A Connecticut Yankee With Her Foot In Her Mouth.

About a year after I moved to Atlanta from Boston, I was eating breakfast at The Flying Biscuit with my husband and two friends. We found ourselves talking about the people we dated in college and our parents’ rules regarding said couplings. The conversation ran smoothly until Mandy said that her dad told her that she could date anyone as long as she never married a Yankee.

I chimed in saying, oh yes, my dad said that same thing! I should have held my tongue at that point as the three other members of my party looked at me a little strangely. I did not, however, and plunged on ahead, ignoring the “Wait! No! Stop!” look I was getting from my significant other.

I then explained in great detail to Mandy that when I left for college in New York, my dad had a serious sit down discussion with me regarding certain loyalties of young men pertaining to a certain evil empire headed by one Mr. Joe Torre. I launched into a lengthy history of the Red Sox and Yankees and why I could never be dear friends with, never mind date, a Yankees fan.

I sat back, pleased that I had added to the conversation, only to find Mandy slightly stunned and the two others trying to bite back giggles.

“What?” I asked.

“I think she meant a Yankee, like a northerner?’ offered my wonderfully helpful husband.

This was, undeniably, neither the first nor last time I managed to insert my not so well manicured, flip-flopped foot into my unlipglossed mouth. For the most part, Atlanta is a city like Boston or London or Tokyo are cities. Each of these places, though have their own culture, their own social handbook. I came into the Big Peach like a northerner, guns blazing and a bit brash. It occurred to me that I should probably take a step back and observe the lay of the land before I ran my mouth.

Four years later, I can’t say that I am any closer to joining the Buckhead Junior League nor has my mouth found a way of staying closed at inopportune moments. I have, however, managed, on occasion, to pick up a little history here and there. I have a long way to go, though and this is the main reason I have decided to join, albeit a little late, the Southern Reading Challenge hosted by Maggie.

I know I’m a bit behind as the challenge started in May but I have Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen under my belt and I have The March on my bookshelf so I really only have one more to collect. If anyone has a favorite southern literature novel (no, I will not read anything related to Gone with the Wind, not because I hate it, simply because I’ve probably already read it) let me know.