Heed my words: If you are in a committed relationship, and your other half decides to start working out- there is trouble brewing. If your significant other suggests that the two of you join a gym together, this is healthy and could even be beneficial to your relationship- its good to do things together...
HOWEVER,
If your significant other decides to start working out without you- leave before you are left. By the time your partner decides to start working out (WITHOUT YOU!), you already know how their body looks and have probably accepted their flaws- maybe even grown to love them, so why would they try to start looking good now? It could mean several things: 1) the sight of your unsightly body motivates them to get in shape, or 2) << and the most likely>> they are fixin' to be on the prowl and want to look HOT.
DISCLAIMER: This theory came from a drunken conversation with two very intelligent gay guys who, I believe, know everything about everything that matters.
May 11, 2009
Likes and Dislikes, continued.
We like to talk about our dead relatives.
My family spent Mother's day searching our family's archives for my great-granddaddy Fuller's hand-written recipe for Coca Cola. I've never seen it, though it is said to be written on a slip of pharmacy paper and dated March of 1931.
To many people, this isn't really worth the trouble. To us, well, we're still looking. The same way people who claim to be related to William Wallace or George Washington stick to their accounts of, "My great great great great great uncle fought under Robert E. Lee, we're related because........."
Our ancestors are our claim to fame. By telling people that our family history spans more than a few decades, we affirm our own beliefs that we come from something greater than the cookie-cutter houses we grew up in.
Of course everyone's family goes back, way back. But knowing your family's history- having written records like in a Bible suggests that your family was worth recording.
Those old, crisp pictures with writing on the back- lead for sure, and in a script that cannot be replicated by those educated by pencils that were over one inch in diameter and the paper with the dashes in the middle of the lines- those are history. They have names written on them- Albertus, Estelle, Carrie Nell- that tell who you are and whose you are.
Maybe having a hand-written recipe for Coke isn't much. In our defense, a Georgia native who could read and write in the 1930s is quite impressive. Many people talk about the huge houses that their grandparents live in and the Cadillacs that sit in the driveway with 8 miles on the odometer. Others would reference the guy who sold his recipe for Dr. Pepper a few weeks ago for over $100,000. Whoever's side you take is irrelevant, because everyone in our family believes like hell that we will find that damn paper and *never sell it*.
My great-aunt Leesie lost her mind a while ago, and gave a silver tea service and a monogrammed walking stick belonging to Lyman Hall, signer of the Declaration of Independence and our ancestor on daddy's side- to the Salvation Army. The person who bought those for roughly $5 will never know that the monogram is that of the 12th governor of Georgia. They will never know that some of the only tangible history of our family now belongs to them.
Either way, we know it happened, and we love to name-drop (or product place? in reference to coke). Ancestry is definitely a southern LIKE.
My family spent Mother's day searching our family's archives for my great-granddaddy Fuller's hand-written recipe for Coca Cola. I've never seen it, though it is said to be written on a slip of pharmacy paper and dated March of 1931.
To many people, this isn't really worth the trouble. To us, well, we're still looking. The same way people who claim to be related to William Wallace or George Washington stick to their accounts of, "My great great great great great uncle fought under Robert E. Lee, we're related because........."
Our ancestors are our claim to fame. By telling people that our family history spans more than a few decades, we affirm our own beliefs that we come from something greater than the cookie-cutter houses we grew up in.
Of course everyone's family goes back, way back. But knowing your family's history- having written records like in a Bible suggests that your family was worth recording.
Those old, crisp pictures with writing on the back- lead for sure, and in a script that cannot be replicated by those educated by pencils that were over one inch in diameter and the paper with the dashes in the middle of the lines- those are history. They have names written on them- Albertus, Estelle, Carrie Nell- that tell who you are and whose you are.
Maybe having a hand-written recipe for Coke isn't much. In our defense, a Georgia native who could read and write in the 1930s is quite impressive. Many people talk about the huge houses that their grandparents live in and the Cadillacs that sit in the driveway with 8 miles on the odometer. Others would reference the guy who sold his recipe for Dr. Pepper a few weeks ago for over $100,000. Whoever's side you take is irrelevant, because everyone in our family believes like hell that we will find that damn paper and *never sell it*.
My great-aunt Leesie lost her mind a while ago, and gave a silver tea service and a monogrammed walking stick belonging to Lyman Hall, signer of the Declaration of Independence and our ancestor on daddy's side- to the Salvation Army. The person who bought those for roughly $5 will never know that the monogram is that of the 12th governor of Georgia. They will never know that some of the only tangible history of our family now belongs to them.
Either way, we know it happened, and we love to name-drop (or product place? in reference to coke). Ancestry is definitely a southern LIKE.
A tasty quote.
All well-raised Southern girls know it's far easier to get forgiveness than permission.
-- Virginia Darmer
-- Virginia Darmer
Graduation: embellished, abridged.
The women wear white dresses and carry six red long-stem roses. The men wear white summer tuxes and escort the women from a building that has survived war, natural disaster, and many a boistrous fête.
This is graduation at the College of Charleston. It usually falls on the Saturday before Mother’s day, just as the average temperature rises into the high 90’s and the humid, coastal air is scented with lovely things; salt water, simmering shrimp, and magnolias.
To fully understand our school, you must first understand Charleston. It is one of the oldest cities in the South, claiming famous natives such as Stephen Colbert, John Rutledge, and yes, Rhett Butler.
It is not uncommon to see brand-new Range Rovers driving on 300 year-old cobblestone alley-ways or to see handsome men in bow-ties with cigars. It isn’t uncommon to see women leaving church on Sunday, donning their most colorful Jackie O-inspired frock and a big hat. They remove their white gloves slowly, finger by delicate finger.
Though I am not a native of Charleston, I quickly learned the ways of our paradise by the sea.
Those who have visited our fair city know that there is something in the air down here-- something that makes you want to get into trouble. It could be the cool breeze that comes off the Ashley River, cooling the sweaty, toned bodies of the men at our cross-town rival, the Citadel. It could be the historic cobblestone alleys that seem as though they were put there by God to be a perfect place for a first kiss. It could be the blatant and pressing availability of alcohol.
Who knows.
The College of Charleston is tucked in the center of this haven of debauchery and style. The city shapes every one of our experiences. Many students at other schools enjoy chugging beer in a parking lot before football games. We sip mimosas on sailboats. Some students hang out on the “quad” between classes. We walk down one of the finest shopping districts in the South, passing thousand-dollar dresses and
thousand-dollar dogs to get to campus. Some college kids save money all year long to pack themselves into a Honda and road-trip to the beach. We walk there after class.
It is a different place, untouched by time and modern influence. It is without reservation that I say, our college experience is a little different from most.
When I first came to college I joined groups, sat with people I didn’t know, and attended parties with strangers. I quickly learned that to be “in the know,” you had to be friends with upper-classmen, so I was. But on graduation day, I was peeking through the windows of Randolph Hall at my friends, sitting on the Cistern, folding the programs over and over in their sweaty, nervous hands. They were leaving me.
I didn’t think about it until April. I had just been elected president of the Student Alumni Associates. I had planned an awesome semi-formal and gotten us one of the biggest houses on nearby Folly beach for three days during exams.
Brandon had two great job offers, Andrew was thinking about law school, Billy
proposed to Melissa. I loved experiencing these milestones with my friends, but in April, I realized that while I still loved the college social life, my friends would soon be turning down invitations to bars and going to bed at 10:30. On Thursdays when I got out of class early and wanted to have a day at the beach, they would all be at work. I spent most of graduation day in tears, watching my friends walk across
the stage into adulthood.
After the ceremony, we walked hand-in-hand to the Alumni Association’s champagne reception, where things got interesting. We walked down to the fountain behind the library, where we had spent so many hours wishing we were somewhere else. I dipped my toe into the water, which felt like a warm bath. Following a natural sequence of
events, Andrew pushed me in and I pulled him in with me. We had champagne bottles in one hand while the others motioned for our friends to come join us. And they did.
We shag-danced to the music that was carried on the wind from the Alumni house. Songs like “Sweet Carolina Girls,” and “I Love Beach Music” were the soundtrack of the night. We stayed in the fountain until we were out of champagne. A little longer. No one said it, but we knew we were safe in that fountain because we were together.
We finally crawled out and made our way back to the house. They wouldn’t let us back in because we were soaking wet, so we lay beneath a dogwood tree in the back, where we all passed out.
In the morning, we woke up hung-over, grass-stained, and still wet. We got in trouble with public safety and had to walk home in our somewhat see-through clothing from the night before.
We made it to the car, where we drove to our favorite haunt, the Waffle House. We sat in two booths, in our disgusting clothes while our favorite waitress Miss Patty took care of us.
“8 All-Star Specials, please.”
It was at the Waffle House, through a groggy and hazy mind, that I realized this was not the end. The days and nights that I spent with my best friends in college were reassurance that we might not always be together, but we would always have our memories. We would always have Charleston.
Beach Music. Champagne. Waffle House. Magnolias.
That was college for me, and for countless others who spent their undergraduate years under the oaks at the College of Charleston.
This is graduation at the College of Charleston. It usually falls on the Saturday before Mother’s day, just as the average temperature rises into the high 90’s and the humid, coastal air is scented with lovely things; salt water, simmering shrimp, and magnolias.
To fully understand our school, you must first understand Charleston. It is one of the oldest cities in the South, claiming famous natives such as Stephen Colbert, John Rutledge, and yes, Rhett Butler.
It is not uncommon to see brand-new Range Rovers driving on 300 year-old cobblestone alley-ways or to see handsome men in bow-ties with cigars. It isn’t uncommon to see women leaving church on Sunday, donning their most colorful Jackie O-inspired frock and a big hat. They remove their white gloves slowly, finger by delicate finger.
Though I am not a native of Charleston, I quickly learned the ways of our paradise by the sea.
Those who have visited our fair city know that there is something in the air down here-- something that makes you want to get into trouble. It could be the cool breeze that comes off the Ashley River, cooling the sweaty, toned bodies of the men at our cross-town rival, the Citadel. It could be the historic cobblestone alleys that seem as though they were put there by God to be a perfect place for a first kiss. It could be the blatant and pressing availability of alcohol.
Who knows.
The College of Charleston is tucked in the center of this haven of debauchery and style. The city shapes every one of our experiences. Many students at other schools enjoy chugging beer in a parking lot before football games. We sip mimosas on sailboats. Some students hang out on the “quad” between classes. We walk down one of the finest shopping districts in the South, passing thousand-dollar dresses and
thousand-dollar dogs to get to campus. Some college kids save money all year long to pack themselves into a Honda and road-trip to the beach. We walk there after class.
It is a different place, untouched by time and modern influence. It is without reservation that I say, our college experience is a little different from most.
When I first came to college I joined groups, sat with people I didn’t know, and attended parties with strangers. I quickly learned that to be “in the know,” you had to be friends with upper-classmen, so I was. But on graduation day, I was peeking through the windows of Randolph Hall at my friends, sitting on the Cistern, folding the programs over and over in their sweaty, nervous hands. They were leaving me.
I didn’t think about it until April. I had just been elected president of the Student Alumni Associates. I had planned an awesome semi-formal and gotten us one of the biggest houses on nearby Folly beach for three days during exams.
Brandon had two great job offers, Andrew was thinking about law school, Billy
proposed to Melissa. I loved experiencing these milestones with my friends, but in April, I realized that while I still loved the college social life, my friends would soon be turning down invitations to bars and going to bed at 10:30. On Thursdays when I got out of class early and wanted to have a day at the beach, they would all be at work. I spent most of graduation day in tears, watching my friends walk across
the stage into adulthood.
After the ceremony, we walked hand-in-hand to the Alumni Association’s champagne reception, where things got interesting. We walked down to the fountain behind the library, where we had spent so many hours wishing we were somewhere else. I dipped my toe into the water, which felt like a warm bath. Following a natural sequence of
events, Andrew pushed me in and I pulled him in with me. We had champagne bottles in one hand while the others motioned for our friends to come join us. And they did.
We shag-danced to the music that was carried on the wind from the Alumni house. Songs like “Sweet Carolina Girls,” and “I Love Beach Music” were the soundtrack of the night. We stayed in the fountain until we were out of champagne. A little longer. No one said it, but we knew we were safe in that fountain because we were together.
We finally crawled out and made our way back to the house. They wouldn’t let us back in because we were soaking wet, so we lay beneath a dogwood tree in the back, where we all passed out.
In the morning, we woke up hung-over, grass-stained, and still wet. We got in trouble with public safety and had to walk home in our somewhat see-through clothing from the night before.
We made it to the car, where we drove to our favorite haunt, the Waffle House. We sat in two booths, in our disgusting clothes while our favorite waitress Miss Patty took care of us.
“8 All-Star Specials, please.”
It was at the Waffle House, through a groggy and hazy mind, that I realized this was not the end. The days and nights that I spent with my best friends in college were reassurance that we might not always be together, but we would always have our memories. We would always have Charleston.
Beach Music. Champagne. Waffle House. Magnolias.
That was college for me, and for countless others who spent their undergraduate years under the oaks at the College of Charleston.
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