-somethings and early-thirty-somethings jockey for the bartenders’ attention, I sang along to the jukebox. A nice mix of 80s songs with some classic rock and a touch of real-good country. (Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Jr.)

“I don’t get it,” I said as, I sipped my wine and scanned the crowd.

“Don’t get what?” Southern Belle asked.

“Every day, I see all kinds of women who are just terrible trolls,” I paused. “And THEY’RE married.”

Southern Belle laughed and patted my arm, as if to say, “No heavy thinkin’ while drinkin’, lady.”

“Maybe they’re really good in bed?”

“No,” I said. “They’re not. They’re just TERRIBLE FRIGID TROLLS.”

So, gentle readers, I’ve come to a crossroads. I love the bloggin’ and I’ve found my voice. (Even though some of y’all seem to think my thousands of words per post are a bit too long. Whatcha gonna do if I write a book some day, huh?)

This is going well, I think. But slowly shopping and non-me related things are creeping in. And I want to go with that without feeling as if I’m mixing the shoes in with the life stories too much.

So, I present the launch of Charming Things, the sister site to Charming, but Single. More shoes, less musings on life.

I’m sure fashion will still slip in over here. But the goal is to expand the accessories talk over there. I also hope to focus on more affordable things, since not everyone can afford to drop thousands on handbags. On a regular basis.

So, we’ll see how it goes. But feel free to visit, comment, blogroll, etc.

Indeed.

Last Thursday I was lounging on the patio of a Mexican restaurant sipping strong margaritas and snacking on chips with my friend when something absolutely horrifying happened.

A group of people had gathered by the entryway and were waiting for their table. And we recognized them immediately.

“Is that, um …” I lowered my voice and my eyes widened as I turned my head and slyly motioned to the group of people.

“Oh God, it is,” said my rita-drinking companion. “It’s them.”

We shifted uncomfortably in our seats as the crew was escorted to their table, several feet away.

“This is awkward,” I said. “Very awkward. I mean, embarrassing.”

My friend’s back was to them. I put down a chip and smoothed my hair.

“Does it look okay? I tried this new thing with hot rollers and it was supposed to give me these curls and it just didn’t work. Tell me it doesn’t look bad.”

“No no, it looks cute. The part that isn’t pinned back is all curly.”

“Yeah, ok, good,” I shot a sideways glance to Their table. “I just don’t want them to notice my roots.”

Just feet away sat most of the staff of The Salon, our hair place. My colorist and hairstylist (both current and former) were present with some other of The Salon’s staff members.

“I am so embarrassed. I feel so bad that I broke up with Male Hairstylist,” I said. “He was so sweet.”

“Well how do you think I feel?” My friend countered. “I actually left The Salon! I broke up with them all.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

“I mean, they cut good hair, but my new place costs the same amount, is in a better location, doesn’t take as long AND they serve you wine.”

“Wine, really?”

“Yeah, you should come. It is great. Kind of frou-frou, but still. Wine.”

“Oh, I like how they do my hair at The Salon, though,” I said. “I’ve been with them for about a year, which is a long time for me. I’m just embarrassed that I have to see Male Hairstylist every time I go to have Female Hairstylist cut my hair.”

“Isn’t that horrible since they sit right next to each other,” she said.

“I know! And it wasn’t something I did on purpose. I just really needed my hair done on my one day off and Colorist and Waxer were free, but Male Hairstylist wasn’t. So I had to make an appointment with someone else.”

“You did the opposite of me,” my friend said. “I switched from Female Hairstylist to Male Hairstylist. He does such a good job. It just takes forever.”

“I know, right? Like three hours for a hair cut.”

“He bond with every strand as he cuts it.”

“And he’s silent, as if he’s concentrating so hard on that one strand that he cannot be bothered to even breathe loudly.”

“Right. Doesn’t talk. At all.”

I glanced over again, trying not to make eye contact.

“You know, Colorist used to ask about you,” I said.

“Really! She was so nice,” my friend replied.

“She stopped though.”

“Oh.”

“So, do you think they’ve noticed that we’re here?”

“Probably not.”

“It is just tough to stop going to someone who’s been doing your hair. I mean, when I broke up with the lady who’d been doing my hair for, like, 15 years, it was really rough,” I said.

“Fifteen years?”

“At least. My mom and all of the women in my family went there,” I said. “I was one of the first to leave, when I got to college. The place was just way far out.”

I continued my tale. “And then I went to several other places. I bounced around a bit, I don’t know. I like The Salon I’m at now, I do. I just don’t have the money to drop on all needed services at this second.”

“Yeah.”

“Also, I think I offended The Colorist because I told her that I worked in a professional setting and crazy highlights would not fly.”

“Ouch.”

“Well, I mean, I just want to look normal and presentable, you know?”

“Yes, I do,” my friend said. “And she is all about the stark highlights. They’re like stripes sometimes.”

“Zebras.”

“Right, Zebras.”

“I like how she did my hair this most recent time, though,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s cute.”

“God this is embarrassing.”

“I’m mortified. Should we go? Show’s gonna start soon. Let’s pay out.”

“Yeah, we should, before they see my roots,” I said.

“They’re not going to see your roots from all the way over there!”

“Are you kidding me? I haven’t had my hair colored since late December! They can see my roots! They are PROFESSIONALS.”