I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
February 8, 2010
>Tanis, otherwise known as The Redneck Mommy, bravely showed up to speak at Blissdom with a bottle of painkillers and a cane, just ten days after undergoing back surgery. I met her and Catherine outside Fuse Nightclub for Blissdom’s Friday night cocktail party and we immediately hit up the food table, which consisted mainly of fruit and a whole lot of cheese.
“Oh, I love cheese!” I said happily. “It’s my thing now- I just finished doing Atkins and then South Beach and it was the one extravagance that didn’t destroy my diet.”
“I don’t eat cheese,” Tanis replied. “I like to poop.”
“Well, that was a problem with Atkins,” I admitted. “But on South Beach, you can eat broccoli and asparagus and soybeans, so pooping isn’t an issue at all! I’m totally regular!”
“Well that’s important,” Tanis said. We both nodded in agreement and paused.
“Can you believe this conversation?” she asked.
“Yeah. I was thinking the same thing,” I said. “Here we are in a nightclub, all dressed up for a cocktail party, dance music blaring, and I’m eating a napkinful of cheese and talking about staying regular to someone with a cane.”
Suddenly, the fact that the AARP sent me a card last month with my name on it doesn’t seem so extraordinary.
“This is a great party, Alli,” I shouted to Blissdom’s organizer over the pumping music a few minutes later. “Oh! And also! Someone told me to tell you that your red boots yesterday were awesome!” Alli gave me a strange look. “You know,” I said, “Your boots! She really thought they looked great.”
“Really?” she said uncertainly, “Well, what can I do? Wrap them around my neck and toss them over one shoulder? Which reminds me, I had on a really uncomfortable bra yesterday.”
“Oh Alli,” I said quickly, realizing what had happened. “I said boots. Not boobs. Boots.”
“Oh!” she said.
Conversationally, where does one even go from there?
I choked on my French martini. “You what?”
“I touched his booty!” she repeated happily. “I just, you know, reached around and touched it!”
There’s a punchline here somewhere. I just can’t think of it.
“Suburban Turmoil!” she shouted. “Floopdeesnicketysnee!”
“What?” I shouted back. (Remember, the music was loud, y’all.)
“Floopdeesnicketysnee!” she repeated. “Remember?!” I smiled back, totally confused.
“Floopdeesnicketysnee!” she said again. “We had a whole conversation about it on your blog!”
I hesitated. And then I grabbed her and hugged her. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
And you know? She totally seemed okay with it.
“Option number one!” a woman said at one point.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Option number one!” she pointed at me. Confidently, I grabbed her and hugged her. She looked vaguely horrified. I pulled back in confusion. Don’t women like to be hugged?
I realized later that she was referring to this post on my style blog, had probably found it through my Blissdom tweets on Twitter, and didn’t really have any idea of who I was.
Maybe I’ll rethink that hugging thing.
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