Define "High Maintenance", please

                Everyone who knows me knows that although I appear high maintenance, I am, indeed, not high maintenance.  Other than my sense of style, sarcastic wit and penchant for saying “okaaaay, gurl!” or “Look here, sister friend” more often than is typically warranted, I am not stereotypically gay, the people who invented High Maintenance, regardless what those Reality TV wives would like to believe.  And by sterotypically, I mean, I don’t have a beauty regimen, y’all.  I take a shower with shower gel and get my haircuts at Great Clips.  I know, I know, it’s a chain and like a royal on the outs with their family, I abhor, and try to avoid, chains.  But I have my reasons, mostly because I was tired of spending $60-75 for a mediocre haircut at a salon, when I can go to Great Clips, get the same mediocre haircut for $16 and then spend the remaining money on colored chinos, Starbucks iced tea or cinnamon rolls. 

                The universe and my circle of friends have conspired to turn me high maintenance, as to remove the cognitive dissonance they experience when I end up being all down-to-earth and stuff.  Until I moved to Southern California, I had never imagined a scenario where I would have a manicure or pedicure.  I could cut my own fingernails and the less anyone sees or touches my janky old-man feet, the better off we will all be.  

                My friend, let’s call her Curly Sue, is an avid fan of the mani-pedi experience.  When I good-naturedly mocked her beauty routine, she reminded me that I promised to always try something first before I pass judgment.  I agreed and went with her to Bliss Spa on Broadway (in Long Beach).  As the young lady (named Ivy) was soaking my feet, she asked if I wanted to add ‘callus removal’ to my treatment that day.  I replied, “That’s a thing?  Well, Ivy, you best get to gettin’ on these big ol’ yeti feet of mine, girl!” And she did, and I was hooked, do you hear me?  Now Curly Sue and I do mani/pedis followed by Thai food once a month and don’t you even think about asking me to reschedule or postpone.  I will turn seven shades of irritated, y’all, like a Dance Mom whose untalented daughter got cut from the drag queen’s dance troupe.  I binged a lot of reality TV the day after Thanksgiving, y'all.  

                I have also never included moisturizing in my bedtime rituals.  Previously I would simply brush my teeth, read my Bible (yes, I'm a better Christian than you), take my medicine and go to sleep.  Due to observing Ben’s regimen (lotions, moisturizers, occasionally calisthenics) I have changed my routine, but only adding lotion to my legs and arms, so my skin will retain its youthful glow, its color a familiar milky white with touches of pink and purple, not unlike one of those mother-of-pearl vases you bought your MeeMaw at the Dollar General.  I also use linen spray on my sheets and pillow because, well, I’m not an animal.

                Even though I know deep in their heart of hearts, my friends and acquaintances, understand that I am very low-key and easy-to-please, at Thanksgiving we played a game (the unimaginatively named The Voting Game) wherein everyone votes anonymously for whichever player best fits the descriptor on the card.  I was voted several things that were very flattering (Most Likely to have been voted Prom King (which I wasn’t, but my brother was) and Most Likely to be Read About in Your Grandchildren’s History Book (which would be cool and possible if all my Facebook friends would buy a copy of my second book, he said with exaggerated side-eye).  However, I was also voted Most Likely to have a Complicated Order at Starbucks.  With this title, I take umbrage.

                While I spend an inordinate amount of money at Starbucks, I think my order is fairly mundane.  It’s simply a Venti Black Iced Tea with 3 Splenda and No Water (the No Cane Sugar is unspoken and understood by the baristas, y’all).  How is that complicated?  I know Ben orders a Cappuccino with no other specifics other than size (always Grande), but if we’re comparing the world to him, everyone is high maintenance.  Other than his overly complex moisturizing/lotioning routine and his insistence on exercising every day, he is one of the least complicated people I’ve ever met.  You should have to compare me to someone like Leslie Jordan or Crispin Glover or Wallis Warfield Simpson, Duchess of Windsor.  Measured against those people, I’m like Saint Whoever (Catholics, help me out here), but with cuter outfits.

                Alas, I know that you have to compare me to “regular people”, like those voluntarily taking public transportation or shopping at The Wal-Mart, and so I will appear to be High Maintenance, my 27 pairs of colored chinos and 21 sweaters (even though I live in Southern California) notwithstanding.   So, I will accept the title thrust upon me; being named, well, The Most, I suppose.  Now that we’ve uncovered by heretofore hidden Most-ness, I'm not inclined to even finish...

Putting the math in fashion since 1984

                Last week I was in Portland, Oregon for a leadership conference and as the attire for most days was business casual I decided to wear my colored chinos with appropriately coordinated outfits and accessories.  As we have previously discussed, I think I’m a cutie-tootie in my ensembles (pronounced ahn-sahm-blahs because I’m like that) and I receive myriad reactions depending on the audience for these outfits.  Of course, I try to absorb some of the color.  And other than a younger, more attractive homeless contingency, I wasn’t sure what to expect from Portland locals. 

                I was staying at the Heathman Hotel.  I will let that sink in.  If you are confused as to the reference, then you’re fine; I was confused too.  If you recognized that name, know that I am judging you and not just a little bit.  Apparently this hotel featured prominently into that confoundingly popular “Fifty Shades of Nasty” book series, according to some of my friends who shall remain nameless as they should be, but I assure you are not, properly shamed.  Someone asked me if I had read any of the series, of which there are three.  I responded, “If the fans of the books call it ‘mommy porn’, I don’t think I have to read it to make an assumption of the level of yuckiness therein.”  Feel free to disagree.  It won’t be the first time we’ve not seen eye-to-eye.  I was never a fan of the gauchos/poncho trend in the 70s, although I do miss the velvet blazer/plaid wool skirt/knee boot look from the 80s.

                And I said all that to say this, the breakfast breads in the hotel restaurant were so good I was able to stop feeling all ‘ookie’ and partake each morning.  Their croissants were delectable and the scones were just delicious.  I told my Daddy this story and he asked what a scone was and I explained it was like a biscuit made with sugar, which he appreciated but it dampened my ‘fancy’ just a touch.  The manager of the restaurant was the nicest lady who remarked on my outfits every morning and decided I needed a free scone for “being so dapper”.  And since I agreed that I was dapper, I accepted her offer of cinnamon scone with marion berry jam. 

                I always laugh when I see marion berry anything as the former mayor of DC, who was caught on camera smoking crack with a hooker and was then re-elected and to this day serves on the City Council, is named Marion Barry.  I don’t know why I shared that, other than the unspoken crack addiction joke that I’m not sure is even appropriate at this juncture or any juncture for that matter.  Crack is not something to joke about, people, so stop it.  Apparently, if it’s in my head, it’s on the paper, y’all.  No apologies. 

                Anyway, on my jaunts around the city I met all and sundry of Portland.  Some of them weird like the homeless guy I gave money to for he and his woman to eat at Subway (how does he have somebody and I don’t?  At the very least, I have a home…with a roof AND walls).  Also, I had a messenger bag full of $1 coins because the public transportation that I was forced to take under pressure from my peers in the leadership conference ticket kiosk wouldn’t take debit cards and I only had $20 bills so I ended up with a ticket for a train ride I didn’t want to be on to go to a bowling alley in a sketchy neighborhood and $18 in $1 coins because that’s how they roll at the Portland Transit Authority.  Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Sacajawea but I don’t need eighteen of her likeness ruining the line of my trousers, which at this point were red.  What I mean was that day.  They didn’t turn red; they started out and remained red throughout the day.  It had nothing to do with setting the tone for possible gangland slaying and whatnot, although the neighborhood was a little more CSI than made me comfortable.  That the bowling alley had loaded tater tots, more than made up for it the gang territory feel of the neighborhood.  I’m not going to list where or off of what I would eat a tater tot.  Suffice it to say, when I see potatoes in ‘tot’ form, it is ON, do you hear me?

But getting aback to this homeless person, I think I am some sort of magnet for odd people (keep comments to yourself, it’s too easy) and that was before I embraced the rainbow of chinos that comprise my non-work wardrobe.  Mr. Subway and his woman saw me later that day and gave me an update on his life (his issues with Social Security which I presume he thought he told me about) and asked for more money.  When I reminded him he had just eaten at Subway in the last two hours and I didn’t think it was possible for him to be hungry again, he seemed confused.  I don’t know, maybe his girlfriend is a heavy eater.  Boy, she’s selfish for a homeless person, right?  What’s her deal?

                Portland is an awesome city because they are all about their vintage/thrift store clothing choices.  And there is a difference between vintage and thrift.  Vintage means sometimes ugly stuff from past decades at today’s retail prices.  Thrift means sometimes ugly stuff from today at past decades’ retail prices.  And, you know I love me some thrift stores.  And there are so many of these stores in downtown Portland, I found one that is solely big and tall vintage.  Who knew?  The manager and I became fast friends because she is awesome (Hi, Carlie!) and we had a fun conversation about, among other things, rodeos…in a thrift shop…in Oregon.  After leaving Fat Fancy, I got caught in a sudden sleet storm and sought shelter in the nearest Starbucks, of which there is one every 6 inches.  Seriously, there are two across the street from each other.  When I entered, I was awarded “Best Pants of the Day” and another free scone.  How people equate baked goods with awesome pants is beyond me, but who am I to argue although at this point, mis pantalones (that’s Spanish) were going to be el tighto, por favor (also Spanish), if I kept eating said scones. 

              I could find that homeless guy and give the scone to him, I suppose.  But I’m not going to walk around looking for him since I already went to all the thrift stores.  I’m wearing fuchsia chinos (with a gray pea coat and gray suede wingtips); maybe I’ll just walk to the center of Portland and let him find me.  But, is that really helping him?  Give a man a scone and he eats for one meal; give him teal chinos and he eats for one meal, if he's lucky, but boy doesn't he look good doing it.  I'm trying to stay humble but being all Ghandi-like while wearing Brooks Brothers is hard work, y'all. 

            At the very least I should be rewarded with one of those 'secret' government drones taking a photo of my breathtaking approach to men’s fashion and giving the Department of Defense new ideas to elevate their uniform options.  Khaki and Navy are not exciting colors, y’all. Do you really want people defending your country taking their fashion cues from one of those chain stores?  It’s called Old Navy for a reason, people.  We want a New Navy, which could be purple or at least aqua.  Am I right?  And Olive is not a pop color to anyone except my sister and the Mennonites.  At least Amish women embrace color and can’t we all learn something from them, other than they can be straight-up trashy during Rumspringa.  What?  I watched that documentary.  And no, I’m not talking about the ridiculous, fake ‘Amish Mafia’ that my Daddy watches.

                I have been wearing colored chinos, colored socks and pocket squares for a number of years and it seems that the fashion world is slowly following suit.  Lately it looks like an Easter parade in most menswear departments at better retailers nationwide.  Am I mad at the Johnny-come-latelies jumping on my bandwagon, which sounds like a trailer you pull behind the band bus?  Absolutely not.  If we can make the whole world a better-dressed place, I am all for it.  Plus it pays unexpected dividends: better service when shopping, access to the first-class security fast lane at airports without ticket verification (‘cause you know my government employee tail is not flying first class) and requests for assistance in coordinating outfits from total strangers while shopping.  And, as we have just learned, free foodstuffs. 

And if I become those within my sphere of influences’ frame of reference for awesome, then they will have come into alignment with the thinking I have embraced for far too long to honestly admit.  Colored Chinos + Suede Wingtips = Free Scones.  I wonder if that’s the new math I’ve been hearing about?  No child (or tacky person) left behind, y’all!

                And that is all I’m saying.

English as a Second Language?

                I was reminded again just the other day how my family has a folksy vernacular; an odd combination of country, redneck and Southern that is peppered with words that I believe we may have invented.  I was sitting at the dining table talking to my friend Adam and The Dad was looking at my magazine.  It was the latest edition of Vanity Fair and it was, unfortunately, turned to the page which features photos of some of the contributors.  As a rule, writers are not an overly attractive subset of humanity.  There are exceptions, of course.  John Grisham and I are among those who are considered attractive.  Well, more attractive than, say, J.R.R. Tolkien (I imagine) or Truman Capote (I am certain).

                When he saw the photo of one particularly unfortunate-looking individual he said, “Woo, she’s so ugly, she’d make a haint take a thorn thicket!”  Now, I’m not sure if he has regressed since my Mother’s passing or if he always talked this way and I chose to ignore it.

                Adam, who is a graduate of Northwestern (in Chicago) seemed confused and very quietly asked if The Dad were having a stroke.  I laughed and explained the definitions of both haint (ghost) and thorn thicket (something akin to a flowerless rose garden, all thorns).  While I am not certain of the accuracy of his statement (why would it concern a ghost to run into the brambles seeing as how they really aren’t wearing sheets?) I found it interesting I knew exactly what he was talking about.

                Once The Dad retired to his room to sleep, Adam asked me why he used such odd phrases but I didn’t.  Well, I could fill up a book about the inherent differences between my father and me but I’ll leave this task to the actual book I’m hoping to create from these blogs.  Prepare your wallets people; I have expectations of support (buy my first book A Gone Pecan at Authorhouse.com or Amazon.com right now!) from my readers/friends/family/well-wishers/those easily manipulated by guilt, etc.  This question caused me to review words and phrases my family uses fairly regularly, some of which may be familiar.

                Jouvous – Nervous.

                Tooky – Persnickety.

                Rernt – Ruined.  Could be in reference to a person, place or thing.

                I swonny – An exclamation like “My goodness!” or "I swear!".

                Wompy-jawed – Askew.  See also catty-wampus.

                Chicken Doody – Any spot on your dress, car, shoe, sidewalk, etc.  Typically does not refer to actual poultry excrement.

                “Fine as frog hair” – Said in response to “How are you?”  The joke being frog hair is so fine you can’t even see it.  It’s not as funny as The Dad thinks it is.

                “Ain’t fit to shoot” – Not even good enough to bother with wasting good bullets.  See also triflin’, low-down, no-good. 

                “In a toot” – In a bad mood.

                “Going to town” – leaving your home, regardless of whether you reside within the city limits or not.  Stemming from a youth spent in the boonies.

                Boonies – Living so far outside of the city limits, even wild animals question your presence.

                Coke – any flavor of carbonated beverage.  Yankees refer to it as soda or pop.  We mock those Yankees, sometimes to their faces.

                Beautimous – Very attractive.  See also Linda Evangelista, Jaclyn Smith or my niece Payton.

                Hooty-tooty – Extra fancy.  See also hoity-toity or foo-foo.

                Uppity – Extra fancy but in a condescending manner.

                Nassy – Nasty.  This one seems to stem from sheer laziness.

                Feel free to use these words and phrases in casual conversation to confuse or intimidate frenemies, future in-laws or people eavesdropping at Starbucks.  I would caution against using in the workplace as you may demoted.  I’m not ashamed of my upbringing, but I know enough not to say “I reckon” beyond the comfort of a Tractor Supply store or a conversation with someone named Herschel or Oda Lee.  How else do you think I got to be so hooty-tooty?

As much as I put on, I am glad I grew up in the South and I am, in the deepest recesses of my heart, a good ol’ boy.  I just prefer to show my Southern pride through the wearing of seersucker. 
And that's all I'm saying for now.