B is for Baltimoron, Hon

While I have fallen in love with my adopted city of Richmond and have no plans to return on a permanent basis to Baltimore, each and every time I visit Charm City, the Baltimoron that lives within me rears her beautiful, chunky highlighted head.  Note – her highlights are chunky.  Nothing else. Except her lip-liner.

Only in Baltimore is it normal to holler “good luck making babies”  across a crowded restaurant instead of “take care”.

Only in Baltimore will one girl dancing allbyherself twirl across a bar to announce to another lone dancer (moi) that she and I are now friends because she loves this song so much too and that’s all you need to know before declaring one to be a good egg.  I agreed.  I’m friends with anyone else who will shake it to a Dispatch cover band.  In fact, if I still lived there, I would have accepted the invitation she extended to her Mom’s cookout on Sunday. 

Only in Baltimore could you ask your fine retail establishment to please gift-wrap those pots you picked up for a bridal shower and have the clerk return your package in a wrinkled trash bag replete with a twisty-tie.   And one very small bow.  The trash bag was at least purple, so we didn’t complain.  Go Ravens!   

Only in Baltimore will a bride-to-be hit the Chardonnay so hard that instead of reading her greeting cards, will read aloud “please place this protective sheet over the card before placing it in envelope”, choke up, and thank the gift-giver profusely for her kind words. 

Well, that could happen in Richmond, too. 

It’s good to be home.


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