The Dirty South Chronicles

I complain all the time that I don’t have any free time anymore but as I sit here in my grandmother’s house in North Carolina with literally NOTHING to do… it looks like I now have free time.  So to Andrea’s question last week,” what happened to your blog?” here you go…

I just finished reading The Andy Cohen Diaries, ok that’s a lie, and I owe you more than that… I’m 90% done with it according to my Kindle. It is hilarious, albeit overly name droppy, and I have learned a couple things:

• Mark and Kelly Consuelos are excellent designated drivers.
• Andy’s life is pretty fabulous – but he talks about his weight too much
• All famous people know each other

Now that we have my educational learnings covered, I can give you an update on the dirty south aka the sale sud a la ma grandmere who is French.

First things first, my grandmother is hilarious.  She normally pisses me off beyond belief but in her natural habitat, (or maybe out of mine), she is much more like a combo of ‘Shit My Dad Says’ and the “where’s the beef?” lady from the 80’s Wendy’s commercial.  Which if you cannot tell, is a combination I respond really well to.

My grandmother likes beer, but not like a glass of beer, she pours a 1/3 of a glass and then tops it off with Sprite Zero – which if this wasn't her doing it, I would have to pick up the glass and throw it across the room.  Thank God she didn't do it with wine.  So because she likes beer but only uses a small amount of it, she is forced to be pragmatic about her purchase – being an old person and all and not wanting to waste anything (including water, we’ll get to that later), she buys 40s.

Yes, twist off, Miller High Life, 40s.  Sigh. I have kept this a secret for a while and until my sister in law witnessed it, I never thought I’d have to talk about it.  But here we are now,  she immediately offers me a glass when I arrive and hands me an unopened 40 ( I am a guest and all ) – thankfully she doesn't encourage me to add Sprite.  We then have pretty delicious hamburgers on her pre-George Forman, electric grill.  In case you were wondering, the beer was surprisingly refreshing, but it isn’t something I am going to take up. 

Grey Poupon in the background for class

I am always thirsty at other people’s homes.  I am not sure why.  Maybe I had a traumatic thirty incident as a child but whatever it is, I get weirdly anxious when I don’t know where my next glass of water is coming from. 

Coincidentally, this is one of the few things I don’t like about Europe, there is never any water for drinking in hotel rooms and they never bring it to you without asking (sometimes even after asking) when you’re at a restaurant.  But I digress.

I had finished my overpriced Fiji water and had drank some tap water, spoiler alert, NC water tastes like dirt. Before you get all fired up about that statement, I just mean it tastes like soil and mineraly… and also terrible.

I forage in the fridge and find a filled water filter container. Eureka!  I guzzle down two glasses before I finally come up for air and look at my now filled 3^rd glass… more specifically, what is floating in it.  Yup, some weird white cottonesque mold is bouncing around inside my glass. 

                                 

I did what any 30 year old would do, I dumped the glass and called my mum while I searched for bleach.

                                     

Fun fact, my mum said she too had experienced that and forgot to warn me.  My lovely grandmother, like most old people, doesn’t drink enough water so that fucking container had probably been sitting in there, with some foreign particulate stowaway for weeks!  She probably thought it was always going to be good, or maybe she thought it was added protein.  If I don’t survive, at least you’ll have this last memory of me.

I washed my mouth out with Sprite Zero and orbit chewing gum.

                                     

My grandmother also told some really fascinating stories about France, my grandfather, her travels.  This is a woman who has been everywhere and has the loot to show for it.  She has lead an extraordinary life.  She also talked to me about people she hates (which is my favorite type of story).  Hearing a story from a 92 year old woman with a thick accent and a somewhat repetitive memory, is not always the most riveting, you mostly just sit there and listen – but that is really all old people want, so give it up!

                                     

She did add in a gem about a family member who had a thick mustache the last time she saw her and she wasn't sure if she was more thrown off by the thickness of the stache (the poor woman in question had always had thinner hair) or by the bleached appearance (she doesn't care for dying of your hair, in any capacity).  Anyway, she said had she been closer to the woman she would have told her herself but hindsight being 20 20 and all… she now just felt like talking about it to me with a glint in her eye – I feel blessed she shared this moment with me.

I have Law and Order SVU on in the background (like there is any other kind of Law and Order that is worth watching) and there is an actor who looks like the fatter, sadder, and I guess less famous brother of Justin Long… so that’s a thing.

                                   

After attempting to Tinder below the Mason Dixon line with little luck (talk about unattractive mustaches) – I have given some serious thought and napping… to how much I am similar to my dad’s parents – both in good ways and bad.  Bad like my masculine, ever growing jaw that needs surgery.  I told the dentist I only will consider it when I become unattractive or Ripley’s Believe it or noteworthy. Or like my grandmother’s threat that I will become hairier as I age…

But also good – they’re both smart, honest, stubborn people who overcame a lot and lead pretty amazing lives for people of their time, or any time.  I once wrote that you can’t go home, but maybe coming to a place you have a lot of memories is like home, and helps you refocus where you’re going.

Or maybe the moldy water is affecting my brain.