To the Tune of Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer - (And, Yes, This Did Happen)

Lucy fell into a sewage drain
Walkin' home from Charlotte’s Tuesday eve.
She kept from breakin’ her glass Santa.
As she plunged and dumped her purse into the street.

She'd been drinkin' a little eggnog.
And her husband said that she should go.
So she gathered up the children,
And staggered out the door into the road.

Her son called out a feeble warnin’,
At the scene of the attack.
She had asphalt on her knuckles,
And incriminatin' splatter on her back.

Lucy fell into a sewage drain
Walkin' home from Charlotte’s Tuesday eve.
She kept from breakin’ her glass Santa.
As she plunged and dumped her purse into the street.

Now Lucy’s awfully miffed at Charlotte.
She's not takin' this so well.
Charlotte built a front walkway,
That ends at a drop-off straight to Hell.

Lucy dusted off her daughter,
Whom she dragged down into the crack.
And Lucy just can't help but wonder:
Should she re-gift Charlotte’s present or send it back?
(Send it back)

Lucy fell into a sewage drain
Walkin' home from Charlotte’s Tuesday eve.
She kept from breakin’ her glass Santa.
As she plunged and dumped her purse into the street.

Now the note is on the table,
Accusing Charlotte of negligence.
And a lawyer signed the bottom,
Demanding Charlotte’s dollars and her cents.

Lucy’s warned all her friends and neighbors.
"Better watch out for yourselves."
Charlotte’s known to pull the trap door,
And your Christmas guests will all yell, “What’s that smell?”

Lucy fell into a sewage drain
Walkin' home from Charlotte’s Tuesday eve.
She kept from breakin’ her glass Santa.
As she plunged and dumped her purse into the street.
(Sing it Charlotte)

Merry Christmas

Lights of the South

As a kid, I never understood why my mother got so disgusted with my father and us kids at Christmas. We would stand back admiring the twinkling, giant, multi-colored bulbs strung across the front porch eaves. My mother would grit her teeth and clench her jaw. My daddy, I think, got special joy out of that part.

Because we only almost fit in with our surrounding rural neighbors, my brothers and sister and I wanted to take it to the next level and outline all the windows and the air conditioning unit with Christmas lights. We wanted a long, extra strand, with nowhere to go, to hang off the side of the roof. We wanted our daddy to pull the boat to the front yard and string it with lights, too. But I think he refused us because he knew he could go just so far in crossing our mama; especially during the holidays.

Last night I came home to my otherwise undecorated house to find two columns with garland crudely twisted around them. The garland had lights knotted in it and a thousand pastel pink, blue, and green shiny bells hanging from it. Someone had even collected a couple of sprays of nandina berries and plugged those in along the winding route.

My children met me at the door, saying, "Did you see? Don't you love it?" I tried to relax my jaw and managed a weak smile at my proud husband standing behind my brood, all of whom said, in unison, "Let's show her, Daddy!" They dragged me by the hand out to the front yard, and, as my legs hardly worked at this point, turned me to face the house.

"Ready?" called my groom. "Ready!" our offspring shouted. Suddenly the left side of my house lit up with the brightest white lights man has ever made. But they didn't twinkle. They shuddered and jerked and flashed and chased and did a routine that looked like an emergency SOS signal to overhead aircraft. "There are 13 options for light patterns," my husband explained. "We'll have to tweak it some."

New neighbors moved in down the street last weekend. By Sunday night they had their tree up, decorated, and lit in the bay window. The Jones' have got perfection. I've got two columns on the left side of my house that, during the day, look like debris caught on them in a heavy wind and, during the night, send motorists into seizures. I've got slow moving traffic coming down my street to view authentic lights of the south. And I've got an expression on my face that looks just like my mother's once did. And I've got a husband who hopefully knows it would not be a good idea to cross me much further during the holidays.

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.

Almost There

I received the final proof for If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny from the publisher this week. Well, actually, it's the final proof before I get to proof a sample copy of the actual book with the cover and everything. Reading all these proofs has proven to me just how human errors are.

When I first wrote all of the material for the book, I thought it was perfect. When I compiled it into the initial form of the book to send to the publisher, I knew it was perfect. Five proofs later, and three red ink pens emptier, I'm still finding mistakes and wording that isn't quite right. I'm amazed at how If Mama Don't Laugh has evolved throughout the process. And I have discovered that true perfection is an elusive goal.

If left to listening to my own self-inflicted, self-critical internal voice that enjoys telling me how my efforts aren't good enough, how I could have tried harder, and how I don't know what I'm doing, I would never have a finished product. Thank heavens for editors and publishers who speak loudly in order to drown out writers' insecurities about their work.

But intuitively, I know that If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny will take my readers on a Space Shot of laughs, as they jump with me from throwing pre-adolescents out of the house, to getting on amusement park rides more suitable for 12 year-old boys than 30-something year-old women, to unclogging the vacuum cleaner hose by blowing in it. And it won't be long now, before we're both there together.

Thank you to my loyal and faithful readers, and to the ones who have recently come on board, for your continuous and genuine support. And thank you, as well, for forgiving me my imperfections.

Know When to Go

I am the reason that people print the exact hour a party will end on an invitation. My friends affectionately call me the hanger-on-er because I like to stay until the last pig in a blanket disappears. I can't help thinking that if I leave too soon, I might miss something more exciting than paying the babysitter and driving her home.

The key is not to hang on too long. Some good signs that it's time to leave the party:

1) Someone asks you to help clear the dishes from the buffet.
2) Your host is snoring in front of ESPN.
3) Your husband is standing over you jingling his keys in his pocket.
4) The wine box runs dry.
5) Your husband reports that there's no more beer.
6) A stranger asks if you can hold her hair while she throws up.
7) You haven't been seen with your husband in so long that women begin treating him like he's single.
8) People start talking about politics, religion, or how best to educate children.
9) The stereo goes silent.
10) The hostess releases the hound from the guest bedroom.
11) Another party-goer, too inebriated to drive himself home, calls dibs on the sofa you're sitting on.
12) Someone turns out the kitchen light, the living room light, the den light, the front porch light . . .