I don't agree with everyone from down here and there are certainly things I would change, but the calm sweetness of a no-frills good ol' time certainly is not one of them.
Men down here, a lot of them anyway, are smooth Southern gentlemen, chivalrous to a fault, because it almost seems insincere.
You will get more interest and responses here than all paid dating sites combined!
There are a lot of do’s, but only two don’t’s that you will not recover from: 1.) Save your Jeff Foxworthy jokes for the Jersey shore. And 2) Do not attempt a Southern accent, you’ll sound like an idiot.
He’s being so helpful, so patient; evidently this is part of his job, acquainting new Ocala Power & Light customers with the features of their gas appliances. Does he actually think that a woman with acrylic tips like these and a refrigerator door plastered with takeout menus would know what a pie pan is? And he’s right there at my side, inquiring like a gentleman, “Miss Chase, ma’am, are you all right? ” as I sort of helplessly slide off my Cavallis and ease onto a kitchen stool.
“Like so, ma’am,” he continues, the syllables a deep, soothing drawl—and now I’m about to fall off my four-inch-high stilettos because this attractive man has pried open my oven door and he’s saying to me something no one’s ever said: “Ma’am, here’s where you’d put your pies.” As in, my pies, pies made by me, Jennifer Chase, all by myself, pies plural, from scratch. In New York, no one venturing into my one-bedroom shoebox would have mistaken me for someone capable of baking anything, let alone a pie, but here I am standing in my 400-square-foot, soon-to-be-remodeled country kitchen in Ocala, Florida, and some green-eyed stranger is ma’am-ing me and casually imagining scenarios in which I am rolling out pie crusts and fussing with my oven timer. Do the details of who I am no longer matter, now that I’ve traded my Statue of Liberty license plate for one with a pair of little round oranges on it, now that Eddie Dugall has delivered on his promise and gotten me the Quick & Easy, now that I’m just another 32-year-old blonde who’s bought property in Marion County? And it’s while he’s bending down and his stubbled cheek almost (but not quite! Afterward, would he unfurl a wool blanket under the live oaks and urge me to lie down upon it and unroll my Donna Karan sheers down my legs? And suppose—just suppose—despite our obvious differences, the Ocala Power & Light man and I turned out to be truly compatible: Could we make the relationship work? He has his tape measure, his figuring pad, his calculator to tabulate price per square foot for tile and labor. He’s ma’am-ing me every other sentence, but I’m no longer thrown by this (I’m a quick study).
Red Rock Review, Spring 2007 fiction by BARBARA DRAKE I’m standing here on the vinyl flooring of my newly acquired kitchen, in gray flannel Prada and a pair of black, patent-leather Manolo Blahniks—and this tall, dark-haired man in a blue jumpsuit is telling me how to turn my oven on.
“Ma’am, this here’s your timer,” he says, pointing with a tanned, calloused finger.
He teases in a good-natured way, always opens doors and pulls out chairs. The Southern Gentlemen I know are mid-to-late twenties (or early thirties), preppy dressers in professional jobs.
) touches mine that I happen to notice that his hair—his thick, glossy black hair—is combed off his forehead and slicked in place with what must be an inch-and-a-half of hair grease. So, naturally, as I’m noticing these things, I reach for my little amulet and switch to one of the mental exercises I use when I want to make my day more interesting: What if this guy asked me out? Would he, for instance, be willing to scrape the Confederate flag sticker off his rear bumper if I agreed to learn how to make Red Velvet cake? He crawls on hands and knees over my vinyl fake-brick floor, skirting the edge of my well-oiled boot. I’m focused on what he’s offering to do for me: Put a proper foundation underneath my feet.
Would our getting married require me to become a Baptist? I’d best be leaving,” he says, slipping on a baseball cap and dropping some brochures on the kitchen table. Don’t hesitate to call if you have questions.” Ocala Power & Light tips his brim to Wayne’s Tile World as they pass each another in the hallway. I’ve already changed into a black lace camisole, a Dolce & Gabbana two-piece suit, and calfskin riding boots. Before the tile goes in he’s going to have to pour a layer of concrete, of course, because the kitchen’s built on a wood subfloor.
Southern women are just like the other women of the 19th Century.
Here is a short list of the dos: Always offer to pay. Always stand when she enters a room or get up to leave a room.