Waving the white flag

Dear Southern Women,

Help a rookie out. I knew that I would need a clothing allowance to move here, and I agreed to keep my eyebrows and hair well under control at all times. But honestly, how was I to know that all of my pool gear, down to my monogrammed flip-flops, had to match? That my Nationals baseball hat of many summers worth of love was now unworthy of me? And my beach towels, new but unmonogrammed, would make me want to flee to the nearest cabana and hang my head in shame?

And furthermore, could all of you eat an Oreo? Perhaps a package of them? Good grief, people, you're not all married to a plastic surgeon - how in the world are you all blemish and stretch-mark free? And the fact that one of you wore a belt during pregnancy just smacks of wrongness.

And the names - heaven help us, is there a child in this town without a last name for their first name? How on earth do you call your child "Freidman" without bursting into laughter? I mean, honestly, I've heard Harris, and Miller, and Mary-Smith Lasley, but Freidman?

Just send me a checklist, I beg you. I can't take the shame.

Fondly,
The New Girl

We joined the country club last week, and I was woefully unprepared. The girls, however, were incredibly nice. Nice enough that I almost feel guilty for this. Almost.