Ah, yes, the classic North-South cultural divide, where “y’all” meets “youse guys” and sweet tea clashes with black coffee! I was standing on the street in a trendy section of New York City with my Southern sisters like we were auditioning for a “Steel Magnolias: NYC Edition.”  We were all drippin’ in drawl…

Sharin’ Some Southern Charm!

Now, I’ve always been one to chat up just about anyone. So when I saw a lovely woman standing alone, waiting for her driver, I thought, “Why not sprinkle a little Southern hospitality?”

I sidled up to her and said in my thickest twang—because, mind you, my drawl gets thicker than a pot of left-over grtis the further north I go—”Well, tell me about you!”

She finally broke the ice, saying, “I am from The City…” That “The City,” mind you, had more gravitas than a Sunday sermon. Well, shoot, I thought that only meant one thing: New York City. I chuckled to myself, wondering what she’d say if I declared, “How nice! I’m from THE TOWN.”

Well, Sometimes Folks Just Don’t Get Us

After what felt like an eternity but was probably just a couple of seconds, she added, “…and THE HAMPTONS.” That’s when my “other person” voice kicked in. Y’all know what I’m talkin’ about—that voice that makes you say things you probably shouldn’t. Where I’m from, the only Hamptons we know is the Hampton Inn,

Trying to be funny, I said, “They have the best breakfast buffet…I love their hard-boiled eggs.”

Of course I thought of other funny lines….I bet you have earned lots of points or do you stay for free?

Her limo couldn’t have sped away faster.

Southern Sistahs in Stitches

My Southern sisters? They were in stitches, laughing like it was comedy night at the Grand Ole Opry. And that’s when I realized, just ’cause I think something is funny, doesn’t mean everyone will get it. But as long as my Southern sisters are laughing, that’s good enough for me.

So there it is, my own little “ah-ha” moment in the city that never sleeps. It turns out you can take the girl out of the South, but you can’t take the Southern sense of humor out of the girl.

In the end, I suppose the moral of the story is that not all jokes translate across the Mason-Dixon line. But then again, some things don’t need translating, like the universal language of a good chuckle among friends—or as we say down South, among “kin.”