Seersuckered Once Again
Although I pride myself on being a Southern gentleman, I am ashamed to admit that I do not own, nor have I ever owned, a seersucker suit. Yes, I know, revoke my membership from the Extraordinary League of Southern Gentlemen and exile me to Staten Island, because I certainly deserve it for this ghastly infraction.
To my defense, while I am Southern, I also am gay. This combination of memberships in two very cutthroat cultures provides a dilemma for a man who truly desires to own a seersucker suit but cannot ever seem to find one with trousers that have no pleats. While in lifetimes past I have worn pleated trousers, I simply cannnot bring myself to do so any longer. Such a sartorial sin would undoubtedly cause me to be banished from the cocktail party invitation lists of all three of my friends in the greater Washington, DC, area.
As if not owning a seersucker suit is shame enough, my friend Sarah has one-upped me.
The first stop of my cornbread-and-collard greens road trip was Charlottesville, VA, home of the University of Virginia (UVA). Prospective students of UVA are not granted admission to the university unless they own a bow-tie, a Gayle Pittman pottery set, or their daddies made a large contribution to the UVA Alumni Association with funds earmarked for the "hospitality committee" (whose members go by the names of Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, and George Dickel).
My friend Sarah is from small-town North Carolina and has the accent to prove it. She is intellectual but doesn't flaunt it. Instead, she uses her cunning to maneuver her way around social situations that would put Jackie-O to shame (and certainly, Jackie-O -- God rest her soul -- couldn't bake a sweet potato casserole if she tried). Sarah is one of the only persons I know of who can negotiate her way around a room dressed in a pair of high heels, denim jeans, string of pearls, and a leftover sorority t-shirt that reads "My Phi Mu little sister can kick your trashy Alpha Gamma Delta little sister's ass," all while swilling her third apple martini as she repeats gossip she learned within the first fifteen minutes of the church ice cream social. The fact that apple martinis are not served at church ice cream socials in the South is completely beyond the point. The girl is talented and resourceful -- what can I say?
Sarah married her summer camp sweetheart, Brent, a year ago, and this past Monday, I arrived at their apartment in Charlottesville. When I showed up to their front door with my clothes drenched, I'm sure they were quite put off that I had just come from being Baptized and had not invited them to watch. However, before they had the chance to verbally chastise me for such an act of snobbery, I quickly assured them that, in fact, I was only drenched in sweat from my drive from DC to Virginia. (The air conditioning in my car doesn't work very well, and instead of paying the money to have it repaired, I instead have opted for driving with the windows down and the sunroof open in literal 100-degree weather. If I'm going to fully get back in touch with my Southern roots this month, then I may as well have the sweat to prove it.)
When I arrived at their lovely marital abode, Sarah played the role of the Southern hostess completely by the book: She promptly offered me an ice-cold can of Miller Lite. Since I had just come off of a three-day-and-night binge of post-bar-exam celebration, I politely declined the beer for the time being. I did, however, make a note of appreciation in my head that the Miller Lite was the only non-organic product in Sarah and Brent's refrigerator. Like any Southern princess would do, Sarah knows to eat Whole Foods products during the day so she can enjoy the wheat-and-barley products at night and on the weekends.
Sarah and Brent rent a roomy, three-bedroom apartment just north of Charlottesvile, so when I visited, they offered me a choice of which guest room I wanted. I opted for the room with the smaller bed for two reasons: 1)It had a box fan blowing at full speed (to cool me down and lull me to sleep), and 2)It had a SEERSUCKER comforter!!
The girl has a seersucker comforter. She has out-Southerned me once again. Fear not, though; I will completely out-casserole her at the next church picnic. Or, in the alternative, I will simply "borrow" her casserole dish beforehand and "forget" to give it back to her before the church picnic, forcing her to have to rush out in a last-minute panic and buy one of those aluminum casserole pans so that it looks like she just went out and bought her casserole at the S & S Cafeteria.
And this is why Sarah and I are friends; all's fair in love and civil war.
To my defense, while I am Southern, I also am gay. This combination of memberships in two very cutthroat cultures provides a dilemma for a man who truly desires to own a seersucker suit but cannot ever seem to find one with trousers that have no pleats. While in lifetimes past I have worn pleated trousers, I simply cannnot bring myself to do so any longer. Such a sartorial sin would undoubtedly cause me to be banished from the cocktail party invitation lists of all three of my friends in the greater Washington, DC, area.
As if not owning a seersucker suit is shame enough, my friend Sarah has one-upped me.
The first stop of my cornbread-and-collard greens road trip was Charlottesville, VA, home of the University of Virginia (UVA). Prospective students of UVA are not granted admission to the university unless they own a bow-tie, a Gayle Pittman pottery set, or their daddies made a large contribution to the UVA Alumni Association with funds earmarked for the "hospitality committee" (whose members go by the names of Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, and George Dickel).
My friend Sarah is from small-town North Carolina and has the accent to prove it. She is intellectual but doesn't flaunt it. Instead, she uses her cunning to maneuver her way around social situations that would put Jackie-O to shame (and certainly, Jackie-O -- God rest her soul -- couldn't bake a sweet potato casserole if she tried). Sarah is one of the only persons I know of who can negotiate her way around a room dressed in a pair of high heels, denim jeans, string of pearls, and a leftover sorority t-shirt that reads "My Phi Mu little sister can kick your trashy Alpha Gamma Delta little sister's ass," all while swilling her third apple martini as she repeats gossip she learned within the first fifteen minutes of the church ice cream social. The fact that apple martinis are not served at church ice cream socials in the South is completely beyond the point. The girl is talented and resourceful -- what can I say?
Sarah married her summer camp sweetheart, Brent, a year ago, and this past Monday, I arrived at their apartment in Charlottesville. When I showed up to their front door with my clothes drenched, I'm sure they were quite put off that I had just come from being Baptized and had not invited them to watch. However, before they had the chance to verbally chastise me for such an act of snobbery, I quickly assured them that, in fact, I was only drenched in sweat from my drive from DC to Virginia. (The air conditioning in my car doesn't work very well, and instead of paying the money to have it repaired, I instead have opted for driving with the windows down and the sunroof open in literal 100-degree weather. If I'm going to fully get back in touch with my Southern roots this month, then I may as well have the sweat to prove it.)
When I arrived at their lovely marital abode, Sarah played the role of the Southern hostess completely by the book: She promptly offered me an ice-cold can of Miller Lite. Since I had just come off of a three-day-and-night binge of post-bar-exam celebration, I politely declined the beer for the time being. I did, however, make a note of appreciation in my head that the Miller Lite was the only non-organic product in Sarah and Brent's refrigerator. Like any Southern princess would do, Sarah knows to eat Whole Foods products during the day so she can enjoy the wheat-and-barley products at night and on the weekends.
Sarah and Brent rent a roomy, three-bedroom apartment just north of Charlottesvile, so when I visited, they offered me a choice of which guest room I wanted. I opted for the room with the smaller bed for two reasons: 1)It had a box fan blowing at full speed (to cool me down and lull me to sleep), and 2)It had a SEERSUCKER comforter!!
The girl has a seersucker comforter. She has out-Southerned me once again. Fear not, though; I will completely out-casserole her at the next church picnic. Or, in the alternative, I will simply "borrow" her casserole dish beforehand and "forget" to give it back to her before the church picnic, forcing her to have to rush out in a last-minute panic and buy one of those aluminum casserole pans so that it looks like she just went out and bought her casserole at the S & S Cafeteria.
And this is why Sarah and I are friends; all's fair in love and civil war.
posted by Ritchie Miller at 8:02 AM
1 Comments:
Dude, WTF mate? I didn't get into UVA owning a bow-tie or a Gayle Pittman pottery set (I don't even know what that second thing is...) and my daddies certainly didn't make a large contribution to the UVA Alumni Association with funds earmarked for the "hospitality committee."
In fact, I am as southern as you are. Whipped in Alabama and raised in VA. I am still working on the accent thing.
T
Post a Comment
<< Home