S.O.Bees! The Welcome Committee From Hell

This is a little embarrassing to admit, but I’m a terrible wimp.  Snakes don’t scare me, mice and rats don’t bother me in the least, and even spiders aren’t a cause for undue alarm but when it comes to flying insects, especially anything that stings, I am the biggest wimp ever.  Over the years, this has been a source of chagrin for me, and a source of amusement for bystanders as I let out a whoop, bend at the waist and go running like some crazed duck doing a demented Three Stooges impression.  “Woo, woo, woo, woo, woooooo!  Nyyaaaaarrrr!!!”  There’s no logic to ducking down and running, it’s not as if going lower will somehow magically evade their radar, and the noises, well…those are involuntary.  And often louder than I intend.  That whole involuntary thing again, ya know?     

I was prepared for Palmetto bugs when we moved to South Carolina, having encountered them from my time spent in New Orleans.  Giant roaches, that’s all they are.  And while they freak me out due to just how inordinately creepy they are, I know they can’t actually hurt me.  Give me nightmares, yes, but hurt me, no.  I knew we’d have stinging insects here, already met a fire ant and learned just why they’re called that as we were house hunting (give the phrase “feel the burn” a whole new meaning) and figured bugs were bugs where ever you went. 

Clearly, I was delusional.  At no point did it enter my mind to consider the possibility that if the Palmetto bugs get as big as a small pony, that the other insects would as well.  Somehow, that line of thinking escaped me completely until we’d bought our home and I was spending some time painting the bedroom.  It was a mild day; the front door was open and the storm door closed.  As I’m painting, there’s a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping on my closed storm door.  “Just a moment” I call, then….nothing more.  Again as I paint the wall, wondering who it was that called, I hear the tapping, tapping of someone at my closed storm door.  “One minute” I call, as I cease to paint the wall and greet the visitor who is still tapping, still insistently rapping, rapping at my closed screen door…Getting to the door I cry, as a hideous site meets my eye, tis a hornet, and nothing mo-HOLY CRAP!!! 

This should never knock on anyone's front door.  Ever. 

 

Never had I seen a hornet that was two inches in size, let alone one that could KNOCK on my front door like the welcome committee from hell come to call.  “Oh hey, (tap, tap, tap) heard you were new to the neighborhood, (tap, tap, tap) thought I’d drop in…”  The accompanying shriek would have done any scream queen proud as the front door was slammed shut and the locks engaged.  Hey, if it could knock on the door, I wasn’t taking any chances.  That evening I set out for our local hardware store, still in my paint splattered clothes and possibly still a little wild eyed from that days encounter.  No doubt, I must’ve looked a sight. 

The thing about Southerners is that (generally speaking) they are so unfailingly polite that the clerk at the store’s only reaction to my story of the hornet from hell (related in a very animated way) and asking if they had anything in the store to annihilate Satan’s minions, like say, a flame thrower, was to get me their best hornet spray and offer to swing by after his shift and help me.  Bless his heart.  That offer of help really galvanized me into putting on my big girl panties and doing battle with the nasty SOBees myself.  Or maybe the paint fumes had finally gotten to me.  Whichever the case, I wasn’t prepared for how aggressive they were, or for how they’d repeatedly attack the car trying to sting it as you pull into the driveway, but many cans of hornet spray later, they’ve decided to take up residence elsewhere and terrorize someone else. 

Since then, I’ve learned that many bugs are bigger in the South, locals will always have a bit of helpful advice on how best to get rid of them, and I can get away from a wasp or hornet without running in a crouch doing my best Moe, Larry and Curly impression…well, most days.  

Well, I'd better be buzzing off!  Till next time, y’all!

Whaddaya Mean, I Tawk Funny? AKA Lost in Translation

When we first moved to Virginia, it was to an area that was previously a very rural farm town.  People had a definite accent, and my accent was nowhere near the local norm.  I started listening more carefully to the way things were pronounced, and began slowly softening up my NY accent to make it more palatable to the locals.  When in Rome, right?  What I wasn’t taking into account is there’s some things, no matter how well you pronounce them, that just aren’t the same here as they were in NY…like, oh, say…Tea.  If I order a tea up north, I’ll get it hot with a side of lemon or sugar and cream.  Order it here and I get Sweet Tea.  If I get BBQ anything up north, it’s covered in thick BBQ sauce slathered ON the meat.  Here?  BBQ is not so much a sauce, as a religion and ordering BBQ more often means you’ll get pulled pork that’s been slowly smoked over wood chips, and then served up with a vinegar or mustard based sauce, depending on the region.  Sometimes, you even get a choice.  Order a “Cawfee” up north, I get a coffee, here, I get a coffee and a mighty strange look.  (I’ve since learned how to pronounce the word, thanks)

The phrase “Y’all” is used, along with “All y’all”, and if you hear a woman say “Oh Hell No!” you’d better look out because she is ticked off about something, and someone’s gonna get a piece of her mind, bless their hearts….in areas of New York where I’ve lived that would have qualified for an almost polite "no, thank you."

Then, I learned that there were completely new phrases and words for things that I had been completely ignorant of.   I won't lie, more than a few of these have made their way into my own everyday speech now, and I'm trying to teach my mother the value of just saying, "Bless your heart" for the annoying people in life.  But that's a blog post in and of itself, so back to the delightful Southern phrases I've been blessed to learn.  Speaking of blessed...

"Bless your heart/Bless his heart" - there's a dual meaning for this, I've discovered.  I've had people say it in a completely sympathetic manner "Poor thing!  Bless your heart." and I've heard people say it in a more sarcastic, sometimes even catty manner, "Well, maybe she just isn't cut out to be a waitress, bless her heart."  Very often for a particularly annoying person or as a response to said annoying person, they'll just say, "Bless." 

“Cattywampus” meant crooked and was not a plant that grew down by the lake.  

“Fixin” didn’t mean repairing, but to be on the verge of something, as in, “We were fixing to leave, but that truck here parked all cattywampus and now we’re blocked in”.  

“Gimme some sugar” was not a request for sweetener of any kind.  

“Hoecake” is not a pseudo-affectionate nickname for a woman with questionable morals, but rather a small cake made from cornmeal.

“Hoppin John” is not a man, nor a dance, it’s a traditional (delicious!) Southern dish most often served on New Year’s.

“Hankering” has nothing to do with blowing your nose.  It’s a strong or persistent desire.  Which would explain why, when someone commented, “I’ve got a hankering” and my reply was, “Oh, do I need a tissue?” they looked at me like I was crazy. 

"I ain't one to talk" is almost always followed by "but" and that person is one to talk, and tell you everything you never wanted to know about people you probably don't know anyway.  

“Like to” (in some instances) does not mean you actually would like to, but rather you almost did something, as in, “I like to die when that truck almost run us off the road”.

“That dog won’t hunt” doesn’t refer to a dog or hunting, but an argument or line of thinking that won’t work.  

“The Civil War” – don’t say it.  Just…don’t.  ‘Round here it’s the War between the States, the War for Southern Independence, or the War of Yankee Aggression.  I have, happily, never made this snafu myself thanks my husband’s very careful warning, but if you ever want to hear a room go so quiet you can hear a pin drop, go on ahead.  But y’all will probably be labeled as “Yankees” if you do!  

Till next time....