Virginian by Birth, Northern Virginian by the Grace of God

Living on the edge (in the geographical/sociological sense, not the Aerosmith sense) creates a strange tension between customs, loyalties, traditions, and what we feel is proper.  Those of us who are Northern Virginia natives exist in the Great In-between, nestled in a cradle of sophistication between the Old South and Just Geographically South, between DC and BFE, between rural and urban life, and between Southern charm and big city arrogance.

For example, as a Virginian, I'm well-versed in horse races and the art of tailgating at them. As a Northern Virginian, I firmly believe that tailgating at a horse race includes Whole Foods catering and real china, and should never involve a literal tailgate off of a pickup.  As a Virginian, I'm a very active member of the Junior League, sugah, but as a Northern Virginian, it's about hard work and resume building rather than gossip and silent auctions (total lie, we have that too).  Finally, as a Virginian, I love and cherish my pearls, but as a Northern Virginian...well, shoot, pearls are the great equalizer.

People who aren't natural-born Northern Virginians call this place NoVa (as opposed to RoVa, or "rest of Virginia"), and they are beligerantly ignorant of the delicate balance in which we natives exist.  But if one were to really think about it, we're a prime example of an identity crisis.  Eric and I live between Lee-Jackson Memorial Highway and Lee Highway, and every day I pass by a sign that touts that point in Fairfax City as the birthplace of the Confederate Battle Flag.  Sure, we appreciate the historical significance of "The War of Northern Aggression" (just kidding!), but we don't labor over the South rising again or fly the Confederate flag like those in RoVa might do with pride.

I find that I will tell someone not from 'round here that I'm from DC rather than Virginia.  It feels a little disloyal to the Commonwealth, but those outside of the region don't get that we're different from the stereotypical gun-toting yokel they think lives in Virginia. All in all, I'm blessed to call myself a native Northern Virginian because of the opportunity to to live in one of the best places in the North, South, East, or West and the freedom to be an amalgamation of our wonderful cultures.

A Berry Smurffy Rant

I'm old enough now that nostalgia from my childhood isn't just fun and memory-jogging, but it's become profitable for Hollywood to try again.  Case in point, The Smurfs. Of course, I could harp on The Chipmunks too, but I really love me a boyband.  Back to my point, why can't Hollywood remake something useful, like Jem or She-Ra? Now those were some strong cartoon women, living their double lives and all like 80s Hannah Montanas. 

Maybe I should back up a little and explain my distaste for The Smurfs a bit more.  In 1986, my family went to Kings Dominion, which is an amusement park a little outside of Richmond.  Considering I was 4 years old, there wasn't much that I was thrilled by there, so, my parents thought Smurf Mountain would be my bag.  No, it wasn't.  I was 4.  I didn't even know who the Smurfs were.  However, the very blue Smurfberry ice cream they served outside of Smurf Mountain was a winner.

After our fun day at Kings Dominion, I was all "la la lalalala la lalalala" skipping off to the bathroom when something catastrophic happened.  I shrieked and ran into my parents' bedroom, romper around my ankles shouting, "I'M DYING!"  I made them come into the bathroom to look at the horror.  I had pooped blue.  Not like a slight tinge of blue, but full-on, metabolized, processed, yet still vibrant Smurf blue.

After the blue incident, I investigated those Smurfs a little further.  I was a pretty logical 4 year old (I knew that poop shouldn't be blue in a healthy person, after all), so after watching the show, I firehosed my mom with questions like:

"Mommy, what's with the hats?"
"It's their look, Kelly."

"Mommy, why's there only one girl?"
"She's lucky."

"Hey, Mommy, what's a Gargamel?"
"It's a...a what?  Can't you and Teddy go watch something else?"

"Mommy. Mommy! Why are Smurfs blue?"
"So you can have blue ice cream and think you're dying.  I don't know, Kelly!"

With none of my questions answered and an inability to understand The Smurfs on my own, my little brain was on overload.  I just...I just couldn't.  The Smurfs and their related marketing and merchandise did not compute.  In fact, I still don't get the whole deal, and now they're back.  What if I had a 4 year old, which I theoretically could, and I had to answer questions about Smurfs.  I'd be even more unequipped for motherhood.  Why can't Hollywood just make cartoon characters that make total sense, like crime fighting cat-humans or  young animals with half of a nanny?

There are plenty of things I get irrationally angry about, like people who spell ridiculous "rediculous," the way Eric feels the need to drink his yogurt, and the whole concept of mayonnaise, but the return of The Smurfs is working its way onto my list.  So, no, Hollywood.  No.

Adventures in Googling

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