Sunny days and Shopping ways:

Weather and shopping as told by a Southern transplant.

 

I was sitting at my Hollywood apartment the other day, staring out the window at the sunshine, palm trees, and beautiful blue sky and it hit me…what the hell is wrong with this place! Everyday it’s the same thing sunshine, sunshine, sunshine! It’s kind of like being stuck in a really weird horror movie. I keep expecting a sunshine fueled monster to attack the city and there would be no way to stop him because God knows the world would end if LA got a cloudy day. I’m not saying the sunshine isn’t nice, of course it is, I love the beach just as much as the next girl; but every damn day of the week? Doesn’t the weather know how to do anything else! If it weren’t for the crappy neighborhood and constant mariachi music coming from the building next door, you would think I lived in Stepford! All I am asking for is a little rain more than twice a year, but no I look out the window and all I see is the lovely vitamin D! Not one single cloud in the sky. Of course if it was raining that would be a whole different disaster. Being that rain in LA is so rare, people tend to think the sky is falling when we get the slightest sprinkle. I promise guys it’s just rain not acid, it won’t burn you, or melt you, or coat you with some weird chemical, it will just get you wet! Earthquakes they can handle, fires they can cope with, but the minute that first drop hits the ground you would think you were witnessing an apocalypse of some kind. I don’t know what they would do if it ever rained here like it does in the south, but I imagine boats would be involved; to be fair though I would probably act the same way if I had to figure out how to drive in the snow. Maybe I am being a bit harsh on my West Coast friends; I mean it’s not their fault that the place they live in is a smog-lined bubble of sunshine.

On the other hand seeing that most of the LA shopping is outside the nice weather makes for some great retail therapy days; we Southern women do love to shop! LA has some of the best shopping I have ever seen. There is a store for pretty much anything. On Melrose there are stores with all white clothes, stores with all black clothes, shoe stores, purse stores, Goth stores, costume stores, vintage stores, S&M stores…I think you get where I’m going with this. You can get pretty much anything out here if you know where to look. And don’t even get me started on Rodeo Drive! Just walking down that street will make you feel special. Going inside the stores is even better. I mean they really care about customer service. Every time I step in one of those stores they pay extra attention to me. Little ole me in plain blue jeans I get more attention than the woman in the Chanel dress who came in behind me. And when I pick something up they get real interested in me. There is something about a store that makes you feel like a genuine white trash shoplifting threat that warms the heart!

I would never be treated like that in Wal-Mart, I have serious trouble getting anyone’s attention in Wal-Mart. That is one thing that LA runs low on… Wally World, there are very few Wal-Marts in the land of dreams. I remember coming home for Christmas after my first year out here and all my friends asking what LA was like; well when I told them about the lack of Wally Worlds they looked at me very seriously and asked, "Where do you buy all your groceries?” I proceeded to tell them that here are these amazing newfangled things called grocery stores and all they sell is food. I thought that their heads might actually explode.

I do miss Walmart though. There is just something so nice about a place where a loaf of bread will cost you $100 or more because the minute you enter the store you suddenly need a new lamp, four new shirts, a pair of shoes, a scrap book, and tires. I call it the Wal-Mart effect: the second you enter those automatic doors you are under the spell; for whatever reason you suddenly have to have that bundle of pre-packaged firewood on sale in the back of the store near the garden section…never mind the fact that it’s July and you don’t have a fireplace. Yes I definitely miss Wal-Mart just as much as I miss the rain. Nowhere out here could I get my car detailed, shop for dinner, and buy a new dress all at the same time!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nobody Eat! We Haven't Prayed!

If you ate as good as we do y’all would be fat too!

If there is one thing that we Southerners know how to do it’s eat.
Now I know what you are thinking, everyone knows how to do that right…ha ha,
wrong. What people do in L.A. cannot be called eating. Los Angelinos tend to eat
to live where as Southerners live to eat. There is a reason that the South is the
most obese part of the country. You might be lead to think it’s because we are
lazy and sit around in our recliners and do nothing but watch NASCAR and reruns of Little house on the Prairie and Walker Texas Ranger, but you would be wrong.  I am here to tell you that is not at all true, in fact people in the South are some of
the hardest working people in the country. No, the reason we tend to tip the
scales and keep stores like Big and Tall in business is our food. Perhaps it’s not
considered fine dining, but deep Southern food is some of the best you will ever
taste.
That is one of the things I miss most when I am way from the dirty South. Food in L.A. is far from satisfying after you have had Mamaw’s
chicken and dumplins or Grandmother’s fried chicken (two different people by
the way). Now, true, come Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Fourth of July,
Memorial Day and basically any major holiday as well as Sunday lunch (I’m
convinced my home church has a committee that just comes up with reasons to
get together and eat) our pants can get a little tight, but honey don’t you know
that is what Spanx are for? As a matter of fact I give credit for my hips to my
Mamaw, not her genes, her chocolate cake, that son of a bitch is slap your Mama
good!
Now some of you might be thinking how different can it be, really, the difference between southern food and the atrocity that is L.A. food. Well it’s your lucky day, my friends, I am here to take you through the ends and outs of Southern food. Meal by meal I will give examples of L.A. food and a Southern equivalent.
Let’s start with breakfast. Go to any café or bistro on the streets of the city
of angels and look at their morning menu and you will find something along the
lines of a list of omelets many of which are “healthy” and made with egg whites,
scones, muffins, now they do have pancakes I’ll give them that, but that may be
the only redeeming quality. If you strolled into Mamaw’s house any given morning
you would find biscuits with gravy or butter and syrup, sausage, bacon, whole
eggs not just the whites. Let me clarify by saying that these are not all individual
meals, all of this goes on one plate. Of course these are not the only breakfast
options, but I think it is safe to say they are the most common. Sometimes on a
special morning my mama would make these mini apple pie tasting things and oh
my god, talk about good. If you ask me there is just no comparison, egg whites or
biscuits with butter and syrup? It’s no Sophie’s Choice people it’s a classic no
brainer.
Next we have lunch.  Lunch in Los Angeles is just sad to me. I mean you go
into a restaurant and are presented with an assortment of sandwiches,
Panini’s, and wraps that have a tendency to leave you with this empty
unsatisfying feeling in the pit of your stomach; that feeling is hunger. You should
recognize it, it’s a chronic problem in Hollywood. If you want to know if what
you’re feeling is hunger just turn on your TV to any entertainment channel and if
the look on your face matches the look of the pissed off model on the runway you
can pretty much bet your hungry. Lunch down home can consist of many different
things. But if you’re getting together with the family then you are probably eating
some sort of chicken dish (probably fried, let’s face it that’s the best way) with
mashed potatoes, rice, butter beans, and string beans. There is also a chance that
you are eating some other sort of fried dish as well. We tend to fry whatever we
can in the south: pickles, squash, peppers, cheese, okra, corn, Twinkies, Oreos,
and a large number of other foods. We are quite creative in the South,
unfortunately this creativeness with food is usually what leads to our rising pant
size.
Finally we reach the climax on our menu list and that is Supper!  Now supper in this glamorous city we call Los Angeles isn’t all bad. I have in fact had many a good meal out here but the problem lies in the presentation. I usually have to pick a dish I can barely pronounce and strip it down to its bare minimum so I can make the dish recognizable.  So many times a perfectly good piece of chicken is ruined by some sauce that truthfully tastes like a watered down mix of mustard, Thousand Island dressing, and pepper. Maybe it’s my unrefined palette but I prefer the spread on the dining room table at home or a good old fashioned family restaurant. Supper meals at home are absolutely divine. One of my personal favorites is fried catfish with turnip greens, hush puppies, and a sweet potato. However you can also never go wrong with a big juicy steak. Another completely acceptable option is a roast served with mash potatoes, corn, rice, cornbread or biscuits, and gravy made from good old fashion fat and grease. Dessert would be whatever kind of delightful cake or pie Mama or Mamaw felt like making (if you’re lucky you get both).
So now you see the real reason diabetes, obesity, and heart disease settles in the South, it’s all about the food baby. I would like to say that I honestly have nothing against Los Angeles or your food. I do love living here, your meals just aren’t my cup of tea. I know that some of these meals might sound mortifying to some of you health nuts, but take comfort in the fact that your food sounds even worse to us.  So I propose we strike a bargain; you don’t constantly try to feed me your tofu, and I will resist the urge to toss your salad in the trash and stuff a big chunk of juicy red meat down your throat.  Do we have a deal?...Bon appetite!

Sex and the Southern Woman

 

How to weed out Mr. Wrong from Mr. Right without daddy’s shot gun.

Dating. It’s a term that no single woman particularly cares to hear. I hate dating, what with the sweaty palms, and awkward silences, and attempting to find that fine line between not being too quiet and talking too much, who needs it?  Personally I would rather just jump right into the relationship part of it, but that is like trying to get a Southerner to skip Sunday lunch…it ain’t gonna happen! As if dating wasn’t bad enough on its own, add the whole culture difference between Southern dating style and what seems to be the style of the rest of the country and you find yourself in my shoes…up shit creek. I know what y’all are thinking, ‘How different can it really be?’ I was also under this delusion, and then I was rudely awakened.

 

It’s not that the men of the city are bad their just different. I never thought I would miss a good pair of Wrangler jeans on a man as much as I do now. Every Southern woman can attest to the fact that there is nothing like seeing a man walking by in a perfect pair of jeans! When a man knows how to wear a pair of pants he automatically gets brownie points.  However out here these men are few and far between.Out here you basically have three extremes when it comes to men’s pants and they are as follows:

 

The sagging pants. Ok I know that this is a trend everywhere but I have never understood it. It can’t be comfortable and is completely useless in terms of utility.  Every time is see a guy walking down the street in a pair of pants like this I honestly want to go up and pull them down exposing what is sure to be some embarrassing type of underwear.  And when they got all upset I would just say, “Oh I’m sorry I just assumed that you were trying to expose yourself to the street and I wanted to lend a helping hand.” After all what are Southern belles if not helpful.

 

The surfer shorts. Now this would not bother me so bad if the men who wore them didn’t insist on wearing them all the time. I mean if you’re at the beach then, honey, by all means show off those tan surfer legs, you won’t hear me complaining, especially if they have a nice upper body to match! But the other day I was in the Target and I saw this guy wearing a wife beater and surfer shorts. My issue with this is that it was probably 50 degrees outside and it was raining, which doesn’t happen often in LA, and when it does you would think that the world was ending and it was acid falling from the sky instead just plain old water, so I guess I can forgive his confusion. But for the most part can we please keep the board shorts confined to the beach.  I swear if someone walked around the Wal-Mart in my home town dressed in their bathing suit when it was cold and raining outside then I am sure someone would be inclined to call the very nice men in white jackets from the crazy place to take them away. Sure you might be thinking if someone wants to dress like that why should anyone stand in their way? Everyone should just mind their own, right?  To that I say HA! It wouldn’t be a small Southern town if everyone wasn’t in everyone else’s business. How else would we know who to put on this week’s prayer list in the church bulletin?

 

And finally, my least favorite style, the skinny jean. Ok so on a woman the skinny jean is a great wardrobe choice. They show off our curves (well those of us in LA who still have curves, I’m beginning to think that we are an endangered species out here), and they look great with our heels, but on a man no thank you. I think more than anything else it perplexes me. If you think about it there are just certain logistical issues that are bound to come up when getting dressed. I don’t want to be crass but I imagine his “boys” are not very happy with him at the end of the day. Now obviously I’m not a man but I know that his “little soldier” is very important to him, so why would you do that to something you care so much about?

 

Of course this is just one belle’s opinion on the wardrobe of the West. I’m not saying we all feel this way, but I would if I were a betting woman I would say that most belles would choose a good pair of Wranglers that show off a man’s assets just right, over any of the three above mentioned looks.

Now the look is just the tip of the ice-burg when it comes to my man troubles. Finding a good ole boy out here is like finding a Baptist in the front row, very rare. I mean really how I am supposed to tell the good ones from the bad ones without my daddy’s shotgun? To the Yankees reading let me explain. It is a common practice in the South for the dad to have his gun or guns on display when a boy comes to take his baby girl out. Most of the time the guns are just sitting on the table so the boy knows they are there. Every now and then Daddy will be cleaning the gun so the boy knows it is in good condition. However there are the cases, and I won’t name any names, where daddy dearest will actually shoot the gun upon the young man’s arrival scaring the ever living out of him and ensuring that he won’t be back. If you’re wondering this did not happen to me, but I will say that I am very close to girl it did happen to, and her dad is like a father to me as well. Take from that what you will.

The etiquette of dating out here is different too. I have only been on one date where I wasn’t expected to open my own door. I know it’s not forward thinking and that I am perfectly capable of opening a door for myself, but I don’t remember voting to kill chivalry. It would be nice for a man to offer to open the door. I have actually sat in the car and waited for a guy to open the door and would not get out until he did. I am very happy to say that I got my point across, however he never called me again; perhaps I should rethink my tactics. 

Something else that gets me is this whole “going Dutch” thing. Again maybe I’m just a product of my raising, but I ain’t Dutch, okay? So I think a man should pay.  Not all the time, mind you, but come on, at least on the first date. Again the number of dates I have been on where the guy refused to let me pay are also very low.  The way I see it whoever does the asking out should do the paying. This is why I never ask a man out. Now that may sound selfish but I’m a struggling actress, and hey, a girl’s got to eat right? Interestingly enough one of the guys that paid was the one and only guy who willingly opened the doors. Maybe I shouldn’t have dumped him so fast, but he failed the jeans test. Who am I if I don’t have my standards?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A girl’s night out

Trading your Cowboy Boots for high heels and then trading them right back.

         

Now I have been to exactly three clubs in the city of angels and I have to say I am not impressed. Please don’t mistake my meaning; I love to have a good time. But there is a huge difference between a Southern good time, and a good time for the rest of the country.

 For one thing the dress code is apparently something out of a show on the Vegas Strip; I swear I haven’t seen that much shiny, tight spandex since my mama’s Sweating to the Oldies exercise tape starring the ever flamboyant Richard Simmons. As if the jazzercise dresses weren’t enough, the stockings these women were wearing were covered in holes, not fishnets, holes. My mama would have yanked me back in the house faster than a snowball melts in hell if I tried to leave looking like that. I mean is it really that hard to find a pair of black tights that don’t look like they lost a fight with your cat? How is it that they can spend the money to pay the valet and the cover charge but can’t seem to part with the $4.95 it would cost at the Walgreens down the street for a whole pair of tights?  I just wanted to walk up to them and say, “You know a little nail polish would have stopped that run in its tracks honey.” Now here I do have to give credit to these city women and their shoes! I love a good pair of shoes.  While I wouldn’t wear any of these shoes to dance in, they were fierce. Every single pair I saw were bona fide “come F me shoes” (if you don’t get my meaning just think on it a spell)! However the mistake these women made was wearing the sexy shoes with the skanky outfits. To put it simply it looked like a weekly gathering of women of the night! The free clinic across the street really completed the picture.

As if the clothing wasn’t enough to take in, there was also the hair.  I suppose they were going for a messy chic look, but to me it just looked like sex hair and not in a good way, in fact most of these women look like they have been rode hard and put up wet.  Down South that look would never be tolerated in a public forum. In fact hair is something we Southern woman take particular pride in. On any given night out a belle can be found in her bathroom spraying on the white rain so every curl or poof stays in place. Big hair is staple in the dirty South. I’m pretty sure that the hole in the ozone layer everyone keeps freaking out about can be traced to a haze of hair spray settled above the Bible belt. Sorry folks but when it comes to making sure our hair doesn’t fall in 98% humidity we do whatever it takes environment be damned.

Something else about these fancy nightclubs is you can’t ever just drive up in the lot and park your Chevy in any old spot. No there is always a valet, because apparently people in the city have evolved beyond parking for themselves and now have better things to do. Like standing in a line for an hour pretending to be higher than their raisin just to get into an overcrowded club where the music is so loud you feel like you’re standing in the speaker at a rockabilly concert.  And speaking of the music that is another thing I just don’t get.  We finally get into this club to see what I’m sure is a fire hazard number of people shaking their naughty bits to what seems like the same base beat over and over again. Now I’m sure that this is a remix to some popular song, in order to make it danceable, but if you can actually figure out what that song is then you are smarter than me my friend. No, down home we like our music with a bit of twang.  There is nothing like dancing to a good country song. In a honky-tonk or country bar I don’t ever have to worry about them playing some crazy remix of a song that was perfectly good on its own! Another plus about partying down South is you aren’t always confined to a bar or “club”. Just drive down a country road on Saturday night and look for the glow of the bonfire.  My point is that Southerners can have a good time just about anywhere; and there are some things you just can’t do inside the city limits. But don’t take my word for it, come on down and see for yourself. Just a word of advice to the ladies, don’t wear those stilettos because they will just get stuck in the mud.

Despite my initial impression of the club I decided to give it a shot, mainly because I refused to accept the fact that I had squeezed into a dress that was too tight, put on so much eye make-up I felt like one of the members of Kiss, and paid a 15 dollar cover charge just so I could feel like a sardine in an airtight can sitting on the shelf at Wally World. However, despite my best efforts I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy the smoke and lights of the L.A. club scene and haven’t been back since.  I would much rather relax in a bar or pub of sorts, preferably a hole in the wall type place. Now many people have asked me how I expect to meet a guy without going to the clubs. Well the way I see it the man of my dreams won’t be found jumping up and down in a glittery club to a remix of Katy Perry’s Fire Works, because if that was the case, I would have to throw myself in front of a bus either to kill myself or to inflict enough brain damage to be able to tolerate a man like that.  Not that I mind a man who dances but prefer a little more strong and sturdy, than shimmy and shake.

As far as those who actually enjoy night clubs and sipping martinis go; I say to each his own.  Who am I to spit on the recreational mating rituals of a culture that I don’t understand. I am simply a visitor in this strange land, and it’s not my place to “hate on” what others do for fun. But as for me, I think I’ll be trading my stilettos back in for my boots. Not that I mind a good set of high heels and a pretty dress that makes me look like a movie star, but if I’m gonna be dancing it’s gonna be country, and I’m just not sure those skinny little heels can handle it.

A tall glass of Southern Sass!

 

Being a Southern young woman in the big city isn’t an easy task, in fact let me take a moment right now to salute all of you ladies who have successfully transplanted yourselves to the big city but have kept that unique quality that all Southern women tend to be born with, which is really just a Southern drawl, attitude, and an uncanny way to insult someone by simply saying “bless her heart”, but I think unique quality sums it up don’t you? Hats off to all of you who have completed the above task! If you aren’t careful that Southern charm will slip away and before you know it you sound more like Paris Hilton talking to that damn Chihuahua than the down home wildflower you really are.

 

In my line of work my accent does tend to be a problem;  producers and directors often to want their actors to sound like a “general American” whatever that is, instead of Blanche  Devereux.  I always love to see the reactions of new friends, who have only had the privilege to hear me on set, when they catch me in a phone conversation with Mama.  However as hard as I may try to keep my southern drawl, I always get the same reaction when I visit home. “Chels, what have they done to you, you sound so weird.” I guess that I don’t sound near the way I used to, but come on people; I have lived out here almost five years. Must we have the same reaction every time I come to call?

 

As important as the accent is, it is not the only quality that sets us belles apart from the rest of the world. The attitude is also very important. I have a friend who likes to tease me about my let’s call it Southern charm. And I will never forget what he told me once “never hit a Southern woman, because she will probably hit you back.” And to that I say, hell yes we will. I have a great aunt who shot her husband because he was trying to beat the shit of her, so I guess you can say my Southern spirit runs deep. True I will admit that this does cause me to be a bit stubborn, and I hate to yield in an argument, and getting the last word is my specialty. My daddy used to tell me I could argue with a brick wall and not back down. To be fair he is probably right, if I thought the wall was wrong I would argue my point, and then I would go get a sledge hammer.

 

Don’t get me wrong it’s not all spit and fire with us belles, we can also be saccharine sweet to those we love. Ain’t nothin’ better than the lovin’ of a Southern’ woman.  I guarantee if you are ever blessed enough to attain the affection of a Southern women your world will never be the same, and if you let her go than you’re dumber in the head than a dog is in ass.   For example my Papaw loves my Mamaw so much that every year on their anniversary he gives her a red rose for every year they have been married and one white rose for the next year, it will be 56 years this Christmas by the way. Now I’m not saying that kind of display is a must. That way of thinking would be shallow and unbecoming, something us belles just aren’t. I can however tell you this. We belles might not expect you to treat us like queens all the time, but we love you so good that you’ll want to.  

 

 

Keeping your Southern roots in a place where the people don’t know britches from blue jeans!

 I have to admit that when I first moved out to Los Angeles it was a culture shock. The women and ways of this crazy world can be intimidating. I just remember thinking I look nothing like these girls out here, with my lack of Oompa Loompa orange spray on tan, bleach blonde hair, and size 0 pants, I wasn’t sure how I was going to fare. But as I watched the perfectly groomed plastic ladies walk by with their non-fat, no sugar, decaf latte, I realized, hey you don’t want to be like these women.  

 Number one, orange is not my best color, and walking around down South lookin’ like that will just get people asking what disease you’re afflicted with. Number two, with my pale skin and perfectly freckled face bleach blonde hair would just wash me out, and every Southern woman worth her salt knows you never wear a color that washes you out. Neither of these ideas were a particularly comforting thought, so I soon became quite comfortable with my Southernisms, red hair, blue eyes and, happy to say, size 6 body around these women. I chose to view them as what they really were, which was in the words of my late grandmother, Colleen Hollingsworth, “just tacky”. 

 This conclusion was also helped along by the realization that I could probably kick most of these women’s asses if it came to it. Not that I would ever resort to physical violence in a public place; a Southern lady would never do such a thing. No, we prefer to do our fighting with more class.  We will politely hold our tongues and our urge to smack that bitch until we can get them alone in the privacy of our back yards.  I’m kidding, we don’t do that…usually. Most of the time we are happy to settle for a back-handed compliment and an ever so sweet, “Bless her heart.” “She probably can’t help acting that way.” “You know who her family is right?”

Now if any Yankees are reading this, I know that sounds harsh, but we are well aware that she is probably saying the same thing to her circle of friends, and if we can accept it then you shouldn’t be getting your panties in a wad!