Southern Girls Living Fearlessly - Using the Gift

From Gone With the Wind:
Scarlett: Fiddle-dee-dee. War, war, war; this war talk's spoiling all the fun at every party this spring. I get so bored I could scream. Besides... there isn't going to be any war.
Brent Tarleton: Not going to be any war?
Stuart Tarleton: Why, honey, of course there's gonna be a war.
Scarlett: If either of you boys says "war" just once again, I'll go in the house and slam the door.

Just like Scarlett, from the moment we exited the womb, we southern girls were taught the gift of gab; the skill of conversing. BUT, we were also taught what polite ladies shall not, under any circumstances, discuss with others - politics, money, religion, sex; which, in my opinion, doesn't leave us much to confer on.

Our strict training in the ways of womanhood has resulted in two common outcomes:

1. Southern girls often resort to whispering at a volume their friends and enemies alike must strain to hear.
2. Southern girls tend to chatter on without thinking about what they are saying, but avoiding all controversial subjects.

Who among us hasn't had a girlfriend who talked so much that she never heard anything we had to say? She was always preoccupied thinking of what she would say next, and sometimes blurting it right over the top of our own words, as if she didn't even need us in order for the conversation to occur. And most of it was mindless twitter, anyway.

Who among us hasn't done that herself on occasion?

Raise your hand if you've ever tried to share an exchange with a woman who spoke so confidentially it was almost a secret from you, as well as the world. Leaning in as hard as one can to detect the almost inaudible mumble of a friend causes one to grow weary of the tete-a-tete, and usually just plain weary.

Are you are guilty of such quiet crimes? Am I?

The gift of gab is our southern discipline; thus, we must be disciplined about using it. We must not fear it. Our voices can make a difference in the world, without ever hinting at un-ladylike qualities.

First, we must break our bad habits. Those of us who speak in tones so low the earthworms can't even feel the vibrations need to find the courage to speak up and the discernment to know when to remain silent. Those of us who prattle on about this, that, and the other, but nothing of substance, should practice the art of breathing between sentences and phrases. Once that is accomplished, then we must learn to listen.

Second, we must decide how we will use our gift of gab to make the world a better place; the world at large or the world within arm's reach. Once we have honed and refined our gift, as our mamas and grandmamas would want, we will discover its power.

Third, remember to banter about the weather, the kids, the grocery store coupons, the car repair garage. It's good for us. Small talk makes the world go round.

The Final Word:
A study in the journal of Psychological Science found that people who spend time talking to others, having both deep conversations and sharing chitchat, report feeling happier than their silent counterparts. Therein lies the crux of the matter: If we are nattering on without pause or if we are emitting at a decibel for which the human ear is not tuned, then our partner in conversation is rendered to silence, and, therefore, not happy.

True Love 2

It has been determined that my husband is blind to my figure flaws. And, according to a friend, such blindness is a sign of true love.

But I know what really means true love and it has nothing to do with how my butt looks in these jeans.

As I ironed shirts for my sons last night, my husband breezed into the laundry room and shook his head at my work. "You don't know what you're doing," he exclaimed at me. "You're making a mess of those shirts. Why do you keep spraying on starch like that. Those shirts are so stiff they belong on a body in a morgue. Why'd you put the crease there? That's not where it goes. And the collars. My gosh!"

You may not know it, but these are beautiful, sweet, romantic words. He means every one of them from the crevices of his soul, and he cares enough for me to be plainly honest. I love him for it. Even more than that, though, I know he loves me.

The next thing he says is, "I'll finish these shirts." He grabs the iron from my hand, and caps the starch, and rearranges the shirt on the ironing board, and shoos me away. He doesn't even expect me to stand and watch him like he does when he fixes the dishwasher or pays bills on-line.

This, my friends, is true love.

Natural Bug Killer for Un-Natural Bugs

What better time of the year to go green than summer? The days are slow and lazy. The trees are leafy and shady. The garden is growing tomatoes like crazy. And the bugs are bigger and badder than ever. Mosquitoes, gnats, wasps, roaches, beetles, and mosquitoes, mosquitoes, mosquitoes. In the south, these critters are twice the size of normal. They are un-natural.

But that doesn't mean we've got to use un-natural (chemical) solutions to eliminate them from our yards, our homes, our porches, and our skin. Summer is simple and our pest control should be as well.

EcoSMART is what we've all been needing this summer. It kills bugs without harsh chemicals. It's safe to use around children and animals. And what I really, really love about it is that smells nice. This is a particularly desirable feature (in addition to being "natural") of the mosquito repellent, since it is sprayed directly on the skin.

Take care of your self this summer, and your home and your yard, and take care of the earth while you're at it, with pest control for the home and natural bug spray. How about if I help you out with that?

EcoSMART is giving away one value bundle to a lucky reader of this blog. The winner will be chosen by random drawing. You can enter your name in this drawing up to three times:

1. Leave a comment and tell me why you would like to receive the value bundle for your first entry.
2. Friend me on FaceBook (include a message that references this blog post) for your second entry.
3. E-mail your friends a link to this blog and copy me on it (lucybgoosey(at)aol.com) for your third entry.

Here's wishing you a green, bug free summer.

True Love

My husband sees me through the eyes of a blind man. To him, my figure is the same as when we first met, way back when we were 21. The body of a woman who carried four babies to term, and then carried four babies on the hip for years, doesn't register on his retina.


A friend told me that his vision difficulty is a sign of true love. Perhaps it is, but true love is no reason to go out and buy a string bikini and wear it onto the beach in front of God and everyone. Just because my spouse's eyeballs are cataracted by cupid certainly doesn't justify me exposing my saggy belly skin to everybody else on the beach. They aren't blinded by true love, but they might be blinded by me in my near birthday suit.


And here's the thing. If all the other matronly mamas' husbands are also blinded by love, then they are looking at me as I walk by and whispering to their wives, "You'd look better than her in a bikini." Love is blind but the neighbors see in high definition.

A Kid's Imagination

You never know what might be in a kid's imagination, until you give him the opportunity to release it. My 10 year-old son and two of his 4th grade classmates produced this video. After watching it, I still don't quite understand his imagination, but I was definitely entertained.

Skim Board vs. the Whiteboard

Yesterday I faced a conundrum. Someone forced me to take a hard look at what I'm teaching my children to value and to make a difficult decision.

The public schools in my county are out for summer. The private school my children currently attend, however, is still in session for another week. And therein lies my problem. Two of my 12 year-old son's friends, who are liberated to revel in summer's bliss, invited my child to revel with them. They asked if he could go to the beach with them for the day, today, a Friday, a school day for my 12 year-old.

There I found myself caught between the importance of education and what I know to be fleeting opportunities for youthful abandon. In an effort to put the decision on the shoulders of others, I told my son he could not go if he had any tests or quizzes scheduled for today. He smiled broadly at me. He didn't have any obligations of that nature.

I explained to him my concern over the message I would send him, and his siblings, for that matter, if I allowed him to skim board all day instead of stare at a whiteboard for eight hours. He assured me, however, that he understands the importance of studying hard and doing well in school. "Sometimes, Mama," he argued, "a boy just needs a mental health day." And he cartoonishly convulsed to emphasize his point.

Sending him out of the kitchen, I insisted that he leave me to ponder it for awhile. I thought about the last time I did anything spontaneous or slightly irresponsible. Nothing registered. Apparently, without my constant attention to all the details and serious commitment to the to-do list, nothing will get done and all will fall apart or come to a screeching halt.

Then I considered all the people who have died without notice; up and keeled over without warning. I pictured their to-do lists scribbled on paper on their kitchen tables with nothing crossed off. Friends and relatives mourn their absence. They cry. But no one says, "How will the grass ever get cut now that Gerald is gone?" or "Who will service those accounts Jane's been in charge of?" No, Gerald and Jane are six feet under having never unchained themselves from their to-do lists and life marches right on. The grass gets cut, the accounts get managed, and their to-do lists get thrown away, unnecessary remnants of lives concluded.

While I don't want my son to be 32 years-old, sitting on my sofa, watching reality TV, wearing a wife-beater shirt, with his right hand shoved in his unbuttoned trousers, and his left hand transporting a PBR from the end table to his lips, I don't want him to take himself too seriously either. Although I may regret it and find myself kicking his 32 year-old arse out the front door someday . . .

I landed on the side of youthful abandon and sent my son and his skim board to the beach with his friends. The whiteboard can wait until Monday.

Word Rodeo

So we're driving through one of those dark, narrow parking decks with small arrow signs pointing us in directions that they don't appear quite committed to. Those signs reserve the right to change their mind when a car comes through the maze in the opposite direction.

Out loud, I say to myself, "It's hard to maneuver a car in here," to which my young daughter responds, "What does maneuver mean?"

Her brother, only slightly older than her but adamant about exerting his intellectual dominance, replies, before I can, because I'm winding my way up the tower of Babel in the wrong direction, "It means poop."

Now, while he desires to crush his sister like a brainless bug under the sole of his intelligence, he also loves to fit in potty talk whenever he can. "No it doesn't," I correct, still peering through the dark for a parking space.

"Uh-huh," he insists, "I've heard you and Daddy talk about cow maneuver; how y'all are going to put cow maneuver on the garden."

"Honey, you mean manure. Cow manure."

"I do?" he asks, surprised. "Then what is cow maneuver."

"It's what they do at rodeos."