Well, sort of. This morning I called AAA because my husband had a blowout on his way home from hauling 800 lb. of pecan wood for our fireplace. I spent almost fifteen minutes on the phone with Thelma Lou Ray, who in spite of her three first names could not figure out where to find him.

Mind you now, Thelma's service station is located less than a mile from where my man was stranded.

Almost three years now, yes sir. And I've just about figured out how to disguise the fact that I'm a Yankee. I've learned to like sweet tea and sausage gravy, though cheese grits and fried okra still greatly offend my sensibilities. I pull over respectfully when I see a funeral cortege. I have come to accept the fact that I'm surrounded by people whose favorite television programming includes bass fishin', pro wrasslin' and the Nashville Network (for those Dukes of Hazzard reruns).

I think I've endured it all like a trouper.

But sometimes, every now and then, I feel like that poor girl in Pleasantville, the one who got sucked into a black-and-white world. I feel like an anachronism. There are a number of things that I will never understand about The South.

First of all, why is it that so many of the working-class women here in Dixie feel the need to put on full-battle war paint and steel helmet, back-combed, maximum-hold-spray hairdos, just to leave the house?

There's a true Southern eatery about five miles away from where I live. It has no ambiance whatsoever. It's low-key and blue-collar, and filled with hungry lumberyard workers on lunch break. I go to this place because it has excellent barbecue, tangy and smoky and just plain mouthwatering.

But every single woman who works behind the counter looks like a Stepford wife. This is the most blue eye shadow and lip gloss I've seen since Charlie told the Angels to dress up like whores and try to get the lowdown on that shady Reno casino. Are these women part of a covert operation to infiltrate the Cheeseburger Mob?

Some of these ladies are simply lost causes. I mean, when you ain't got but two or three teeth in your whole head, why go out and splurge on a hot new shade of lipstick?

On the other hand, the upper class women here are something else. No matter her age, the typical Southern belle's personality combines the character traits of Olivia Walton, Martha Stewart, and Leona Helmsley. I have observed this phenomenon in many of Dixie's better-bred daughters. They are gracious and charming one moment, and snapping control freaks, vicious as mongooses the next. It's a wonder that Southern men aren't constantly drunk, imprisoned, or institutionalized!

Which reminds me: why is it that some Southern women seem to accept abuse as a correct and natural part of their lives?

I chaperoned my daughter's field trip a few months ago. The bus was full, so her teacher asked me to follow in my own car. To be nice, I offered another mom (and her son) a ride; I thought it would be a good opportunity for me to bond with Another Grownup. Though her bolo tie and big horseshoe belt buckle were a little alarming, her makeup was minimal and she wasn't wearing any hair spray at all, as far as I could tell.

I realized almost immediately that we probably wouldn't become very close. She began chain-smoking mentholated Kools right away, chattering nervously about the problems she had with her children, and especially with the little dear in the back seat. Once she started, there was no stopping her. I heard about her gas-guzzling pick-'em-up truck, her mother's inability to find a good podiatrist, and her no-account Pomeranian, which was, apparently, completely incontinent.

THEN she started going on about her marriages. After listening to her for a few moments, I figured out that she was on Husband #3, though I might have missed a few; she was talking pretty fast and I was trying to keep up with the damn school bus in front of me (while behind me her rotten kid was kicking the back of my seat in a maddening sort of rhythm).

"Mah FIRST ex-husband lak to put me in the hospital, he was so bad," she announced loudly. "Meaner n'a skunk when he got to drinkin', which was most ever'night. Th'second one didn't need no likker to start hittin' on me; he was just plain rotten to the core. THIS one, well, he's got a temper, an' he yells all the time and he throws thangs, but he ain't hit me yet. Ah might jes' hafta KEEP him."

By the time we got back to the school's parking lot, she had treated me to the infinite, sad saga of her marital history, including Polaroids of the holes her second husband punched in the walls of their house trailer. I was ready to go home and put my head in the oven.

Then I started thinking about that trailer, and how living in a giant tin can must certainly breed discontent in the hearts of downtrodden Southerners.

Why, oh why, are there so many trailers here in Dixie?

A friend of mine sent me the URL for a website called the Great Mobile Homes of Mississippi (check it out at www.kelleys.org/mhomes/). The creator of this site says, "I've spent time in every state and, I can assure you, Mississippi has more mobile homes than where you live. Do you have 14 mobile home dealers on a 2-mile stretch of road? If not, you probably need to come to Mississippi and see for yourself."

Does a doublewide count as a mobile home? 'Cause if it does, I think we've got Mississippi beat all to hell. There are more doublewides per square foot here in the Palmetto State than in all the rest of the universe. They're everywhere. And the folks who sell 'em try so, so hard to disguise them as real houses! They take a few acres of cheap land, remove all the scrub pine or fill in the swamp, plunk down dozens of doublewides and a couple rickety picnic tables in a central area, and give it a cheesy faux-English-estate name, like Hamptondalemillshire-On-Avon.

This state has its share of singlewides, too. And they're truly impressive. Down on the banks of the river that runs through my town are a dozen or so of these houses in a can, and they're ready for anything. They've got rowboats in the yard, and big rubber waders on the front porch. And they've got stilts. Yep, stilts. Housetrailers jacked up 15 feet off the ground. Like some sort of declasse nightmare of Noah's Ark or something. My husband, who himself is a Son of the South, says that most of those trailers are second homes. Imagine! A house trailer as a summer cottage! Talk about reverse snobbery.

My favorite singlewide, however, is a true Southern classic. It's a sort of Harvest Gold - the color of a 1970s appliance that DIDN'T come in Avocado - and it's not in the best of shape; the curtains are sorta faded, and some of them are towels, hung in the windows; there's a lot of rust on the hardware, and it's drooping a bit in the middle. There's a prerequisite late-model Trans-Camaro up on chock blocks in the front yard. Only one discreet plywood cutout of a lady bending over, and it's falling over right on schedule.

What makes THIS singlewide so special is the juxtaposition of two bizarre elements in its backyard: first of all, there's a big-enough-to-contact-Uranus satellite dish. On its own, not terribly impressive. But just to the right of that dish are three white crosses, the one in the center draped with a gauzy piece of white cloth. Like exotic birds who only converge once a year for mating season, and then fly off into the setting sun, these Sacred Lawn Ornaments apparently disappear right after Easter, though the Holy Satellite Dish and Consecrated Camaro are probably permanent fixtures.

Religion's another issue altogether, and one that will always elude me.

Why is it that every single human here in the South thinks that they have been Appointed by The Lord to Spread His Holy Word to Wandering, Sinning Consumers Like Me?

From the checkout girl at the Piggly Wiggly to the man who reads my meter, they've all got a Personal Relationship with The Baby Jesus. And frankly I'm sick to death of it.

No matter where you are, no matter what you do here in the Southland, there are constant admonishments to REPENT! It's a frightening phenomenon. About 10 miles down the road, there's a generic convenience store (it's not a Scotchman or a 7-11; I'm not entirely sure WHAT its name is, because the largest, tallest sign on its lot simply says GAS). However, like so many places here in Dixie, it has a big marquee sign out in the grass in front of the store, with letters hand-placed to spell out the sort of goods one can get inside. The sign, complete with little spaces where the letters have fallen, says:

These fire-breathing Bible-toting fanatics are everywhere!

Last year, I went to get a haircut for the first time since I'd moved here (my hair is long, and I don't often get it cut). There seem to be several types of salons here in the Southland: those that cut white peoples' hair, those that cut black peoples' hair, and those that cut the hair of real old people who don't HAVE much hair, except in places they shouldn't (ears, noses, etc.).

Uppity Yankee bitch that I am, I would happily go to a black peoples' salon, but I'm not entirely sure that they would know what to do with my white girl hair. I'd go to an old folks' salon, but my nose hairs aren't quite long enough yet to qualify me for service. There's always Wal-Mart, of course; Wal-Mart will cut ANYBODY'S hair, and that's just fine, but I didn't want a Wal-Mart cut. So I found what LOOKED like a reputable, upscale salon in an obnoxiously Caucasian part of town.

At first, the male stylist seemed as effeminate and fussy as any self-respecting Yankee hairdresser. I thought I was in good hands, and prepared for a happy hour of entertainment news and bitchy gossip. But with a sinking feeling, I realized I was now a captive congregation of one for this devout Soldier Of The Word. I sat in the barber chair, mesmerized and not a little afraid, while Billy W. Crumpler quoted his favorite Scripture passages and brandished those scissors like a sacred weapon. The fire was burning in his eyes. The fire was burning in his belly. The Velamint was hot on his tongue as he roared at me.

"Miss Caroline! Chapter 4 of Ezekiel says 'Then he said unto me, Lo, I have given thee cow's dung for man's dung, and thou shalt prepare thy bread therewith.' And then, Miss Caroline, we read in Judges: 'And God did so that night: for it was dry upon the fleece only, and there was dew on all the ground.'"

Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth as he worked himself into a rapturous frenzy. "You see, Miss Caroline? DEW ON THE GROUND AND DRY ON THE FLEECE! COW'S DUNG FOR MAN'S DUNG! You see? It ALL FITS TOGETHER!"

He took a deep breath and shuddered a bit, and then, in a creepily polite voice, as if his Sermon On The Customer's Lap had never taken place, Billy W. directed, "Kindly tilt your head to the side there, Miss Caroline." Snip, snip, snip. "So you work on the Internet, hmmm? Let me have yoah e-mail address."

Yeah, right. I'd just as soon let my mother look through my underwear drawer. Next time, I'll take my chances at the black woman's salon. Which leads me to my next big puzzlement. What is it with this racism thing?

Look, people. The Civil War ended 134 years ago. And it's been almost 45 years since Rosa Parks got on that damn bus. Why are so many of y'all still treating African-Americans with apathy or contempt or worse?

I look at the people with whom I interact, from the checkout girl at the Piggly Wiggly to the women who teach history to my children, and I wonder what they would think of me if they knew that I had shared my home, my heart and my bed with a wonderful black man for three years. See, they tell me that only po' white trash girls shack up with black men here in the South.

My husband, who was once a doorman at a local nightclub, tells me about a comment he overheard one night. It was made by a white guy watching a white woman get onto the back of a motorcycle driven by a black man.

"Well, you can't blame a nigger for trying to better himself," the guy said.

Can you believe that? I couldn't, either, when I first moved here. But I sure can now. It's pervasive and ugly, and it's everywhere. And it goes in both directions. My husband's brother (one of my very favorite Southerners) is a funeral director in a large city in this state, and he tells me that even the funeral parlors, in unspoken, unwritten understanding between the black and white communities, are segregated. "You gotta understand. If somebody brought us a dead black guy, we'd be HAPPY to bury him. Hell, we need the business! But the blacks stick together; they wouldn't dream of bringing a body to us. They have only a few parlors, and they're ALWAYS busy."

Last year I worked for a few weeks at a large hotel. I went to eat lunch in the employee dining room. I sat at a table and pretended to read my book, but I was really watching the people. The blacks, who wore the uniforms of housekeeping staff, sat together. The whites, all in their own clothes, sat together. There was very little mixing. It was like this every day, till my last day, when I went to the dining room a little later than usual. As I sat at my regular table, much to my surprise, a woman pulled a chair out and sat down with me. She was black, about my age, and she wore the uniform of a chambermaid.

We chatted for a while about the hotel, and food, and our children. I had to listen carefully to understand her soft drawl, but I enjoyed her wry sense of humor. I would have liked to have gotten to know her better. But I thought about it: This woman is bussed to work three hours each day, to and from her home 50 miles away in a town that has no jobs. She's got three kids who are taken care of by a grandmother who works nights; she's a single mother and she's poor as the day is long. This woman hasn't got time for the luxury of friendship with the likes of me, and why would I even presume that she'd desire such a thing in the first place? The logistics were impossible. It would be like a squirrel in New Jersey trying to trade recipes with a moose in Saskatchewan.

Once I lived in Hawaii, a state in which I, with my pale skin, round eyes, and red hair, was a minority. My friend Jesse - a fellow round-eye - often commiserated with me on our sad situation. The white guys on the island wanted to marry little Filipino girls who would cook them lumpia and bring them beer. The local Japanese guys wanted to date skinny American blondes, but they only wanted to marry other local Japanese girls, after living at home till age 35 or so. Though marriage was out of the question, the black guys would have been happy to date us, but they were all desperately horny 19-year-old Marines.

We were Poor Fat White Single Mothers, and we were therefore invisible. We might as well have been dressed in the anonymous chadors of Islamic women, robed from head to toe in gray. Despite our bulk, nobody was able to see us except others who were like us, or if they stepped on us accidentally, or got between us and our food. It was so pitiful.

That's what it feels like here, but I'm on the other side of the looking glass now, and I hate it. I find myself looking at black people without even seeing them. I find that they are dark and opaque and featureless when I pass them as I walk into the Scotchman to pay for my gas, as I hand them a check to pay for my groceries. They are fading. They are becoming invisible. They will not be my friend, because I am The Enemy. It is 1999, and I, by virtue of my pale skin and my red hair, remain The Enemy.

And still, and still. As I write this, I look out my window and see three little blonde girls, running to me, bearing armfuls of fresh magnolia and honeysuckle, which will soon fill my house with their subtle fragrance. I hear the crow of my proud rooster as he struts around his pen, which is shaded by magnificent live oaks draped with Spanish moss. The scent of biscuits baked by the best chef in Dixie wafts up my stairs, and I salivate in anticipation of the Low Country feast that awaits me.

There is so much to abhor, and still so much to love, and I find that I add to both lists each day. But I think that soon I will abandon my tally, because it is too much like tracking the transgressions of a charming, naughty child that doesn't know any better. This is the South, and it is now my home.