art of bein’ suthun’

I guess hospitality is a southerner’s coat of arms—their honor and their battle cry. It is my personal belief that to “host” means to “not let the guest do anything,” a sentiment of which I approved of wholeheartedly as the guest.

So, when I went down to Carolina territory I learned extensively how to “make myself at home”—which meant in the car ride from the airport (chocolate chip cookies), the Piggly-Wiggly (southern ginger ale), at a fast food restaurant (real pork barbecue), at L’s house (homemade pizza). My job: take what is offered and prettily say “thank you.”

L’s husband B made my bed up for me, I was adequately supplied with all the napkins and towels I could use, we had waiters come to our table to bring us more water (and more napkins) at the fast food restaurants. By the end of the trip, I just started stealing things, figuring they were going to let me have it anyway, and I would just avoid bothering people by asking.

The best position in the whole state of North Carolina would be the short term guest. I started considering how to hop from household to household to be waited upon. My hostess, L, informed me excitedly that she was going to make me real “suthun” biscuits and gravy for breakfast; she was going to wake up at 6 a. m. to start them.

“Do I have to wake up at 6 a. m. too?” I asked, horrified. I appreciated the sentiment, but that seemed a little early for biscuits. I played the guest card. “Maybe I’ll get up at 7, then…”

I blissfully and peacefully slept the sleep of a guest with no cares and no worries, until the fire alarm went off because L and B over-browned the biscuits.

She was horrified to say the least; I just thought it was funny—and it was good gravy.

art of bank-teller flirting

A friend told me recently that he went out with a waitress who left her phone number on a napkin for him. I had always thought that this was a brassy move. Bold, but relatively harmless, I suppose, and it came briefly to mind yesterday as I drove to get a cashier’s check.

I decided to learn from my friend's example and try it.

I was contemplating how to get my bank teller to ask me out since traditional methods of flirting are nonexistent in a bank. First of all, money isn’t very funny; I can’t laugh at stupid jokes if there is nothing to joke about, and other bank patrons are annoyed with me holding up the line by being chatty. (Plus, it’s chancy for the teller, who is handling money and doesn’t need distractions.)

Touching is out, because of protective barriers. And eye contact is brief, as the teller has to concentrate on the computer screen showing your account information. What is a girl to do when a smart, costumer-service savvy, gorgeous, single man works at her local branch? Slip him my number, on some paper scrap…

Truth be told, it was just a quick fantasy; I promptly forgot about it at the bank, when someone new helped me.

But then, eureka!, New Teller needed help from Gorgeous Teller, and then asked for our business contact information to be written on a slip of paper. No one knew my internal struggle. Should I just give the business phone number? That’s all they really need. But how ironic, that on the very day of my daydream, I got the chance to be a little bold, a little brassy, a little flirty in the bank.

And I left my cell number as well. For the art-of-flirting’s sake.

I was pleased. I walked out to the car. Got in pertly, readjusted my mirror.

And noticed my lipstick had smeared all over my chin.