Southern Girls Living Fearlessly - Claim Your Fame

We southerners, particularly the ladies among us, spend a lot of time asking, "What will people say?"

"What will the neighbors think?"

Well I'm here to tell you, whatever it is, they've probably already said it and already thought it, because whatever it is you're microanalyzing to death and vacillating over has likely already been done, worn, said, seen, and so forth. The best thing a girl can do for herself is acknowledge it.  Get it out in the open.

OWN IT!

Do you think for one second Cindy Crawford loved that mole on her upper lip when she was 13? I don't know for sure, but I bet she hated when other kids pointed it out or giggled about it behind her back. I bet she tried to cover it up with her hand or her hair whenever she could. Now it's her claim to fame.

What do all of these famous people have in common: Rachel Ray, Howard Stern, Rush Limbaugh, Donald Trump, Ellen DeGeneres, Rachel Maddow, Suze Orman, Nancy Pelosi, and Dr Phil?
Despite being multi-faceted individuals, they have all turned one dimension of their personalities into a powerful brand. We feel like we know them. We know what they're for and what they're against. And they're not afraid of critics. When someone told Rush Limbaugh he's pushy, overbearing and arrogant he didn't take it as an insult. He took it and internalized it. When someone told Ellen DeGeneres she has a weird, off-beat sense of humor, she didn't quit cracking jokes. She turned up the volume.

I park like an old lady, easing my car into the spot, stepping on the brake, easing off the brake, stepping on the brake, letting up, mashing down, until all of my passengers have whip-lash and I'm parked deep enough that my rear bumper doesn't get knocked off. Not only do my children and husband razz me about my lack of skill, by-standers at Wal-mart stare at me when I exit my car. So I say, "I know, I park like an old lady. I failed that section of the driving test."

When I claim it, because it is rightfully mine - whatever the neighbors are saying or thinking about me - I claim my fame. Claiming my fame transfers the power to me.

Today's Assignment: In your Book of Lists, make a list of all the things the neighbors think and say about you; even the stuff that really bothers you when they say it (especially that stuff). Decide right now that you will own it. After all, it is yours. Right now, pick one thing off of that list, the one thing that you want to overcome your insecurities about, call up a friend and claim your fame.  Brag to her about it.

Tomorrow, brag to another friend about it. Once you're comfortable with that, brag about it to a stranger.

Before you know it, fame will feel good.

Stewing in My Theories

Helen and I were perusing our menus at the Mesa Grill, Bobby Flay's restaurant at Atlantis in the Bahamas. We discussed the various dishes, considering their culinary merits. After all, we could only each eat one entree. We wanted it to count. We wanted to order well.

I ordered the salmon, which probably sounds like a cop out, since every menu in every restaurant all over the planet lists salmon on it. But no other salmon in the world was as tender and divine as the one delivered to my table. I received a large portion, perfectly seasoned. It practically melted in my mouth.

Helen ordered the cilantro grouper. As soon as Helen said it, our waitress replied, "That's a stew."

Helen smiled sweetly and answered, "Okay."

I thought that was an awfully strange response to the waitress's statement. As a friend, I couldn't let Helen dumbly agree to whatever the waitress said. I asked, "You know she said that's a stew?"

Helen smiled and nodded.

"Helen," I barked a tad louder, afraid she couldn't hear me over the din of other diners, "a stew. She said you ordered a stew."

"I know," Helen snapped.

It was my turn to answer okay, even though it went against my theory. I believe that if a waitress warns me about what I ordered, even if it's a seemingly benign warning, like I've ordered stew, she's trying to send me a serious message, encoded, of course. Following my theory, I immediately change my order. She's giving me this information for a real reason, not just because I've ordered stew.

Helen, I learned, doesn't share the same hairs-bristling-on-the-back-of-the-neck suspicious nature as me. She prefers adventure. This is what Helen got for her devil-be-damned attitude:

Helen can have it. I'd rather stew in my theories.

Welcome Home

I find that when the kids go away for an extended period of time, like to camp, it's always nice to make them feel special upon their return.  We cook a meal we know the kids love or spend time together playing a board game or go to a movie.  It's important that they know they were missed and that their father and I are happy to have them home again.

This year, I think we've really gone overboard, and I'd like to go on record as saying it was my husband's idea.  At any rate, there is something waiting for them in the garage when they get home.  It's all shiny and new.  And it truly says we missed them in a way that no other gift can.  When they swing back those garage doors on August 1st, they will know just how much we love them and need them around here.

Most assuredly, it will leave them speechless.  The down side is that, on their very first day home, they will probably get in a big argument about who will use it first. 

What do you think:

The Experiment

Last week's newspaper is on the grass in our front yard. As you face the house, it's resting on the lawn on the left between the driveway and the front walk, near the struggling dogwood tree. It has been there since last Thursday, when it was delivered. This week's paper has now joined it.

It's still there because I'm running an experiment to see how long it takes before someone other than me picks it up and brings it inside. So far, everyone is waiting on me to do it. I know the mailman is probably running his own experiment, since he walks by it everyday and hasn't yet placed it on our front porch. I guess he figures he's already feeding our dog (a treat a day), why should he get the paper, too?

Our neighbors, though they are unaware, are in on the experiment, as well. I'm trying to find out how long it will take for one of them to come walking over and kick it onto the front porch or say something to me about it or stand in her front yard and stare menacingly in the direction of our house.

I'm wondering how much longer I can go on with this little project, as the sight of that newspaper is starting to eat at me every time I pull in and out of the driveway. I try not to look in its direction, but the contrast of the bleached white pages against the deep green grass makes me look every time. Some days, I believe I'm spiraling into a mini-psychotic state, deluded by the idea that the newspaper is itself conspiring against me.

This is driving me mad, mad I tell you. If someone doesn't pick up that newspaper soon, I'm going to bonk. My family doesn't like it when I bonk. Why is the mailman doing this to us? Why doesn't he just pick it up and put it on the porch? I think he's mumbling about me under his breath every day that he brings the mail and that glaring indication of my loss of control is still there.

Do I have to do everything around here?

I can see this isn't going well; not how I planned. Experiment aborted. I'm going out to bring in the old news.

Signs of Summer

The King and I

6 a.m. The clock radio comes to life and the morning newscaster sends his message through the static. "The king will be back tomorrow night," he says.

In my reluctant-to-face-the-world state I immediately jump to the conclusion that all the rumors about Elvis were true all along. He's not dead and tomorrow night he'll be on stage singing, "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog cryin' all the time." Behind my closed eyelids, he's wearing a white, bedazzled jumpsuit with his hair slicked back and he's doing that pelvic thrust move that nearly brought the country down. I try to calculate how old he would be now, but the math proves too difficult at 6 a.m.

Then in that hazy midland between wake and dreaming, I decide God must have sent out a press release over the AP wire. Jesus will arrive for the 2nd time tomorrow night. I conduct a brief inspection of my soul and inventory my transgressions and determine that this may not be the best time in my life for the Rapture. Readjusting my pillow to block out the annoying static from the radio, I send up a prayer asking for mercy and forgiveness.

But wait! My groggy brain returns to the Bi-Lo check-out lane where I vaguely remember reading the cover of a tabloid announcing the disappearance of Michael Jackson's body. Dr. Frankenstein, from somewhere in the deep recesses of my convoluted neural pathways, shouts, "It's alive!"

6:01 a.m. The morning newscaster's voice undulates with the static, as if he knows I'm still in bed and it is his sole objective to force me from between the sheets. He says, "Lebron James will blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

Lebron James? Who died and made him king? I exasperatedly think.

Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms - Happy July 4th

It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.
~ John Adams, July 3, 17776, in a letter to Abigail Adams

When Adams wrote this letter to his dear wife, regarding how Americans should remember and celebrate their Independence from the mother country, he obviously had no idea how the government he was forming would get in our way. What began as a simple assertion of a people's right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, has become a bureaucratic conflagration.

Verily, one might argue that Adams's memo of proclamation, calling upon citizens to light bonfires, bear arms, illuminate the skies, and participate in sports & games, serves as the justification for our modern ATF. July 4th, if commemorated properly, is prime time for alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. For who among us has not witnessed a man igniting an explosive, meant to light up the continent, with a cigarette in one hand and a PBR in the other?

Ponder that over your game of horseshoes today. It's not only your right, but your obligation as an American citizen.

Happy 4th of July! Celebrate it according to tradition.