thatthingthathappenedthatonetime

For several years now I’ve been flirting with the idea of dipping my toe into interior design. I’m not sure it gets more noncommittal than that. So if you think that my ideas make you want to gag yourself with a hairy spoon, it’s totally cool. I didn’t put my heart and soul into this or anything. I don’t even like design, and actually, I hate interiors. Interiors are the worst.

If I were to hypothetically start putting my ideas out there for the world to judge, er, see, I would do that because caring about my surroundings has been in me for a long time. I spent my childhood watching my mom decorate not only our house, but any space that was connected to my parents’ business. I went antique shopping with her, helped her peel wallpaper off walls, and watched as my fearless little mother took on a kitchen redo herself, which meant buying a tile cutter and learning the back-breaking process of cutting, laying, and grouting tile. She taught me the importance of history in a home, the power of a good DIY project, the satisfaction of getting an amazing deal, and the joy of coming into a house that is warm, comfortable, and a feast for the eyes.

When we redid my room in middle school, the result of our collaboration was a cranberry bedspread with gold moroccan stars (Shout out to Waverly fabric!) on one side and a gold stripe on the reverse. I could change it up depending on my mood, and prepubescent girls have moods. I wanted a room that evoked feelings of faraway lands. I  just recently gave away the gold sunburst mirror that we also bought to go along with that bedspread, because, you know, I figured 20 years is long enough. Mom taught me the importance of the classics.

From my college dorm room (purple walls and leopard everything) to my first house, to my current abode, I have relished the process of giving spaces identity and of letting them say something about the people who call it home. I love travel (I know, groundbreaking stuff) and bringing back one-of-a-kind finds. I love a collected look. I also love nods to modern design, which is, I’m sure, the result of my move to the west coast.

I currently (as in today – I make no promises about tomorrow) homeschool our 2 boys. My husband works in the entertainment business, and we’ve lived in Los Angeles for 5 years. We finally bought a place here this summer, and I am excited and (who am I kidding?) scared to bring you along as this house and I get to know each other. I will overshare. I promise. I will use you to help me make decisions, because making decisions is the bane of my existence. I will go to a really crazy place every time I’m about to hit publish, but I will do it anyway.

The park by my house is a busy place. On mornings when I make the effort to pull myself out of bed and run around the track there, I notice something (besides the picturesque hills in the distance and the overwhelming smell of urine that assaults my nostrils at the 1.2 mile marker.)  There are people everywhere, and they’re talking. Typically, people do talk, I’ll give you that. But a surprising amount of these people are speaking in languages other than English, and it’s not just one or two other languages. They are from all over the world, and some of the languages are ones that I can’t identify right off the bat. Seriously, it’s like the United Nations decided to have a meeting at the at the kiddy slide, and the dress code is Lululemon. And this is one, among many of the reasons that I LOVE LOS ANGELES. I am so in love with this city. I love all the things people love about it and enjoy not really minding all the things people hate about it. The diversity of the people here is staggeringly beautiful. This is also one of the reasons that I cannot understand why my accent elicits such dramatic, and sometimes entirely rude responses.

These dear Angelinos whom I love, CANNOT stop talking about my accent, to me. It would be fine if y’all would talk about my accent behind my back. I’m from the South. I get that. But you Angelinos say what you think to my FACE. The nerve.

I had the employee of the month at a hardware store openly mock me and tell me that he “almost laughed out loud at my accent.” After his public display of aggression, he was kind enough  to ask me where I was from. I was not kind enough to oblige.

I talked to a check-out guy at Trader Joe’s who told me he studied my accent in his acting class in college, as if I was some rare anthropologic specimen. Maybe he should have studied it a little harder.

A woman at the park told me, “Your accent is SOOOO thick.” Followed by, “Really? You’ve been here 2 years and it’s still THAT thick?! It is SOOOOO thick.” I heard you the first time, Sweetie.

I also think it’s a barrel of laughs when people who are experts on all things Southern want to play the “Let Me Guess Where You’re From and It Must Be Texas Since That’s the Only Southern State Game.” That game would be really fun if people would guess a state other than Texas.

I met another girl recently who just kept telling me “You have an accent.” I probably should have answered with something like, “You have a boogie…left nostril.” But that wasn’t true. She didn’t have a boogie and I do have an accent. But I know I have an accent, and most of the time people don’t know when they have boogies. And that’s why you tell them. You tell people they have boogies so they will take care of them. What am I supposed to do when you tell me I have an accent? Should I thank you for telling me, run to the bathroom, stay in there just long enough to take care of business, but not so long you begin to worry if you should call someone, and come out speaking like an anchorwoman?

Do people speak so freely about accents from other regions? Does a New Yorker in LA get questioned on how long he has been here? Can you imagine a cashier mocking a French girl to her face? Why does everyone think I am from TEXAS!? Y’all. I’m not ashamed of my accent. My accent is not me and I am not my accent, but it is part of who I am.  It reminds me of my roots. My husband might disavow me if I dropped my diphthongs and started sounding like someone from The Californians. And I could lose it if I wanted to. I took acting classes, too, you know. In fact, I was the Fox 22 Kid’s Club News anchor in 1992. My spot aired at 3:59, right before Duck Tales. Stick that in your reusable bag, Mr. Trader Joe’s Cashier.

As a public service, I thought I would list some appropriate responses when you encounter a Southerner in Los Angeles.

1. “Where are you from?” It’s okay to ask (after all, no one is actually from LA) but please don’t try to guess. It’s annoying. And please don’t guess Texas. I will cut you.

2. “I LOVE your accent!” Feel free to also compliment me on my personality, shoes, teeth, or general radiance.

3. “Your accent reminds me of my beloved Great Aunt Ethel from the south.” This may be surprising, but I’m actually happy to remind you of someone you loved, even if she was old. Just don’t tell me I look or smell like her too.

And that’s pretty much it. Don’t try to talk like me in front of me unless I at least know your last name and you’re equally comfortable with me impersonating you. Don’t assume that I wish I didn’t sound like this.  And lastly, mind your manners. Southerners have feelings, too.

A little over 2 years ago I left the land of pig pickins’, sticky summer nights, wide parking spaces and even wider smiles to make a life in the land of vegan restaurants, cool (in both senses of the word) summer nights, cars in numbers akin to Moses’ plague of locusts, and smiles so bright you have to wear sunglasses (of a very expensive nature) to look at them.

I was ready for an adventure when I left the South, but it will never really leave me. I can relate to that whole “Steel Magnolia” thing, except of course, that no one who knows me would ever use “steel” to describe anything about me. But if I were a tree, I’d be a big Magnolia tree, like the 3 enormous ones that stood guard in my childhood yard. I’d be a Magnolia tree with huge white flowers that smell so big and sweet and kind and soft that I’d make you cry for all the lost childhoods and new beginnings and lightening-fast thunderstorms and purple tie-dye skies that you’ve ever seen and never seen. I’d have roots. Roots that run under the pool in my parent’s backyard where I busted my lip NOT walking on the concrete when I was a pot-bellied, skinny-legged 3-year old. Roots that run across town to my grandma’s little white house and under her sturdy, simple table where we ate so many Sunday lunches peppered with talk of tobacco and sweetened with that thick, black molasses. Roots that stretch under the road that winds from Gaga’s house to my sister’s house where her little boys who are not so little any more are turning into young men.

Sitting in this house in L.A.’s uncool (again, excuse the pun) San Fernando Valley, I might not be a tree, but those roots feel more real than ever. If you were to see me walking down Ventura, you might not peg me for a Southerner on site alone (my 1 pair of cowboy boots are Steve Madden and they only get occasional use.) My family has always been of dubious ethnic decent. In a home decor store in Glendale, I disappointed an Arminian grandma when I couldn’t answer the question she asked me about tablecloths in her native tongue. (I’m assuming it was about tablecloths, because we were standing on that aisle. It could have been about beef jerky for all I know.) With olive skin and dark hair, I look like I’m SOMEthing, but no one’s sure what. Growing up, when people would ask “what we were” (just like that) my mom would say “Heinz 57.” That is, we are made up of 57 ingredients. I’m a little French, a little American Indian, a little Filipino, a little Italian – you name it- it’s probably in there somewhere. If, however, I asked you for directions (my iphone’s dead) or for your opinion on beef jerky, you would immediately be convinced that I cut my teeth on sweet tea and grits. And this, dear Angelinos, is the rub.

I’ll tell you why next time…