Why You Should Always Marry the Funny Guy

As a bride-to-be, I've spent a lot of time thinking about marriage...what it means, and what it might be like. Even before I was engaged, I thought about it. Heck, before I ever met my beau I thought about it then too.

As a little girl, I sometimes imagined the man I might date and eventually marry. In my teen years, I had a ridiculous list of qualities that I wanted in a mate...written on a sheet of paper torn from a composition book, now lost (thank goodness). I'd be too mortified to read what my 14-year old self sought in a life partner, let alone want to share it with y'all.

Whatever was included in that magical list of must-have qualities, I'm positive I thought it was a combination that would equal true love and happiness.

I'm sure lots of researchers would say there's a science to matchmaking. That based on a thorough list of qualities and personality traits, it can be determined what partner might be best for you. I haven't done online dating but I was always intrigued by how those types of sites pair people up. I've known several couples who met online and are very much in love so I'm not disparaging that method at all, but I just wonder how a computer can determine who might go with whom.

When I first met my beau (soon to be husband), I never considered him to be someone I'd end up dating or potentially marrying. He was friendly enough, but I thought he had terrible fashion. When he finally asked me out on a date, I said yes because it had been so long since I'd had a date and I was caught up in the excitement and terror of getting ready to graduate from college a few weeks later.

Over the next decade, our relationship has deepened and gone through all sorts of wonderful and challenging periods. Hopefully we've both changed for the better. But one thing that has not changed and I hope never will is his ability to make me laugh.

I don't mean the kind of jokes that you politely chuckle at to spare someone's feelings. I'm talking about belly laughs. The kind where you can't believe something could be so funny and you need to say "please stop, it hurts to laugh anymore."

Whether it's something he's doing on purpose to be funny (ask him to tell you about the high society of Birmingham) or just being himself (accidentally using the dog's toothbrush, mixing up the meanings of popular phrases "pigeon hole" vs. "pigeon toe", etc), he never ceases to make me laugh and laugh.

Of course I think he's attractive to look at too, but we all know that looks can change, as can any other physical qualities.

I'm no relationship expert. I've really only had the one so there's not much for me to compare it to, but I know we've been able to laugh our way through some trying times. And I'm certain more challenges are ahead. But it'll be okay. Because we can laugh about them. Eventually.

So if you find yourself looking for a mate, my advice is to find one who makes you laugh. And keep him/her around for the long haul.

How to Get in Shape, Southern Style

I must have been living under a rock because apparently I'm the last person to see this. I mean, I'll admit that it's kind of a silly video...but it still has nothing on the fitness habits I learned growing up in the south. 

It looks like the video is set in Florida, but there's no way the lady is a southerner. First of all, her accent sounds like she is from the North. Another reason I know she isn't southern is that if she were, she'd be dressed in a leopard print jogging suit made of parachute material. A southern lady would have her pocketbook with her and might also be Prancercising to "What a Friend we have in Jesus" instead of the current song. 

My great-grandma, a staunch Freewill Baptist minister's wife who never wore pants or owned a television, used to start every morning with a little cardio. Lying on her back in bed, she'd throw her legs up in the air repeatedly, "taking her exercise" as she hollered 'Hip-hoo' over and over again.

She also liked to brag that she could plow a field better than any man and had hands so strong, she could take a'hold of her grown brother Clarence and flip him over her head.  

My dad's mom kept fit on a steady diet of ginger ale and Kent Golden Light Kings, bought by the carton. 

One summer when I was staying with my grandparents, I spent an entire rainy afternoon dancing up and down their sidewalk with an umbrella, performing Broadway show tunes in costume. If there'd been a YouTube in 1990, I'd have gone viral. 

So if Prancercising makes you happy, I say go for it. But don't wear white shoes after Labor Day no matter what. 

An Elegant Fourteen

If I weren't already sold on my southern beau, I definitely would be after this weekend. He came through for me during a situation where I was about to lose my cool and even though we didn't accomplish what we'd set out to, his actions reminded me that he's one of the good ones. 

You probably think there was some sort of life and death situation at hand...nah, just a fashion emergency. 

You see, I'm getting ready to take a trip. Not just any trip...a conference at which I'm speaking. Me? Speaking at a conference? I'm still pinching myself. And as I always do when these types of events come up on the calendar, I put too much pressure on myself to choose the perfect outfits that will make the 'just-right' impression and let all these folks know how fabulous I am (I know...it sounds crazy when I type it out). Shouldn't I have better things to do? 

So my beau and I were rushing around the mall Saturday to hunt for some pieces for my travel wardrobe. Did I mention it was our second mall trip of the day? I'd sent him to Gap to return all the stuff I bought during our first trip of the day...why it looked amazing in the dressing room and then awful at home I'll never know. 

While he was doing that, I raced in and out of every mall store I could think of with no luck (it was almost time for the mall to close). My beau found me, near tears, in the junior's department of Dillard's (NOT a good place to be when you're feeling less than fabulous). 

He was trying to say everything he could think of to make me feel better. 

"What about Cache? That place has tons of sparkly dresses that might work for your trip." 

I looked at him like he was crazy.

I'm not trying to disparage Cache or anyone who might shop there, but I didn't think the store would have anything that was really my style (or size). He kept on about it until I gave in. 

This is where I should probably note that men and women are so very different. Anytime a clothing store employee asks me if I need help finding anything, I always say I'm just looking. Even if I do need help, I'd rather just look on my own. 

When we entered Cache, I walked around a bit taking in the sequins and zebra print (Did I mention there was a teenager trying on prom dresses?). At some point the Cache employee must have asked my beau if we needed help because whatever he said to her caused her to start fluttering around the store, pulling things off the rack for me. 

In the end, none of the options were really my style (as I'd suspected), but at least we gave it a try. 

As we were leaving the mall, my beau said "Now see, that wasn't so bad. The lady was very helpful once I told her it was imperative that we find what we were looking for." 

I laughed a little, thinking about how ridiculous our "dire" situation must have seemed to the poor woman who just wanted to go home for the day. 

"And what did you tell her we were looking for?" I asked. 

"An elegant fourteen." 

Maybe it's only funny to me because I know him, but bless his heart. I pictured him making it very clear to the woman that we simply MUST find an ELEGANT fourteen. But of course! 

I hesitated to include this story in the blog because who really wants to make their dress size public knowledge? But it just warmed my heart so much to have someone who would go to any lengths to try and make me feel better, when the situation was only dramatic because I overreacted in the first place. 

Do you ever struggle with wanting to make a certain impression and feel like your fashion options are holding you back? 

Only in the South: Squirrel on Wood

Growing up in the south, I have had some hunters and fishermen in my family. My great-grandpa had a large mouth bass mounted on a board over a doorway at his house and I used to stand under it looking up and wonder what its life must have been like before its present state. 

I've seen deer heads, moose heads, wild boar heads and even the occasional taxidermied jackalope. But this weekend, at a local antique shop, I saw something I'd never seen before in the form of a stuffed and mounted squirrel. 

Really? A squirrel? To quote Carrie Bradshaw, it's just a rat with a cuter outfit. I didn't even know you could stuff squirrels (to which my southern beau replied "oh yeah, you can stuff anything so long as you can find the right sized eyes"). 

All I can say is only in the south. And what's more is the price. $49! I kid you not. I have several pairs of shoes that didn't cost $49. We got our 15-year old Yorkshire Terrier for free and he's ALIVE (for now). Is someone really going to buy this bizarre artifact for $49? 

It makes me wonder if this is some sort of special squirrel. Perhaps his ancestors survived Sherman's burning of Atlanta. 

Can anyone help me make sense of this madness? 

The Difference Between Belles & Beaux, part 1

There isn't enough space on the Internet to hold all the differences between southern ladies and southern gents, but I thought I'd start by sharing a story about my own southern beau, who often surprises and baffles me.

He recently got a haircut and while he was sharing a story about something funny his barber had said, I asked him what his barber's name was.

He said, "I have no idea."

I said, "Seriously? You have no idea what your barber's name is?"

To which he replied, "Of course not. I've only been to him 6 times. That's not nearly enough time to establish a connection where I could ask him his name."

Really?

I not only know my hairstylist's name, but we are also friends on Facebook. And I know she has a son and she knows about my job/life/etc. And I bet I learned all of this the FIRST time I had my hair cut by her.

Maybe this isn't interesting enough to warrant a blog post, but I just can't get over how differently men (or at least my southern beau) thinks about things. I'm not picking on him....I just find it kinda funny.

Do you know your barber's name? I'd love to hear about a moment when a member of the opposite sex did something that baffled you.

Home Makeover Mishaps or Why I'll Never Be a DIY Blogger

Have you ever had one of those days that you just can't wait to end? That was Saturday for me. Nothing really bad happened, but all the little snafus added up to my nerves being turned into a frazzled mess. Instead of dwelling on it, I decided to do what any good blogger would and share it with y'all. Please don't laugh at my misfortune. By the way, there are no pictures because my camera died, another lovely moment of the day.

I recently mentioned that since 2013 rolled around, I've been cleaning out my home and getting rid of the clutter in a major way. That was phase 1 of my small scale home makeover. Phase 2 was painting the walls a bright, cheery color. Saturday, I enlisted the help of my southern beau to begin our painting adventure. He manned the roller while I used a brush to cut in the edges (I do read Young House Love so I know a thing or two about painting.) 

Oh, first I should mention that when I went to open my bedroom window to let in some fresh air, my window blinds came flying out of their frame and landed in a warped heap on the floor. So I was already cursing quietly under my breath. 

But back to painting. We heard a snap and my southern beau, who apparently doesn't know his own strength, had broken the paint roller. I didn't even know those things would break...I mean, they are metal. So he proceeded to try and use the broken roller for a bit (while complaining) and I finally convinced him to go to the hardware store for a new one. 

While he was gone, I was painting when I heard water dripping in the living room. I live on the ground floor of an older apartment building that has been converted to condos. For some reason the melting snow had found its way down through four other floors of condos and into my living room ceiling, where big fat drops were dripping from the ceiling's seam across the width of the room. And landing on/soaking my furniture. And television. 

When I heard my beau's key in the door, I said "honey, something has happened." But I'm not sure I could have prepared him for what. 

Nine buckets, assorted cooking pots and garbage cans later, we caught most of the leaking water (after moving everything from that side of the room to the other side). Then someone stepped on paint and tracked it around on the carpet. Then one of the dogs went number 2 in the bathroom floor. 

And then I loudly said to nobody in particular, "THIS IS WHY I'LL NEVER BE A DIY BLOGGER!!!!!" And I silently cursed those darn cheerful self-deprecating Petersiks for every single DIY project they do that looks so darn easy and fun. But everything worked out in the end. We finished painting the hallway (which was less than I'd hoped to accomplish, but considering the furniture moving/bucket brigade situation, I'll take it). We even managed to laugh about everything after it was all over. 

But I can't visit Young House Love for awhile. It's still just too raw. 

Only in the South: Toilet Love

If you were shocked to see a toilet (yes, it’s mine) on the ol’ blog today…hang on to your socks. There is a reason for this post and it has nothing to do with anything gross. This picture might not look like very much to you. It’s just your average bathroom commode. But when I came home from work last night and saw it, I almost swooned and promptly took a picture.

You see…a couple (ok, three) years ago, yours truly was doing some routine plumbing adjustments to the toilet tank when the ceramic tank lid slipped from my hands and broke into 78 pieces on the bathroom floor. This was not my finest moment. For whatever reason, hardware stores don’t sell just the tank lid….you have to buy a whole new toilet. But my toilet was fine and I couldn’t justify spending the money on a new one while the current one worked ok (minus the tank lid).

So I lived without the lid for all this time, mostly having gotten used to it, but also secretly hating the whole bathroom situation. My dad kindly offered to buy me a new toilet for Christmas, but, not wishing to see one under the tree on Dec. 25, I declined his offer.

Sunday afternoon, I had a small crying jag in which I moaned to my beau about all the unfinished projects around my house, including the toilet minus a tank lid which “embarrassed me to the point that I can’t have people over and have taken to compulsive clothes shopping to soothe myself.” {drama, I tell you}

My southern beau, who didn’t realize this was such a tragic issue for me, calmly said he’d be happy to visit a salvage shop where he was sure he could find me a replacement. I didn’t think he’d be able to find one, but lo and behold, one trip to the salvage store, $5 and 1 canister of Lysol disinfectant wipes later, I have a toilet tank lid that could pass for the original. {If you’re wondering why it took us 3 years to figure out this was such an easy fix, I have no answer for you. I, too, am wondering this.}

So yes, I love my toilet. Only in the south would a girl get so worked up over something like a toilet and only a southern beau like mine could save the day with such quiet bravado. If only he’d waited a couple of weeks to present me with the lid…it could have gone down in history as the best/worst Valentine’s Day gift ever. 

Only in the south: A grocery gig

There’s a little grocery store in my hometown that is known (and loved) for things other than fresh produce. I popped in over the holiday break to capture a bit of the magic because I wanted to share it here with you. In several spots throughout the store, lively animatronic vignettes reside…just waiting for the push of a button to come to life. These banjo playing bears are tucked neatly in the corner at the end of an aisle of canned drinks.

This musical trio looks like they might have been formerly employed at the popular kids restaurant, Showbiz Pizza (now Chuck E. Cheese) by way of Dollywood. I’m really not sure where they came from, but they are quite a treat to behold. Down the aisle and around the corner live two spunky hens, Heather & Haylee. They are also a pair of charmers, ready to perform on the spot and push their products to anyone who will listen.

As I was filming this clip, I noticed a middle-aged guy standing nearby, watching intently. When the hens were finished, he turned to me and said that he’d been shopping at the store for ages and yet had failed to notice these extra special touches. I explained to him that I write a blog about the south and since this was such a neat slice of life in this area, I wanted to include it. I also told him that my grandpa had been a meat-cutter for many years and had connections to the market. Of course he wanted to know my grandpa’s name and I wasn’t surprised to find out that he knew him, plus he had attended grade school with my uncle and his parents were close with my great-grandparents. And all because I had filmed some chickens in a grocery store.

I thanked him for saying such sweet things about my family and as I was walking away he shook his head, chuckled and replied “only in the south.”

Hope you have a foot stomping-good weekend!

Only in the south: Small town laughs

I hope everyone had a fabulous Thanksgiving and that you were able to spend some time doing something you enjoy (eating!). I wanted to take a break from the traditional holiday content and share a story that I found hilarious. I'm not sure if this falls under the "only in the south" category or maybe just "only in a small town," but either way, it cracked me up.

I spent several days in my hometown for the long weekend and each time I return there, I am reminded of all the sweet and simple things that are afforded by small town living. On the flip-side, I am also reminded of how life in a fishbowl has its pitfalls too. Early Friday morning the phone rang at my parents' house and I heard my mom having this conversation. "Well, I'm not really sure what kind of cologne he wears....I think Polo?" Then a pause..."Oh so you want to know exactly? Ok, hang on. Let me go look in the bathroom closet." Footsteps down the hall. "Yes, it's Polo, Double Black. In a black bottle. Yes, Double Black. Oh, ok well you can tell her that."

The person on the other end of the phone was my aunt. Apparently, her good friend works at the dry cleaners where my dad has always taken his shirts to be cleaned. The friend said that his shirts smell so good when they get dropped off that she just had to know what kind of cologne he wore so she could buy some for her husband.

I'm not sure what I find funnier about all of this. The fact that someone smells my dad's dirty shirts or the fact that she was curious enough to ask about it, but tasked my aunt with the job of inquiring. Maybe the thing we should be most concerned about is the fact that my dad is spraying so much cologne on his shirts. But only in a small town in the south would this scenario play out. I bought him the cologne for his birthday so I guess I should feel good that it is such a hit with the ladies. Who thinks I should contact Polo's advertising department and tell them I just found their new ad strategy?

Happy Monday!