Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore

Yes, we moved to the sunny south this past August. But there have been few signs that the south is substantially different than the north. In large part, this could be because the vast majority of our neighborhood is just like us: transplanted northerners. So while we do hear an occasional y'all and drawl (plural is actually all y'all, in case you were wondering) and the recent unusual snows have resulted in a complete and total shutdown of the entire city (even the dog groomer was closed today for heaven's sake!), there haven't been too many indications that we are quite a ways below that fateful Mason-Dixon line now. But today we have undeniable proof that we are in the land of Dixie. D. and I received an invitation inviting R. to become a member of The Junior Cotillion. (They capitalized the "The" so I felt I should too.) Holy Toledo! Someone actually thinks that Miss R. is a flower of Southern Young-Womanhood? Excuse me while I snicker delicately. Oh snot, I'm a Yankee; I'm actually going to howl and shake with hysterical, gulping, snorting laughter! Have they seen this child? She who can't be bothered to brush her hair in the morning before school is eligible for the "events, dances, etiquette classes, and balls" this group puts on? You can't begin to imagine how the tears rolled down my face as I read that the attire for the classes and dances (not including the balls) includes conservative dresses, short white gloves, and closed toe closed heel shoes. Short white gloves? Seriously? Hers are likely to be smudged and dusty before she ever leaves the house. But I bet she'd pick up the foxtrot, shag swing, waltz and cha-cha quickly. That'll mesh nicely with her borderline appropriate hip hop gyrations.

I shouldn't mock this given that despite Miss R.'s occasional hygiene shortcomings, she would love to do something so incredibly princess-like. How I ever ended up with such a girlie girl is beyond me. I will say I do have some reservations about an organization where the women all go by their husband's name [ie the old fashioned Mrs. John Doe (Jane)] as opposed to their own name right up front. To be honest, when telemarketers call here and ask for Mrs. D. K., I tell them there is no such person. I may have taken D.'s last name but I will never be Mrs. D.; I am and always will be K. And while this little foible is just me being contrary and the practice is probably one of those harmless southernisms we haven't seen much of, I am also bothered that there are two separate classes. One is for the private school kids and one for the public. I don't think I even need to get into the reasons this bothers me, now do I (says the former private school kid)? Now I have to decide whether we even mention this invitation to R. since I am beyond certain she'll want to do it. Only in the South would we have to make a decision whether the kid can be in the Junior Cotillion or not. Oh and as an article of note, W., who is a year older and also eligible as it's for 6th, 7th, and 8th graders, was not invited. I suspect his age group class is still full from last year but it could be whoever put R.'s name in for an invitation knows that W. is now and will always be a northerner at heart and etiquette lessons, formal dancing, and multi-course meals are not his baliwick. Ok, maybe the multi-course meals are, but only if they consist of cheeseburgers, pizza, and fish sticks.