Look, I don't want to start anything. I don't want to refight the Civil War (for one thing, the depopulation of the North has become so severe that you'd probably kick our asses.) And anyway, I'm a Southern Belle wannabe. And I love my Southern friends, I really do. Even when they're being preposterous. (As in talking about "real Southern chicken salad." Hello? No matter where you make it, chicken salad is cooked chicken, chopped celery, and Hellmann's mayonnaise.)
But I just spent two days driving from Florida to Illinois. And there are some areas that need a little help.
1. It's called "fast food" for a reason. It's supposed to be fast. I don't want to go into a Starbucks and wait 15 minutes for a latte when there was only one person in line in front of me. I don't usually drink coffee; I don't usually go to Starbucks; I don't know a venti from a grande from my left butt cheek. I certainly don't know how to use the machines. What does this mean? It means I start to get pissed off when I find myself wondering whether it wouldn't be faster for me to walk behind the fucking counter and make the goddamned coffee myself.
2. Not all Northerners are from New York. In fact, many of us are from cities that hate New York. So don't ask someone wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap what part of New York she's from. Here's a clue for you: the B on the cap isn't for "Bronx" or "Brooklyn."
3. Yeah, snow can be hazardous to drive in and it's a bitch to shovel, but it covers up a lot of flaws. So. If you don't get snow, the burden is on you to keep your yard cleaned up.
4. I don't want to burst anyone's bubble, but up north, when we see insects, we call the exterminator. We don't arrange an annual festival around the local fire ant population.
5. You've got to learn to pace yourselves. 86 degrees at 10:00 in the morning in March is too much too soon. What are you going to do in July and August if you're letting it get that hot in March?
6. OK, OK, it's warm all year around. We get it. Now get the weight-lifting equipment off the front porch. Sheesh.
7. Oh yeah. All the signs along the highway in Georgia for "spas" aren't fooling anyone. And if one of my children ever asks me what a "spa" is, I'm going to drive right the fuck up to one of them, march in, and demand a hot stone aromatherapy massage. And someone had better know how to do it, too. Because after the embarrassing experience of having to explain to my children what truckers like to do during their (you should excuse the expression) "down time," I'm going to need a nice long soothing massage. And if I don't get one, I really am going to restart the Civil War.