Not a southern girl, yet

Some people adjust to change better than others. Although we’ve been in Texas nearly a year, I haven’t adapted to the local ways yet. One of my co-workers had a birthday a few days ago, and a group of us went out to lunch. All of the five other women ordered iced tea, and all of them ordered shrimp dishes, with the exception of one woman who was a vegetarian. Me? I ordered water and a chicken dish with mashed potatoes. The only way I could have been any more Midwestern was if I ordered a glass of milk fresh-squeezed from the cow.

Greg, on the other hand, is embracing local culture. I am married to a man who wears a skin-tight, white T-shirt everywhere, even in the shower. The only way he can get rid of that T-shirt is if he goes to a tanning bed — because the sun tattooed it onto him. As we took Abe for a walk yesterday, I noted his sunburned neck with alarm. For some reason his neck has become much more red than his face and arms. I told him I was either going to start slathering sunblock on his neck or walk around holding my hands in front of it. He didn’t like these ideas.

“Yew alwaz wanted ta be married to a redneck, did’n yew?” he asked in his best drawl.

Of course, Greg. Now I just need to dig out my curlers, hair spray, and blue eyeshadow.