Here is another post from my personal blog. If you get my humor, and I would guess by now anyone who has continued to read my blog does, you will find this one equally as entertaining.
I always thought stereotypes were a bunch of bunk and the typical Texas woman remained enshrined in folklore only. That is until the day I stopped by Nanny Granny’s Antiques in downtown Plano, Texas.
I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my very own eyes. There stood Granny’s fanny facing the door as she hunched over the glass goods case. This was truly a triple-take in the making. Had there been music playing, I am confident her backside would have been provocatively swaying on beat. From behind, she had a cute little figure, in her platform wedge shoes and spandex leopard print pants, and then she stood up and turned around. There she was, granny herself. Amazingly she balanced a ginormous blonde bouffant from which kitschy dangling earrings and bright red lipstick appeared. As my gaze continued down this bizarre caricature, I noticed a light pink gauzy, yet oh so clingy sweater that allowed her black, lacy push up bra to glare through. At the tips of her dainty fingers were dragon nails that brought back nightmares of the Solid Gold Dancers back in the 70s. My eyes finally rested on the huge bauble she had anchored around her neck. I wondered just how that tiny neck could hold such a thing without C6 and C7 bulging discs. In all her glory, there she stood before me. The elusive Texas hussy of folklore does indeed exist.
Let’s contrast this starkly with the typical Michigan woman.
The last time I was in Michigan, I picked up some airplane reads at the Wal-Mart near my sister’s house. There is one thing you can count on with Wal-Mart; they are the same everywhere you go. Shopping there that day made me realize just how friendly folks in the south truly are, well usually. I placed my items on the belt behind another woman, careful not to touch her divider because heavens, I wouldn’t want to cause a scene. You know how combative Yankee women are about their stuff. Sheesh, we could have had a knockdown, drag out fight right there in the supermarket had my items touched hers on that belt. When it was my turn, the woman behind the register looked at me. Really. She just stood there and looked at me. I glance left and right and then look back at her, defying her to say something smart. When she saw I was not quite getting it, she impatiently said, “Move it down.” Well I was already in front of her so I could only surmise she was referring to my reads and snacks. Plainly she was too lazy to press the little button. You know the one; the button that miraculously moves the belt and sends my stuff on its way through her hands, over the scanner, in the bag, and finally into my cart. It is the very same belt in Texas that makes me cringe every time I see my bread careening to the end with large cans of stewed tomatoes not far behind. You would think I learned by now that the belt seems to stick in the ‘on’ position and not only do my cans smash the bread, there is always a case of soda poised to finish the job properly. In Michigan, you can count on two things: the Michigan woman will always be ready for a good fight, and you will never see Granny’s fanny perched ’eff-me’ style over the glass counter.
I am not especially a people watcher, preferring to ignore them rather than have to bother engaging myself. As easy as it is to ignore people at the post office or restaurant, that talent seems to escape me at the local big box stores where I am left in a perpetual state of head-scratching and WTFs.
I saw an old friend at the local Wally World once and we stopped to chat. I was especially careful to move my cart out of the way because I dislike when people block the aisle. I always wonder if they are really that spatially unaware or if it’s an act. We were not visiting more than 30 seconds, and as I leaned on my cart my companion’s eyes grew very large. Before I could turn around to see why, a woman grabbed my cart and shoved it hard across the aisle with my elbow still attached to it. By the time I recovered, she was huffing back down the aisle to her red-faced husband and round-eyed son. Good thing my friend’s 5 year old daughter was there because, being the little Detroit gal I am, I would have verbally b-slapped the eyeballs out of that woman. So much for Texas friendly.