Just the Right Insult for the Occaision

As every southerner knows, male or female, insults must be tailored to the occasion. And as Thanksgiving is pecking at the door, I thought I would give you one to pack in your bags and take to your relatives, who by Thursday afternoon will have sufficiently annoyed you enough to break it out and leave on ice as you depart.

All good, decent, upstanding, moral southern women currently stand in kitchens, dining rooms, and butler pantries all over Georgia, Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama, the Carolinas, Arkansas, Kentucky, and other less desirable places to which they have been unfortunately relocated, polishing, along with their silver, their tongues. They rehearse, in private, how they will tell Uncle Bubba to smoke out on the porch, and Aunt Viola to stay out of the kitchen, and other things of that nature.

All good, decent, upstanding, moral southern men currently stand in driveways all over Georgia, Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama, the Carolinas, Arkansas, Kentucky, and other less desirable places to which they have been unfortunately relocated, with their leaf blowers revved, thinking how they will run interference between their side of the family and hers. They blow leaves in and out of the driveway for a very long time.

By Thursday at noon, extended families will have piled into cars and driven to the homes of hosts and hostesses, for the lunch to end all lunches. Some will cope by imbibing liquor squirreled away in secret stashes. Others will survive through psychological or physical withdrawal. At any rate, nerves will rub raw by 6p.m. and you, my friend, will have the ultimate survival technique, gleaned from these pages. You will have an insult tailored to the occasion:

Say, confidentially to the family gossip in hushed whispers, "Good heavens, can you believe ___________? She acts like a guest in her own home!" Then kiss Thanksgiving good-bye, because as all good, decent, upstanding, moral southerners know, Thanksgiving is a designated fighting holiday.

Georgia on My Mind

Last Sunday, my husband confided in me, after a long period of silence, "I've been doing some number crunching in my head, and a lot of things have to happen just right, but I think I've got it figured out. Georgia still has a chance to play for the NCAA National Championship." I nodded and smiled at him, like I was taught to do in my Abnormal Psychology class at the University of Georgia.

Last Saturday the Dawgs beat Troy State, and, more importantly, the Saturday prior to that, they whooped up on Florida. The residual euphoria still coursed through his veins, reintroducing the season of optimism, temporary, but welcome all the same. And as of yesterday's blackout in Athens, I believe we might well ride the tide of sagunity all the way through December.

Which leaves me wondering, as I enjoy the fringe benefits of my husband getting wrapped up in delusional happiness and excitement (forget the convoluted reasoning behind it), why so many women don't embrace football and all the black magic that comes with it.

Housewife Gone Missing

Whenever I hear about a housewife gone missing, I always wonder if anyone thought to check for her under the dirty laundry. I mean, seriously, tugging one white sock from the mountain of darks could easily cause a dangerous jeans slide. If I'm ever on the missing persons list, please alert my family to the very real possibility that the never ending clothes pile might have finally killed me, just like I always said it would. And make sure my children know it was the neatly folded, never worn, clean shirt shoved in with everything else that finished me off.