Time to cut my hair

As you veteran moms know, one of the perks of being pregnant, other than the fabulousness of new-found cleavage (sorry, I really do think it's fabulous, and I know one other person that thinks it's pretty darn fabulous, too.) is that your hair is extra luxurious, thick, flowing and rock star. It also grows like a WEED which is why I need to get my hair cut soon, if for any reason than to just to get rid of the extra weight.

Everytime I get my hair cut here now, I think back to the very first time I got my haircut in this southern town. The salon I went to that day in May 2007 was a fancy little spot owned by a decidedly saucy fellow who catered to his share of proud, proper, southern ladies-who-lunch. My sister-in-law recommended this spot because the owner is a great stylist whom she knew well, and she promised, would not just part my hair down the middle and start chopping away. He might actually understand how to style curly hair, which actually, is tougher than it seems, aparently, from the number of bad haircuts I've had in my life.

I came in and sat in the small waiting area, facing the backs of two perfect, proud, proper, older southern ladies dressed to the nines. The owner asked me my last name, nodded and smiled in acknowledgment of the sister-in-law connection, and said he'd be with me in a few minutes. He was styling one of the ladies. I opened a magazine and read, trying to ignore the banter between the two ladies, the owner, and the other stylist. Until I heard this:

PPSL1 (Proud, proper, southern lady 1): "Northererns. Hmm. They are everywhere here, moving down here in numbers."


PPSL2 (Proud, proper, southern lady 2): "I know. I tell ya'll, they are ruinin' our culture!" (pronounced CUL-CHA)


PPSL1: "I'm sick of hearing 'where can I get a bagel? Why you ya'll eat biscuits?'"


PPSL2 "I ran into another one at the grocery store!"


Now, I could not have made this up if I tried. And actually, this was the absolute funniest thing I'd ever heard. I was totally not offended. I loved it. I'm sitting, crouched behind this magazine, grinning from ear to ear. Remember, the owner KNOWS MY HUSBAND'S FAMILY and knows we just moved here, and KNOWS I am a Yankee. And finally, he peers over the ladies' heads, and, fighting back the giggles, yells to me,

"Hey! You're a Yankee, aren't you?"

Me: "Yup."

The two PPSL were mortified, because, well, they got bagged--and getting bagged is SO not southern. Nor proper. Now, from all I have gathered so far in living here, I am going to relay one of the big differences between New Englanders and Southerners, other than the bagels v. biscuit thing, which is right on the money.

And, forgive me if I generalize, and I'm generalizing in the most comical way, so all you southerners out there reading this, who are about to be offened, just lighten up.....


Southern folks are quite hospitable and friendly to strangers and to anyone and everyone they meet. Sickeningly sweet. Helpful. Seemingly immediate friends for life. Offering strangers cold, sweet tea on a hot summer day. (Ok, I'm exaggerating here, but you get the idea.) But watch your back, ok? Because the coin has two sides.... the next day it might be "Oh, bless her heart...but she's a mess!" Or worse. And, they hate getting called on that. (I'll get back to what happened next with the ladies after the following New England generalization.)


On the other hand, New Englanders are cautious, even stoic with strangers from the start. No iced tea for you, stranger, I have no idea who the hell you are! And I don't trust you! And I'm not going to pretend I do, until I do! So go get your own damn iced tea. And if I run into you a few more times around town, and you don't piss me off, then maybe I'll smile at you, and even carry on a conversation. But just give me some time. Any whatever you do, don't start acting like we are best friends until I'm ready. It wierds me out. And I'll tell you that to your face.

Can you see why Southerners think Northerners are unfriendly, and why Northerners think Southerners are fake? Ok, back to the ladies.

So, after the owner says this to me and I respond, the two ladies, still with their backs to me, start backstepping....

PPSL1: "Oh, my, well, I mean, I know some Northen folks that I DO like!"

PPSL2: "YES, hmm, and, well, you know, we're just 'talking,' telling stories, joking." And they quickly change subjects.


I think this is a riot.

I finally get into the chair and the ladies are under the dryers, trying not to make eye contact with me. A few minutes later, the scissors are to my head, I'm in a haircut coma, day dreaming, when I look up and one of the ladies is walking right behind me, and the owner, while running his fingers through my hair, says to her:

"Isn't her hair just gorgeous?" (Yah, he totally did that on purpose. He loved seeing those ladies squirm as much as I did and could not let them just walk on by.)

PPSL1: "Oh, yes, it IS!" she says, our eyes meeting in the mirror.

And, I couldn't resist:

Me: "Not bad for a Yankee, huh?"

I'm going to hell.

I never promised anything...

Now I understand the angst that accompanies starting up one of these things: you actually have to POST THINGS now and then. Hey, I never promised I'd be keeping up with my northern friends at http://www.hankandwillie.com/ or http://www.mandcbuildahouse/ . Thank god. If I had, I'd be failing miserably, and I don't like to fail. Or lose. But that's another story.


I have finally shared the news my superiors at work. Yes, I had not yet told my bosses nor had they noticed my bulging belly due to the HORRIBLE shirt I have to wear when teaching (it's a button down, polyester blend, short sleeve, polo shirt with logo that is a size too big.) With as horrible as the shirt is, you might have thought someone would have suspected something when I started to wear the shirt everyday, whether or not I had any kids to teach. I mean, what would posses someone to wear an ugly, oversized uniform shirt in lieu of your regular clothes, other than maybe you're hiding a big belly or you just haven't had a chance to wash your regular clothes for a while. Hmm? To confess, my reasoning might have included a little of both.


Why did I wait so long? I had this fear that as soon as I told them I was preggers they would cease and desist giving me any more repsonsibility and my career would come to a standstill. See, the city where we live now is not exactly busting at the seams with cultural institutions or nonprofits, and so I'm pretty fortunate to have found THE ONLY JOB HERE that I could put on my resume and still show some continuity and upward mobility in terms of nonprofit educational management. So, I was a little scared that if I couldn't keep moving forward here, where else would I go? Turns out, we had some major shakeups at work, the people I was really scared to tell "moved on" and the new folks were open and understanding.


So--so far, so good. Everyone knows. And now I can wear maternity shirts to work. And not look over my shoulder at Target, when I have my big belly showing, wondering if I'll see someone from work and have to dive, with Elle, into the dollar bin, to duck from them. Whew.

Elle has begun to talk about her baby sister on her own. My favorite moment was when we were just getting out of the car at the park one day last week:

"Mom!"
"What?"
"We forgot baby sister at home!"
"No we didn't she's right here, in my belly-that's where she lives, remember?"
"Oh. Is she coming out?"
"Nope. Not til Christmas."

Gotta love it.

Sweet Tater or Tater Tot?

When I was pregnant with Elle, Kyle's great Uncle "Chunk" asked the question, "Will it be a 'Sweet Tater' (girl) or a 'Tater Tot'(boy)?" As many of you know, Kyle's childhood/family nickname is "Tater," and South Carolina is known for it's local sweet potatoes, so the nicknames could not be more fitting.

So, here is a picture of Baby Y2. Can you tell if we are looking at a Sweet Tater or a Tater Tot? Yah, I know, it's just a profile, but I seem to remember hearing a bunch of opinions from many folks just looking at my belly. Now you've got an inside peek at the action. Hmm? Whaddayah say? Stumped?

It's a Sweet Tater. ;-)

Blueberries for Elle

On a recent trip back to Maine Elle got to experience her own little miracle: she got to pick blueberries, "like Sal."

("Blueberries for Sal," come on people!)

Her she is in all her glory, picking and eating. Yum.

Boy or Girl?

Hopefully next week at my appointment we'll get to find out the gender of this baby moving around inside me.

We found out with Elle and, luckily, they were right! Everything about my prenatal care experience here, where we live now, has been 100% opposite of my experience in Maine. So, I've had to adjust my expectations quite a bit...I no longer expect a big, proud smile each time from the doctor listening to my baby's heartbeat, the offer of herbal tea upon walking into the Women's Center, plopping into a nice comfy couch to wait approximately 5.5 minutes to be called to my appointment, an easy to understand billing system...well, you get the drift.

Anyway, we lived in a bubble for many years and it's tough to adjust to life in the real world, I guess. At least it's doesn't get dark here in the winter at 3:30 here and I don't have to drive 1 hour to buy underwear.

So, I've heard many "predictions" as to whether or not I am having a boy or a girl. Got any? Leave a comment. I'll be hitting you up for names later: we're stumped for this one.