All week long I’ve been lookin’ forward to a hardwood floor and a country band

This article has come up in discussion with others once or twice this week. I’ve saved it for years ’cause I thought it was so fun… I like the picture it paints of this slightly eccentric, talkin’-to-her-cat line dancin’ woman. So with a hat tip to its author, Philip, here’s my favorite story that anyone has ever written about me.

(Granted there’s only been like two. But Philip is a way better writer than that girl in my School Publications class.)

The “Redneck Girl”

A stroll into CJ’s home in Blairstone Forest reveals a setting that one would not typically associate with the house of a student at Florida State University. It would appear to someone like myself that Martha Stewart herself (the patron saint of home-decorating) had been present when the plans were laid out to design the interior where CJ and her four roommates reside. The house epitomizes comfort and is everything one could expect from a home whose primary resident portrays the essence of southern hospitality. Not more than two minutes passed by after sitting at the dinner table before I was politely asked by CJ if I’d like anything to drink. When I accepted she efficiently rose, poured a glass of the requested water, and returned again to sit with me at the table. It was then that I had the pleasure of conversing with CJ about another atypical aspect of her student life, her weekend nightlife.

On most days of the week, CJ stands a short but respectable 62 inches tall. On Friday nights, however, she gains an extra two inches with the cowboy boots that she generally wears to Stetsons on the Moon, a popular Tallahassee club that she attends regularly. Stetsons, in some aspects, is very similar to most of the night clubs found across Tallahassee. It draws in the student crowd with drink specials, flashing lights, and offers of an all-around good time. However, for CJ and many others, Stetsons is simply the place to go when line dancing is the activity of choice for the evening. Unlike any other establishment in the Tallahassee area, Stetsons on the Moon supplies the opportunity for students to enjoy a country and western style of dancing, a style of dancing that has spawned from what we now think of as old west throw downs and barn dances.

CJ traced her line dancing history back as far as nine years, to the days when she was in 7th grade. It was around that time when CJ was first introduced to arguably the most recognized line dance, The Electric Slide. She quickly realized that line dancing was a likeable upbeat way for her to participate in many of the school dances and also to interact with others. “It’s a bonding experience,” she says. The Electric Slide cleared the way for slightly more complicated dances and CJ soon learned to “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” and to do the “Achey Breaky Heart,” a dance set to the music of Billy Ray Cyrus’s popular (only heaven knows why) country song of the same name. It was also during her middle school years that CJ would receive gifts from her grandmother that were thematic to line dancing. For many years, she received pairs of cowboy boots as both birthday and Christmas gifts (she estimates a total number of six pair). An instructional videotape explaining the steps of many line dances followed the boots, and CJ was well on her way to the line dancing prowess she now exhibits.

CJ explained that her knowledge of line dancing carried on even to high school where she performed dances with not only the Mandarin High Mustang Cheerleaders, but also with Pop Warner at a halftime show for the NFL’s Jacksonville Jaguars. She even enjoyed line dancing at Walt Disney World’s Pleasure Island. It was not until her senior year of high school in Jacksonville, however, that CJ danced at a nightclub devoted to country line dancing. It was then that she began to frequent the Crazy Horse Saloon. The more she participated at the Crazy Horse, the more she enjoyed the now more complicated dances. It was this enjoyment for club line dancing that would transition CJ’s club attendance from the Crazy Horse Saloon to Tallahassee’s own Stetsons.

Between brief pauses during she would converse with her cat, Emma, CJ also discussed with me what one would generally expect regulars at Stetsons to wear and more specifically what she often wears. She took a moment to retrieve her preferred boots from the back of the house and then excitedly displayed them on the table. The design on the boots was simple enough and they were colored a traditional black, but the true story behind the footwear was the wear on the bottoms. It was obvious that the size 7.5 cowboy boots had seen quite a bit of action. Jeans were described as a must and should have boot-cut legs and a low-rise waist. Her belt always matches her boots and large belt buckles are “never out of place.” A simple tank-top suffices as wear for the upper half of the body. “Ideally,” as described by CJ, she would wear a cowboy hat to complete the outfit. She doesn’t own a hat of her own, but, with what I detected as a hint of jealousy, she described my own hat, a black Bailey ‘rider’ style, as being well-suited for the event and something she would certainly wear.

With as much time and effort that CJ has invested in line dancing, it is certainly reasonable that she would want to share her pastime with others. It should be no surprise, then, that she will hold line dancing lesson sessions at her home from time to time in preparation for those who are to visit Stetson’s for the first time. Being a personal friend of CJ’s, I have been privy to witness and even participate in these sessions on more than one occasion. As many as fifteen people will form lines in her living room (a living room that reasonably fits ten) and watch intently as CJ instructs them step by step in dances such as the “Funky Cowboy.” Because most of those who attend her lessons are beginning line dancers the atmosphere is extremely relaxed despite distractions such as the lovable household dog, Contessa Topaz, jumping and yapping in hysterics at CJ animated feet. With the aid of a few of the more experienced dancers, of which I have the privilege of being counted among, CJ succeeds in sending the first-timers onto the Stetsons dance floor feeling much more comfortable than they otherwise would have felt.

When asked what makes a good line dancer, CJ promptly replied that “it’s more than just knowing the dance.” She described that a talented line dancer will display confidence and style. The dancer should “make the dance their own” and simply have fun while doing it. A mutual friend, Kevin Shoemaker, was given as an example for someone who exudes such qualities and other important attributes such as endurance, determination, and rhythm. According to CJ “he is the guy who all the other boys want to be.” Such lofty compliments are promising to the up and coming line dancer as he was also described by CJ as having improved from being “pretty clueless.”

Friday evenings are rarely boring for CJ. Although her escape from the school week is not what one might presume from a student at Florida State, it provides her with a much needed release. To CJ there is something that is just plain fun about line dancing at Stetsons and, as very few would disagree with, “there’s something therapeutic about listening to good music.” The Bellamy Brothers perform a popular country song entitled “Redneck Girl.” To mention this song in reference to CJ is perhaps one of the kindest compliments you can pay her. As she’ll be sure and tell you, beneath the exterior of this 21 year-old Florida State graduate student lies the heart of a true redneck girl.

Red, red rhine

I’ve learned a little secret this week. It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing–whether it’s flannel PJ pants, a bleach-stained Alabama sweatshirt and fuzzy slippers or my “fat jeans,” a flannel shirt and cowboy boots–when I’m wearing red nail polish, I feel like a sexy lady.

Red, Red Rhine by OPI

I never wear finger nail polish, much less red… I’m pretending it’s in honor of Valentine’s Day (though it’s really more in honor of me getting bored and painting my nails).

Cheer up sleepy Jean, oh what can it mean

I tend to write more when my emotions are raging. I’m not sure the nature of the emotions really matter—happy-go-lucky, bitter, angry, depressed, romantic, playful—they all find me with a pen in hand.

I strive to find music appropriate to whatever mood reigns, and the perfect song just filled my bedroom. I don’t have a love I’m hiding from friends and family (I’m not very good at keeping that sort of thing a secret), but “Love Soon” (John Mayer) fits the tone of this moment. Upbeat and romantic, the lyrics and cheerful guitar support the dance my feet have been taking.

I don’t know why this daydreamy feeling has seized my days, but it’s fun. Or well, I guess I do know… but it’s nothing exciting. Cold, wintry days, guitar-driven acoustic pop, a westerny quilt, a cup of delicious coffee and a pinch of girlish optimism are the language of my romance. If Mr. Right were to come a-knockin’ this week, it wouldn’t take much persuasion to win my heart.

Or maybe it’s just the pink “amore” coffee mug. Who knows!

Maybe you’re the dream I’m waking from

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28, New International Version)

One of the most amazing mysteries of my faith (besides the idea that God could become human and atone for all of my misdeeds) is encapsulated in that verse. I’ve marveled not only at God’s mercy but also his might since my first steps as a baby Christian. Both before and since setting out on this journey I’ve done things in knowing disobedience of God’s will. But even those blatantly rebellious acts have been worked to my best. Unreal… and yet so true.

I remember sitting through a lot of “girl talks” in those early days. In one such session, girls discussed how far was too far in a “Christian relationship.” I knew my newfound faith would challenge me to approach relationships differently, but I didn’t know the bounds.

I did know that, wherever that elusive line of physicality had been drawn, I had ventured far past it. I secretly hoped that, when I found the man with whom I’d spend my life, he too would have a “checkered past” and therefore would find my missteps easier to swallow.

Then I changed my mind—instead I longed for a man whose Christian upbringing would provide me with a family of faith unlike my own. The hurts I saw in my own family life would be healed in my interactions with his. Meanwhile, he would shine brightly before those I love in a way I was afraid I could not.

You could call me naïve.

My desires have long since abandoned both extremes. Now I merely desire a man who will strive to push my gaze heavenward. Whether he be a redeemed “heathen” or a genteel sort who has long embraced the umbrella of God’s grace doesn’t matter.

That’s the beauty of regeneration. Perhaps the man I will marry (if I marry) has made as many or even more physical mistakes than I. Perhaps he is as pristine as the day is long. It truly doesn’t matter if he falls to either extreme or lands squarely in the middle.

What matters is that Jesus has made him clean, as He has me. I’m not proud of what past I have, but I don’t view myself as damaged goods. Christ’s grace covers those and every mistake.

And He used them to bring me to Him. It’s strange, but He is a beautiful mystery.

Pink it’s the color of passion ’cause today it just goes with the fashion

I’m afraid that, if you were to meet me as the books I have on loan from the library instead of the marvelous, witty and reasonably attractive model of humility I am, you would instantly label me an airhead or a bimbo. Try this list on for size:

Legally Blonde, novel, by Amanda Brown
He’s Just Not That Into You, dating self help, by Greg Behrendt & Liz Tuccillo
Isn’t It Romantic?, novel, by Ron Hansen
The Hell with Love: Poems to Mend a Broken Heart, anthology, edited by Mary D. Esselman & Elizabeth Ash Velez

Have you stereotyped me yet? The above list isn’t so much a reflection of my personality as it is a testament to the power of pink. Of these, three books prominently feature pink on their jackets. (The fourth boasts the word “romantic” in its title and a strip of flowers runs across the bottom centimeter of its cover. That’s practically the same thing as abusing the girliest color of them all.)

I may not be a bimbo (as one friend suggested pink wearing girls usually are), but I am gullible. Dress something—anything!—up in pink and/or modern design, and I’m convinced. I’m a marketing executive’s dream.

But I’ve lied. I’ve just given you half of my actual reading list. Also sitting in a “to read” pile beside my bed are the following:

Why Read?, nonfiction, by Mark Edmundson
Not Your Mother’s Life, sociology, by Joan K. Peters
The 5 Patterns of Extraordinary Careers, nonfiction, by James M. Citrin & Richard A. Smith
Religion on Campus: What Religion Really Means to Today’s Undergraduates, nonfiction, by Conrad Cherry, Betty A. DeBerg and Amanda Porterfield

I’m not sure if this half of the list exposes me as a more serious, thoughtful individual or as slightly schizophrenic. Like the first half, these titles offer well designed, clean covers, though they center on more meaningful topics. (And when I say clean, I’m referring to more than appearance. I noticed some library books reek of cigarette smoke. I actually replaced a few volumes that I would have carried home if not for the stench.)

But in a collection of essays that I just finished reading, Nick Hornby (my favorite author) suggested that you’re more than what you read. You are what you buy:

All the books we own, both read and unread, are the fullest expression of self we have at our disposal. My music is me, too, of course–but as I only really like rock and roll and its mutations, huge chunks of me–my rarely examined operatic streak, for example–are unrepresented in my CD collection. And I don’t have the wall space or the money for all the art I would want, and my house is a shabby mess, ruined by children… But with each passing year, and with each whimsical purchase, our libraries become more and more able to articulate who we are, whether we read the books or not.

Perhaps I’m biased because of my own reading/shopping tendencies, or maybe because of my unshakable allegiance to anything Hornby writes. In any case, I much prefer this theory to judgment by library card. Take a look at my most recent purchases:

Searching for God Knows What, Christian nonfiction, by Don Miller
The Polysyllabic Spree, literature essays, by Nick Hornby
Cash: The Autobiography, musician autobiography, by Johnny Cash
Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs, pop culture essays, by Chuck Klosterman
Songbook, music essays, by Nick Hornby

I’m far more selective about my bookstore purchases than my library selections; in fact, these are the only books I’ve purchased since returning to Alabama in August. (Compare that to upwards of 100 books I’ve laid down the library card to obtain.) Buying a book is a commitment, something of a claim that “this is me.” The books on my shelf mark my territory: I see myself as something of a pop culture observing, music listening, God fearing Christian twenty something. Legally Blonde won’t merit repeated reads (20 pages in and I can see that the movie didn’t stray far from the book), and He’s Just Not That Into You makes its point without even opening its pages. I may judge a book by its cover, but if you’re going to categorize me, at least take the entire contents of my bookcase into account.

Red, red wine

I am really in the mood for a glass of wine.

My grandmother and I don’t usually keep alcohol in the house, so that’s not happening. (Unless I suck it up and drink from the opened bottle of blush that’s been sitting around for a month—yuck.) But somehow a glass of wine seems appropriate with this “single girl on the brink of… something” I’ve got going on.

The mood is otherwise set. My “Changing of the Garnet” painted toe nails rest atop the quilt I’ve been reading under all day. My hair is up in a messy bun, and a pile of books is growing beside my bed. If I were writing on my laptop instead of in a spiral notebook, I’d feel vaguely Carrie Bradshaw-esque. (Yeah, I’ve caught a few episodes of Sex & the City since it’s been on TBS.)

I’ve even got an appropriate TV-movie-ish vibe coming from my stereo—Coldplay seems all the soundtrack rage. Despite the fact that I’m not really doing anything, save for the crossword I’m about to begin, I could be in my own little movie-television-book world, just me and my inner monologue.

Well, if only I had that glass of wine.

Sleepy sweet home Alabama, roll tide roll

There’s a certain degree of uncertainty that comes with unemployment. (More accurately, there’s a degree of uncertainty that accompanies life in general. It’s simply more acute for the unemployed.) My days stretch out like a blank canvas—I’m not sure I have anything on my calendar between now and May 28. I’m waiting for someone—the unemployed’s job equivalent of “Mr. Right”—to come along and fill my days. But patiently waiting for my career to begin is, in some ways, every bit as frightening as dating.

I’ve got my eye on a specific position, and I’m more confident that we’re compatible than I’ve ever been about any man. The title is alluring, the salary is good, but more importantly, the work is just right. I know that I would be an asset to the company, but that I would grow professionally (and perhaps even personally and spiritually!) as well.

Though I fit better with this job opening than any man I’ve dated, just like with men, there are some scary bits. The possibility of flying across the country (or at least halfway!) is tantalizing. The fact that a job offer and my acceptance would pull me to that far away land semi-permanently is a bit like a daydream. It seems a fantastic idea, but also crazier than my most hare-brained schemes. After all, to date those plans have pulled me out of the south for no more than two months at a time.

My family, most of my friends and at least a portion of my identity are wrapped up in this land of oaks and magnolias, of fried catfish and sweet tea. Leaving them behind is hard to imagine.

But when it’s right, you know. And I suppose you do whatever it takes—be it move mountains or move to the mountains—to make it work. Rejection is very much a risk. “Mr. Right Job” could find another woman higher on his ladder. That’s part of the adventure of unemployment, and just like dating, that’s the risk I face.

But unlike dating, “Mr. Right Job” has a deadline. Bring it on—I’m ready for the results.

Daydream, I walk along on air

Somehow when I get in these daydreamy-romanticizing-life kinda moods, I find myself at Starbucks with $5 worth of food and drink before me. Never mind that I was on my way home to read a book and cuddle with my cat over a cup of coffee. I’ll probably still do that. But an iced toffee nut latte struck my fancy, and my stomach cried out for a scone. So here I am.

I have a notebook meant to be kept in my car for moments like this, when the urge strikes and I’ve got to transfer my thoughts to paper. It’s the perfect pad for this occasion—its cover proclaims “Chocolate, coffee, and men are so much better when they’re rich.” Alas, I sometimes carry that spiral bound to me inside to copy down the words I’ve inscribed, and inside my house is where it now resides. Today’s ramblings are just as at home on the back of my receipt.

I have nothing particular to say—that’s one of the drawbacks of unemployment. A quiet life split between the T.V., computer, crosswords and books doesn’t leave much to share. My pen moves now more from habit than need to communicate information.