you know you're in the South when....

... you're outside in a T-shirt and sunglasses a few days after Christmas.

... your name morphs into this muti-syllabic word unrecognizable in other parts of the country.

... your statement of good news is followed with a "well, you must have accepted Jesus into your life."

... you see a giant Confederate flag-patterned Playboy bunny decal on the back of a truck.

... every dish is prepared with butter, sour cream, cheese, and often bacon. Or it's deep fried.

... everyone around you moves slowly - chewing the fat with the cashier at the store, slowing the car to a stop in the middle of the road looking for a parking spot, generally taking their time with each task.

***

A note on families and getting older: This year, as with the past few years, my brother and I said we didn't want Christmas presents. We don't really need things, since we both make money and when we need or want something we buy it. And inevitably for Christmas, you wind up getting a bunch of things you either return for store credit or you just take back home with you, unsure of what to do with it.

See, my family still hasn't moved on from the tradition of putting lots of things under the tree and sitting around on Christmas morning taking turns tearing into gift wrapped boxes. With two younger step-siblings, we have been slow to move to an adult Christmas, with perhaps a gift or two and a greater focus on eating ham and drinking whiskey.

But after much rangling, I gave in to my father's requests, and told him a few things I wanted: to ride a horse, a book on knitting and pilates DVD. I did get a book, but then I also got a mid-riff-baring sweater, six pairs of size-L panties, and a hammer and a screwdriver (both of which I bought for myself three months ago when my tools were stolen.) Meanwhile, my brother's only request was no clothes. He was given a sweater, a woman's scarf, shorts and pants. Clothes.

I don't want to sound ungrateful, because I know there are many people far less privileged than I, but Christmas just makes me wonder - Do they even know me? Do they want to know me? When I do tell them things, are they even listening?

Similarly, I went to have dinner at my step-grandparents house the other night, and when we walk in, step g-ma says "[Your step-mother] says you love spaghetti, so we cooked you spaghetti!" innocent enough right? Well, I don't really eat spaghetti, because a) I have hard core GI problems and pasta does not do a body good, and b) I try to avoid refined carbs because they are void of nutritional value. Family knew this. Or so I thought. They also know I am lactose intolerant, but still continue to serve creamy dumpling casserole with cheese and sour cream (or some variation on the theme).

Again, not wanting to sound ungrateful, but it had to be said.

So what do we do? Bite our tongues? Try to connect, but when it fails, understand that we are still family, and by definition we will have our dysfunctions?

***

And finally, a voyeuristic treat. I was just informed of this slice of Craigslist where you can post missed connections - "I saw you," "Cute barista at Starbucks," and even a "sorry babe, I boned my ex this weekend." Voyeuristicly brilliant.