Hello, lovers.

As you all know, in my last few columns and blog posts, all I could talk about was my big move to New York. How I was so excited and couldn't wait to continue the Hautey Toddy blog from the big apple.

Well, things have changed.

I will still write the blog but I have delayed my big move to NYC by about 6 months. I got a paid internship in Birmingham, so I will be here until December, then moving to NYC in January. The internship will be a great opportunity to write for a huge magazine, get paid and save up a lot of money to help me pay for the big move (from here on out, TBM – just like LOL, SATC, SJP, etc.) Yep, I'm excited about the movie.

Anyway, I'm actually going to write about fashion here in a minute but I just wanted to update everyone on my life plans. Because I know you all care so much.

Turns out I could write this blog from anywhere in the world because people dress like fools everywhere. What I want to touch on today is class. Not the kind you go to, in which you are likely to open the newspaper and do the crossword puzzle instead of actually listening to the professor, but the class of Audrey Hepburn. The class of Robert Redford. Or any number of old/deceased actors. It's gotten to the point where I can deal with mom jeans, clogs and possibly even pleather vests, if the person wearing such apparel has even an ounce of class. Sad.

I went to a bar in Birmingham the other night and saw, as per usual, any number of fashion blunders. However, the lack of class is what I want to comment on today. I saw a man – a grown-ass man, mind you, probably in his late 20s to early 30s – wearing a screen-T with a picture of a dachshund on it that said, "My weiner doesn't bite."

Really? I mean, really? Honestly I'm not exactly sure how to formulate a response to such an article of clothing. Suffice it to say he was with another dude, with no females in the vicinity, quietly sipping on his beverage. A word to the wise: Any female who would even ponder speaking to such an individual is either 1) completely classless herself, or 2) completely drunko.

The incident reminded me of a shirt I saw during the Double Decker festival in April. A guy was wearing a T-shirt that read, "While you are reading this I'm staring at your boobs." Once again, really? The worst part was that he had what appeared to be a wife and a family with him. Someone married you?! Yes, the question-mark-exclamation-point combo was required. My consolation for being offended by your T-shirt is that I know if you can find someone to love you unconditionally, anyone can.

I'm beginning to think that if I were ruler of the Earth, I would immediately institute a burn ban on all screen Ts. And I like screen Ts! I like them if they have a clever message or are an expression of something witty or unique. But telling me you are looking at my boobs, or that your "weiner" doesn't bite (BTW, who calls it that, honestly?) – you're a damn fool.

Then again, maybe these kinds of shirts are like social Darwinism in action. If I see you wearing this, I will never speak to you. I will never look at you again. You may as well have vanished from the planet. Survival of the fittest! Screen-T that ish.

Until next time, majorly yours.

Examz

It's final exam week here in Oxford. The weather has been beautiful and I enjoy walking around campus for the last few times.

I also enjoy taking full advantage of the "It's exam week so I don't care at ALL what I look like" rule. I had two finals today, modern dance at 8 and political philosophy at noon, and I didn't shower or dress for either. I dressed appropriately for dance I guess, but then I wore my sweaty dance clothes to the noon final. Ahh delightful. And I'm pretty sure that I hadn't showered for a couple days before then. Now I have. Grease be gone.

Tell your friends about my blog. I'm updatin' it. If they don't know the URL, e-mail it around. Get the word out.

As always, majorly yours.

DM Farewell

Well, dear readers, the time has come. This is my last column.
Even as I write that, it seems like it can't be true because it feels like yesterday when I awoke with a start, experiencing the birth of an idea that would become this well-loved, more well-hated and certainly infamous column you read every week.
Whether or not I knew it at the time, my idea would become a reality, which served to define my senior year.
I was no longer Meghan Blalock, journalism student, DM managing editor and all-around fun-loving gal. I became Hautey Toddy - with a little help from my friends.
I was recognized in public. I was called funny, witty and hilarious. I was called a stupid bitch, the worst Ole Miss has to offer and a mega-beast.
When I first started writing, I was shocked by the responses I got. I was shocked that one person could be so hated. I was shocked that people cared so much.
But of course there were days that I loved being Hautey Toddy.
One time a girl e-mailed me asking for advice because she had just lost a lot of weight and wasn't sure how to dress her new body. People have asked me how to dress for interviews, what appropriate attire is if you work in a hospital and how guys should dress in general.
I gave them my opinions. And don't fear! I am leaving Ole Miss, the state of Mississippi and even the Deep South, but I will never be far from the wonderful world of the Internet.
I will maintain my blog, and if you have any questions you want to ask, feel free. Hautey Toddy is so much of who I am now that I feel leaving it behind would be all too tragic.
So, thank you. All of you. If you love me, I thank you. Keep reading my blog, and keep letting me know you enjoy my writing. If you hate me, I thank you. You are a significant part of the reason that HT became one of the most well-read columns in DM history. Thanks, and hate on haters.
My Ole Miss experience simply would not have been the same without my experience as Hautey Toddy. What's bizarre about being well-known in any environment is mostly you don't really think about it. At least I didn't. I still went to class, went to work and went out at night as a normal college student, as a real person. I didn't change who I am. The column changed me, and it certainly changed how people saw me - for the best or for the worst - but I'm a real, normal person. I think.
It's been fun. A lot of fun. Writing the column every week just became part of my life, and it was a great way to procrastinate doing "real" work. I didn't say that. Even as we speak, I have a paper to write. But this is much more fun. Shrug.
This has been a year of fun. The year of Hautey Toddy. The year of lol-speak and talking in abbreviations. I can has good English now? Lolz. Obvs. I love bad English. But you have to know the rules before you can break them.
I'm not going to critique anyone in this column. I'm sure you've all had enough of that for a while. In just a little over a month I will be living in NYC. There will be plenty to critique and plenty for you to read. Trust.
For now, I leave you with a final thought, and I hope I have conveyed this thought throughout the year. Fashion is fun. I started out the year explaining why fashion matters. I am going to conclude by saying that it does matter, but it is also something that should enrich your life. A good pair of shoes is a religious experience for me. Hopefully you feel the same.
And to those of you who got the joke, kudos. I'm signing off. Until New York, majorly yours.