Twisted Minds

If my mother gives me advice, I think she's judgemental. If my mother gives my friends advice, they think she's wise (and that she is very, very cool).

While at every turn I fight being like my mother (a fight I'm losing), my friends all say they want to be just like my mother when they are her age (but they'll be just like their own mothers).

My 8 year-old daughter says she wants to be just like me when she grows up. She always seeks my approval. But ultimately it will be her friends who treat me like a rock star.

The whole cycle is just so twisted.

We're not Immortal After All

Dixie Carter died.

I didn't think things like that happened to people like us, Southern Ladies. I've been so naive. Now this. It changes everything. If something so unmentionable can happen to Dixie Carter then it can probably happen to me, too.

Am I ready? Have I hostessed enough garden parties, attended enough UDC meetings, baked enough casseroles, been to enough football games, grown enough tomatoes, eaten enough cucumber finger sandwiches, taught enough Bible School, mulched enough magnolias to enter through the pearly gates and recline in my heavenly home along the banks of the Suwannee River?

Miss Dixie, I hope that sweet chariot swings low for you and carries you on home, where the angels sit you down to a fine meal of fried chicken, okra, butterbeans, summer squash, sweet iced tea, and Mama's homemade mashed potatoes. And I hope all your kinfolk, who went on before you, are gathered around that table, too, talking and laughing and telling stories and generally welcoming you. What a wonderful celebration it must be when a Southern Lady gets to the other side.

Rest in peace, Miss Dixie. All us girls down here, now that we know the Lord will send for us as someday, as well, have got a whole lot of silver to polish so we can be ready.

You hear that, Lord! A whole, heap of a lot of silver to polish, so please don't show up for the party before I'm expecting you.

Southern Girls Living Fearlessly - Two Kinds of Friends

Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other's gold.
--Old summer camp song from Jennie Arnold Edwards YWCO Camp

I've been humming that tune since I got back from my annual girls' weekend with sorority sisters from my college days. I firmly believe every southern girl should cultivate two kinds of friends:

1. The ones who knew her way back when
2. The ones who know her now

Friends from back when allow us to be that silly, giggly girl from our teens or twenties. The one who told that bad Santa Claus joke any time she had the floor. The one who sunbathed on the roof in February so she would be ready for spring break in March. The one who pretended to like champagne and who re-enacted the When Harry Met Sally cafe scene, in public places, whenever she got the whim. They're the friends with whom we shared a wardrobe and our wild side.

Way back when friends forgive us for ditching them for a date with a boy. They recall all the gory details of Pledge Formal and don't mind if we've chosen to forget them. These friends remind us of when we weren't mamas and wives and responsible working adults. We are bound to them by history and they love us.

The friends who know us now are just as important. They accept the sophisticated, polite, lady-like woman we've grown into without ever comparing us to our past. They keep us from lingering too long in yesteryear when the present isn't all we thought it would be. They support us. They civilize us.

Friends who know us now chat with us about the mundane details of daily life and never grow bored with the conversation. They love our children like we do. They loan us a bottle of wine on a Sunday night or a pair of shoes on a Saturday. They feed our dog and pick up our mail when we go on vacation. They carpool our kids, bring casseroles when we're sick, and attend every Girls' Night Out, no excuses. We can count on them.

TODAY'S ASSIGNMENT: We take our friends for granted, expecting them to be there when we have time for them. Today, be intentional about your friendships. Contact at least one old friend with whom you have fallen out of touch. Plan a get-together - a movie, dinner, a tour of homes, whatever - with a current friend. Gold and silver are too precious to let them slip away.

Did You Ever Wonder . . .

Why do hard boiled eggs stink like an old man's pruny poots, but scrambled eggs smell savory and delicious?

You probably haven't wondered, but I just thought I'd ask.

Dream Home Doldrums

HGTV is running their annual dream home sweepstakes. And of course it fits right in with my fantasy of making an abrupt left turn and veering off on a new adventure.

Not that anything is really wrong with my current adventure. Most days present me with something completely unexpected, like one of my kids telling me at 9 p.m. that he needs a poster board for a project due THE NEXT DAY, or one of them vomiting in a paper bag in the back seat on the way to school after he looked perfectly fine at breakfast, or me walking out of the mirrored YMCA door and slipping and falling down in the parking lot, spilling the contents of my purse on the asphalt, five lipsticks rapidly rolling toward the storm drain.

Yes, my life is definitely high adventure. But sometimes I do get carried away thinking about up and doing something completely different, out of the blue. A move-in ready home in the middle of the Arizona desert sounds like it could satisfy my wanderlust.

So I filled out the form and entered the random drawing. As soon as I clicked the SUBMIT button, panic seized me by the throat and kneed me in the gut. It shook me like a rag doll, shouting, "You fool! What if you win! What will you do then?"

"It comes with a car," I sputtered. "A 2010 GMC Terrain."

"How will you ever get the car back to Georgia?" panic pried.

"It comes with $500,000 dollars," I countered.

"Just enough to pay the property taxes and take one round-trip flight out to see your prize," panic pointed out.

By this time my eyes were bugging out of my head, but I didn't give in. "I could have fun there, being somebody different than I am here. That house is sleek and contemporary, up to date and new. Plus, no one would dare throw-up in the back seat of my new Terrain."

Panic tsk-tsked me, wrapping itself tight around my chest. "You're a southerner right down to your double helix," it said. "You have absolutely no idea what to do with yourself in a desert with no humidity."

I fought back panic, held it down and instructed it to cry mercy, and I entered again, to show it who's boss. But it refuses to say uncle and as the February 19 entry deadline approaches, I can feel it rising to its feet again. How will it treat me if I win?

The Singing Fingers

A window into the secret world of a bored child with a video camera. Never let 'em tell you they have "nothing to do."

Girls in the Bathroom

Thursday, between afternoon activities, too far from home to make a pit-stop there, my boys and I had about an hour to kill. Because I am a good, good mother, a virtual Queen of the Mamas, I took them to a sports bar & grill. Every inch of wall space was covered with televisions, all tuned into different channels, none of which was HGTV. While I found myself over-stimulated, they found themselves in boy heaven.

We ordered a couple of greasy appetizers in the food categories that will someday be life-threatening to them, when they are in their 40s. They scarfed it so fast it was a wonder the waitress had any fingers on her right hand after setting down the plates and retracting her arm. She looked scared, like she had reached into the gorilla enclosure at the zoo without thinking.

Before piling into the car, again, to drive to our next destination, I told the boys to go to the restroom. I did the same. I'm pretty sure they didn't wash their hands because they all three were impatiently waiting for me when I exited the Ladies' Room. "Mama," gasped my 10 year-old, "there were girls in our bathroom." Using his hands to indicate an enormous amount, he repeated, "Lots of girls! Everywhere!"

Hearing this made me momentarily panic. Did I go in the wrong bathroom? How mortifying. I would do something like that, too. I glanced at the doors, to check my attention to detail. Nope, I entered the correct lavatory. "What were girls doing in the Men's Room?"

Excitedly, he said, "They were in their cheerleader uniforms and stuff like that."

Seeing my look of consternation - although he wouldn't have used that word to describe it, he would have said SHOCK - my 12 year-old explained, "Just pictures of girls, Mama," which sent my head reeling in another sordid direction. But before I could address that thought, he added, "and there're two flat-screen TVs in there, too! I love this place." Then he sighed.

"It's a wonder y'all ever came out," I responded.

The worst part of the whole scene, was that I felt jilted; not just for myself, but for all women everywhere who have ever been to a sports bar & grill. Because all I had in my bathroom was a baby changing station and a dusty, plastic palm, sure signs of discrimination. No wonder there weren't any girls in my bathroom.