Charming, but single

There comes a time in many a Southern Woman’s life that shakes her to the core and causes her to question much about her existence. Up becomes down. Right becomes left. The light goes away and everything becomes fuzzy.

And this time came twice for me on Friday.

“[Lawyer Friend] came with me to our first Junior League introduction meeting this week,” Southern Belle announced at dinner, nudging Lawyer Friend, one of our dinner companions.

I almost spilled my wine in my fancy roasted corn grits.

“You went to what meeting?”

You see, earlier that day one of my other good friends had announced at lunch that she too was joining the Junior League, though she appeared a touch skeptical about the whole thing. I’d almost put it out of my head when Southern Belle dropped her bombshell.

I’d assumed, obviously incorrectly, that my brushes with the Junior League were somewhat nixed when I decided after eight years of private elementary school and four years of all-girls private high school not to pledge a sorority in college. Truth be told, my friends now are a mixed bag of Greeks and GDIs, though in college I hung mostly with the latter rather than the former. I knew plenty of people when I entered college and had only briefly considered Rush when I was going to a school three states over. I wasn’t sure about the financial commitment and figured that while I had some of the credentials – the right high school, good grades, a laundry list of extracurriculars and the potential to gather the appropriate recommendations – I wasn’t sure I was Sorority Girl material.  With my (at the time) lacking fashion sense, middle class family and hips and curves and cellulite, I figured the Chi Os and Kappas wouldn’t have me; truthfully, I wasn’t that upset about it.

To me, the Junior League always seemed to be an extension of this and the birthright of the rich girls with the naturally shiny hair that’s always in place, who wear pearls to the gym and eyeliner everywhere. A sorority for adults and a social club purporting to do “service” when there are a hundred nonprofit groups in the city that could actually use some warm bodies to serve and that wouldn’t charge anyone membership fees and require sponsorship by multiple League members. The whole thing seemed more about status and who knew who and rich doctor husbands and nice cars.

And so I simply never thought that in one day two of my close friends would announce their intention to join. As an aside, how am I even old enough to be in the Junior League? Isn’t that something that soccer moms do? A check of their Web site and the pending membership of three of my acquaintances prove that I am. That coupled with the gray hairs I’ve been spotting just makes me feel old.

So there I was at dinner, politely rolling my eyes and asking only mildly abrasive questions – Isn’t it expensive? Don’t most of the women not have jobs? Aren’t you supposed to be ridiculously rich to join? What is the minimum number of pearl necklaces one must have to apply?

“Come on, you could join the Junior League with us!” Southern Belle said.

“Why? If I want to hang out with you, I don’t have to join a club to do so,” I said. “Plus, I already work too much and am on a nonprofit board. If I wanted to do more service, I would just do it.”

“Well, this meeting, it was kind of interesting,” she said.

“You should see the clothes these women worse,” Lawyer Friend offered. “They were dressed to the nines.”

“Yes, they were. Like nice dressy dresses you and I would wear to a friend’s wedding. I think I saw someone in a wrap dress I wore for a special occasion. And that’s how she dressed for a meeting!” Southern Belle said.

Their interest seemed almost voyeuristic. And, in all honesty, I’m not going to drop a friend or two because they join a club, even if I do find it to be annoyingly exclusive. We all have our reasons and if my friends want to join to network or do more service or maybe make some new acquaintances, who am I to judge? And they’d asked about the service requirement and some of the members assured them they could commit to it, even with their busy jobs.

Later, I told my Mom, no fan of the Junior League herself, about this milestone I’d reached in my adult life. Her reaction was guarded.

“So, baby, are you going to join?” she asked cautiously.

“Mom, I didn’t get invited to join.”

“Well, I’m sure we could get someone to help you out if you really wanted to join,” she said and began to list people who might be friendly to me joining. I’ve got to hand it to my Mom, she will support us in whatever it is that we truly want to do.

“Mom, if I wanted to join, I could meet the people who invited my friends and get in next year,” I interrupted.

I stopped short of adding that my public relations background means I professionally know what to say in certain situations – meeting Junior Leaguers included – and could handle an introduction if I needed one made.

“So, will you try? Next year?”

“MOM, come on. Have you met me?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Well thank God,” she said.

And a look of relief spread across her face, as if she were thinking that even though we disagree on religion and politics and fashion and lifestyle and my opinionated nature and potential husbands and appropriate height of high heel and how much cleavage is too much and on the merits of Chardonnay versus Pinot Gris and timeframe for procreation and standard of housekeeping, she could finally relax knowing that at least I wasn’t going to become a Pod Person.

The other day I was feeling grumpy. (Okay, I’ve been feeling grumpy many days recently, actually.) I tend to fly through things going 150 miles and hour and I’ve been feeling cramped by my injured ankle, which is still in a cast with a slight (but healing) fracture. (And yes, I know so many have it so much worse than I do. That of course, doesn’t ease my annoyance.)

Anyway, this video made me smile. (Song originally by the Kinks, but performed here by the Preservation Hall Jazz Band with Clint Maedgen singing.) Shot in New Orleans before the hurricane and edited and released after, it’s a quick reminder of the lazy, relaxed atmosphere down there. The Cajun Boy has more detail on his blog, where I happened to see it in a particularly moody moment the other day.

Mardi Gras is in full swing and soon it’ll be Lent. I’m not the most religious person, but I have to say that I might adopt this song as my mantra for those 40 days – “You gotta slow down your life or you’re gonna be dead.”

Maybe, just maybe, I can alleviate this complicated life.

Life’s been busy – I’ve found plenty of time for unfun things, like working and paying bills and elevating my still-in-cast ankle.

Now, that’s not to say I’ve found no time at all for pleasantries. I’ve seen too many movies (I think four is a lot), mastered my favorite shoe sale (three pair, all lovely, for $55) and spent some time with my family, including my adorable younger cousins, who, as I will write about later, have some serious concerns about me.

Also, I can’t figure it out, but this woman, the one who generally doesn’t have too many chances to boogie in public, has found at least three occasions to dance around like a moron while also wearing a cast boot. The first being the wedding, the second being a Mardi Gras ball, the third being one night when rain dampened the parades and we were forced – forced, y’all – to take refuge in a bar with a few good beers, some food and a band.

Each time I’ve started out tentatively and eventually ended up twirling and spinning along, which was followed by lots of medicine and foot elevating the next morning. It’s a vicious, vicious cycle.

Not that I’d change it at all.

Note: Two posts today! After this, go read about my latest bridesmaid debacle.

I am renewing my call for single men with season football tickets. If y’all would have tasted the food I cooked for my Championship Viewing Party, you would gladly trade both your love and a ticket.

Olive Cheese Bread and Pan Friend Onion Dip. Both were phenomenal. I made a change or two to each – I added a (very) healthy dose of Tony Chachere’s original seasoning blend to my onions in the dip in the place of the other spices and also used sweet Vidalia onions instead of plain yellow. The spiciness and hint of sweetness in the onions balanced out the creaminess of the dip very well. That said, I’d sub in more sour cream in place of some of the mayonnaise because I found it to be a bit mayo-heavy. With the olive bread, the only things I changed were using mozzarella instead of Monterrey Jack cheese because that’s what the store had. Also, my French bread was a bit soft, so I hollowed out the halves, leaving about a half-inch of bread in the crusts. I filled in the hollowed portion to improve the filling-to-bread ratio.

The best part? I finally successfully caramelized onions for the dip. And as I scooped the soft, brown, spicy sweet onions into a bowl and went to scrub out the pan, I realized that I had a pan primed for perfection and I needed to sear something, anything in this pan. Luckily, I’d seen a reasonably priced piece of sirloin at the store and planned on cooking it this week. So I melted butter and dropped in the lightly seasoned steak. I seared each side, removed the meat to let it rest, deglazed the pan with beer and tossed in a small can of sliced mushrooms. (I was out of fresh.)

Oh man, was it awesome. And as I ate one small piece of rare meat swimming in browned butter mushroom gravy, I thought, “I resolve to cook like this for men within the first three dates. Because the guys I like would just LOVE this meal.” Other bonus: I have two dinners and one lunch because steak is a lot richer than this reformed vegetarian remembers.

So there you have it. Single men with football tickets: I will cook for you.

Also, my beloved Tigers went to the ‘ship and they showed everyone how it is done. Just another of many fond memories that waken in our hearts a tender glow. Today, and everyday, it is great to be an LSU Tiger.

(But seriously, I only have nine months to date my way into next season’s tickets.)

Well THAT was quite a college football season, now wasn’t it? I had my little football loving heart broken not once, but twice, in a season. I’ve cursed more while watching football in the past two months than when I’m watching a presidential debate or the evening news. And that’s saying a lot.

So as we all start making our National Championship plans and I groan that I won’t be there, in person, to witness the victory, I am looking back on my football accommodations this season. I had tickets to one game and it was an insane nail biter that we won, albeit at the very last second. Anytime someone brings it up, I say, “I felt like the world stopped and everything was in slow motion and then everyone went nuts and I knew we had won and the kids around me started crying because they were so startled by the noise.”

And while tailgating was wonderful and fun, I simply did not spend enough time in the stadium, which is a damn shame. I can’t afford season tickets on my own and my family doesn’t have them, so I am left to scrounge and beg for extra tickets. And, well, this just has to change.

And so I have come to the only logical conclusion for a woman in my situation. I need to marry into season tickets.

Sure, I could go halfsies with a girlfriend, but you start at the bottom of the season ticket food chain, which puts you at the top of the stadium. And then there is the issue of what if someone wants to bring a date and so really then we’d need four tickets and, well, I can’t afford two tickets myself, because if I could, I would have them.

So this is my pitch. My personal ad for a fellow fanatic interested in a future of football, tailgating food, cocktails and kids. Enjoy!

W4M (with tickets)

Wanted: Single Male holder of pair of football season tickets for dating, accompanying to football games and eventual marriage and procreation.

Interested female in her late mid-twenties. Catholic, big family, loves college football, beer and children. Will pay up to half of the cost of the tickets, plus a share of traveling expenses related to attending road games and post-season conference championships and bowl games.

Further, will help coordinate libations and foodstuffs for tailgating, including, but not limited to, baking blondies and brownies, assembling seven-layer dips, procuring various salsas and chips, organizing necessary buns and condiments, seasoning appropriate cuts of meat and assuring the availability of needed paper goods, such as napkins, cups and trash bags.

Has experience in setting up tents and canopies. Understands why it is necessary to park one (1) loaded-down car near ideal tailgating location the Friday evening before the football game. Will take an active role in the logistical aspects of tailgating missions and also tactics by which to taunt opposing teams, including, but not limited to, lowbrow chanting, the writing of clever slogans and the cataloging of reasons why said opponents suck and/or blow and/or bite. Is proficient in Adobe Photoshop and wields a mean hot glue gun. Has previous experience in college football-related T-shirt decoration and design.

Further, understands tailgate attire includes school appropriate clothes and accessories versatile enough to be worn comfortably all day, throughout the game and out to the bar to celebrate our victory. Will not be caught wearing high heels to the stadium.

Willing to provide up to four (4) chairs-in-a-bag, one (1) mix CD of school songs and inspirational tracks and one (1) tote bag ice chest that holds at up to twenty-four (24) canned beers. (Though interested female would like to point out that her favorite beers come in bottles and not cans.) Skilled in making mimosas, screwdrivers, vodka crans and jack and cokes.

Parents and grandparents are local and would likely provide some free babysitting during football season should that ever become and necessity. Family will most definitely give tailgate-appropriate gifts, such as monogrammed polo shirts, Championship memorabilia, flags for our home and many, many accessories for our children. No one would be offended if the first words our children spoke were those of our Fight Song.

Single male holder of tickets should be tall, slightly cuddly, professional with enough job flexibility to take a fall road trip or two each year, and able to light a barbecue pit, know the appropriate lyric of the National Anthem during which to pop champagne poppers, sing both verses of the Alma Mater, deal with the fact that single female seeker of tickets paces and curses during close games and understand why pickled okra is necessary to a good Bloody Mary.