Um, Can We Leave Now?

There's no question about it. I'm a city girl. I like to camp and hike. But I can't fathom living in the sticks where dogs, cows and chickens run wild and there's no cell reception. I went there over the weekend - deep into South Carolina for a cookout (that's what they call barbecues in the south) hosted by a coworker of a friend.

In other words, I didn't know a single soul. And they were something else. "Country folk" is what they called themselves. My friend says they're "redneck," but they may just as well have been "aliens." Very nice, friendly aliens. But altogether unfamiliar to me and while I'm not easily rattled by different folks and different strokes, I was gripping the bars of my cage out there.

I also don't think I stopped gaping. And I didn't touch any of the pork or chicken they'd slaughtered and cooked up for the occasion. I'm sure it was tasty - I just didn't like the look of it. And that's saying something, since I've no problem picking stuff I've dropped off the ground and popping it in my mouth. I think I was just too out-of-my element to feel like eating.

Maybe it was the dogs. I think there were at least 50, but I lost count. All I know is I didn't see the same one twice all night. They barked from a dog run along the driveway. They pawed and snarled from inside the screened porch. They ran wild underfoot.

Did I mention this was an engagement party? Some friend from a few towns over came in her minnie Winnebago and set up a full bar under the RV awning - complete with an enormous keg and her special martini featuring pickled green tomatoes in the place of olives. I'm no expert, but do tomatoes and martinis go together under ANY circumstance? That's what I thought. Yet again, I was pleased to say "I don't drink" and head for the soda at the kid table.

Incidentally, this bartender lady with the Winnegabo had on black stretch pants with peek-a-boo slits all the way up the sides of her legs. Everyone else was in jeans, flannel and work boots. I guess party protocol in the country allows you to dress like a flash dancer when when bring the drinks. Same rules apparently also apply to portable karaoke machines, which she also pulled from the RV so she could sing off-key all night long.

Aside from drinking and gossiping and a brief episode of gift-opening and toasting under a crepe-paper banner - the real entertainment was four-wheeled. Seems Bring Your Own ATV is an unwritten rule for these kinds of affairs. There were half a dozen, and a few hours after dark, they finally coaxed us city kids into a ride.

We stuck to a dirt road that ambled around the host's property past several pastures of mangy horses and stubborn cows. I didn't see much with all the the dust, bugs and pollen whipping my face. I needed goggles for the ride and a toothpick afterward to clean the bugs from my teeth.

There was no mirror in the port-o-john for guests, but the host let me use the bathroom inside her glorified double-wide. I glimpsed a couple of rooms nearly bereft of flooring. Such a humble life. I should reiterate at this point the people were VERY nice. Friendly and generous. But their world is completely beyond me.

No disrespect to John Denver, but Thank God I'm NOT A Country Girl.