So I started to write a list yesterday. I was calling it “9 Clues I’m Southern” until I realized that if you don’t already know I’m from North Carolina then you’re not reading between the lines very well. But then I got distracted. (Stupid work. I swear if it weren’t for the paychecks I would SO not show up here.) And then it dawned on me that my lists haven’t been very funny lately, and that you obviously are not enjoying True That? Tuesdays. What is it, Internet? My embarrassing moments aren’t good enough for you? FINE.

Today is Tuesday, and you will note that I am not telling a story today. You’re welcome. Well, actually, I am going to tell a story, but it’s true and you didn’t even have to guess that! Again, you’re welcome. This story is about – WHOA. I just remembered one of the dreams I had last night, and LBD if you’re reading this – DUDE. You came over for a visit with your little girl, Grace, and she looks JUST LIKE YOU. I mean, seriously. I’ve never met your kid, but in my dream she looked like you did when we were 10. Except she’s only 2. Or 3. I can’t remember which, but it doesn’t matter because she could talk in WHOLE sentences, which frankly is something I haven’t accomplished at 31. So good job on your kid, she’s a genius.

Anyway, back to my story.

Once upon a time there was a small town in North Carolina that prided itself on its gentility, manners, beautiful people, overall wealth and ability to throw good parties. This town – around since the 1770′s – boasted large houses and even a river. Seriously, we have a river that runs right through town. Except that Brad Pitt hasn’t ever lived here, and if he did, he probably wouldn’t wear those fly fishing outfits like he did in that movie about the river and how it runs through something. That would be really cool if he did live here, though. Anyway, so in the 60′s (the 19-ones, not the 17-ones), a bunch of people that lived in this genteel small town decided to start up a little dance club. They wanted to take lessons, become fabulous dancers, and invent more reasons to drink martinis and bourbon. So they formed a club, invited people to join them and – 40 some-odd years later – they invited BB and me, as well. It’s called Cotillion, we no longer take dance lessons, and we had our first function of the year on Friday night.

That's BB and Anne. They're drinking. We had a pre-party in case they ran out of booze at the actual party.

After our pre-party, we headed over to the country club for the dinner and the dance. There was some eating, a lot of drinking, and some really bad white people dancing. See?

That's BB dancing with my mom. It looks painful and somewhat tortuous, which is why I'm behind the camera.

After a while, we stopped caring what we looked like:

BB, HC, me and Crazy Joe pose for...something.

And we started thinking about a) our besties and b) how tired we really were:

Anne and me

Daddy-O on the couch outside the ladies room. Who says my family doesn't have class?

There are more incriminating pictures out there, but I kind of like the people in them, and I don’t want to make enemies just yet. That’s for later down the road. We won’t have another Cotillion party until the spring, which is probably a good idea, since my liver held up a white flag Saturday morning and begged for mercy.

In other news, if you haven’t been over to More Women yet, you are seriously missing out. There’s a new product review blog, where I am planning a few posts about things I use that either a) make my life a hell of a lot easier or b) should be pulled from store shelves immediately. All in my opinion, of course. Check it out, have fun, meet some new people.

Finally, I haven’t watched the Gossip Girl threesome OR the Mad Men finale, so kindly hold your horses for my TV roundup until later in the week.

PS – Did you notice that I didn’t talk NOT ONCE about anxiety?

PPS – Did you also notice that I didn’t tag this post “Anxiety?”

PPPS – You SERIOUSLY need to start paying better attention.