Southern Girls Living Fearlessly - Are You Rushing the Season?

Today is November 15 and this yard is filled with Christmas crap flung corner to corner, and the homeowner, who caught me stopped in front of his house taking pictures, informed me that he isn't finished yet. I wanted ask him does he not have anything for which to be thankful? I wanted to tell him there's no book titled Skipping Thanksgiving.

But I'm passive and he was proud and a confrontation over out-of-season decorations really wouldn't have done either of us any good. He probably wouldn't have said, "Oh, ma'am, you're right. We haven't celebrated Thanksgiving yet. I didn't even consider how I'm cutting the glory of fall short. Let me go right now and pack up all this junk until after we eat turkey next week."

More than likely, he would have told me to get my bah-humbug ass the hell off of his lawn.

But truly, why the rush? Why the hurry to get to the next destination, the next holiday, the next big event, instead of allowing the season to unfold in its given time?

We all do this. I'm as guilty as anyone else of rushing something; of wishing days of my life away because they're between me and some future event or goal, failing to recognize that the between is pretty darn important in its own right. It's time I'll never get back.

We rush our babies to walk so we don't have to carry them. We rush our weeks to pass so we can get to the weekends. We rush through books so we can find out what happens at the end.

Rushing on to the next thing doesn't necessarily ensure I'll enjoy it anymore than if I wait for it to arrive at its scheduled moment. For example, I've noticed that people who rush the Christmas season, pack up their nativity scenes and throw Santa back in the garage on Christmas Day or the day after, never even giving the Wise Men a chance to arrive and discover baby Jesus in the manger. They don't know that the best days of Christmas come when all the pressure of presents and parties ends, when we can sit around and enjoy the tree and each other in the warm glow of Christmas lights.

TODAY'S ASSIGNMENT: What are you rushing? If it's Christmas, go take down those decorations and concentrate on what you have to be thankful for, like a second chance to put them up again. If it's something else, start today practicing patience. Resolve to enjoy the "between" and everything else in its own time.

Brace Yourself

I've been humming Adam Sandler's Thanksgiving Song for a week now, so I know the tryptophan coma is almost upon us. Time to brace myself for the influx of family. Time to tolerate my mother suggesting that we talk about something other than politics at the Thanksgiving table, only for her to complain when we rehash the history of who has been to jail, who hasn't, and who tried really hard but couldn't get in.

Personally, I think Turkey Day is the finest holiday we Americans have ever invented. No gifts. Few decorations. And little pressure, except for working hard to not say something that offends the in-laws, like asking, "What is that revolting green stuff in that bowl?" Note: It's a traditional Thanksgiving dish whipped together with pistachio pudding, marshmallows, chopped green grapes and pecans developed by now-deceased grandmother. Who knew?

With all this in mind, I'm preparing to place myself in a Cranberry Fog forthwith. The recipe follows:

1/4 cup cocktail rimming or granulated sugar
1 lime wedge
1 cup frozen cranberries
8 ounces cranberry juice
1/2 cup Simple Syrup
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lime juice
8 ounces tequila
1/3 cup orange liqueur
2 cups crushed ice

Run the lime wedge around the rim of 4 margarita glasses. Dip each glass in the sugar. Puree the next three ingredients until smooth. Add everything else and then blend again, until smooth. Here I diverge from the directions, which say to evenly divide the mixture between the four glasses. I say fill your glass first and drink it down to be sure you've concocted an elixir suitable for sharing. Then divide the rest between the four glasses and serve.
         ~From Peterson's Holiday Helper

As a side note, tequila plays a role in my futile one-time effort to get into jail. My mother really hates to hear that story at Thanksgiving.

Hexed or Cursed?

I received this e-mail from a friend. At least, I think she's a friend. But I don't know why friends do these things to each other. The e-mail reads:
An interesting fact about October 2010:

This OCT. has 5 Fridays, 5 Saturdays and 5 Sundays, all in 1 month. It happens once in 823 years. These are considered money bags months. Pass them to 8 good people and money will appear. Whoever stops this will experience none.

With Halloween looming, it gave me goose flesh and made my skin feel cool and clammy. So I replied to my friend (at least, I think she's my friend):
Ashley,

Did you just put a curse on me? Even with five Fridays, five Saturdays, and five Sundays this month, I don't have time to send out all these e-mails in hopes of receiving a fortune, much less to cope with a curse. A hex is one thing, but a curse, of course, quite another.

Lucy

Here's the difference:
A curse is a malevolent spell that is purposefully done to inflict harm upon another.
A hex is a spell or bewitchment that can be done for good or for bad. A hex is generally less potent than a curse.

I think it's important to know which kind of e-mail she sent. What if I was due a bag of money this month anyway, whether or not I ever opened that e-mail, BUT, because I read it and didn't forward it to 8 good people, I'm now no longer entitled to receive my money bag. That would be a curse.

But if I read it, ignored it and consequently turned into a frog, then that's a hex.

She replied to me:
Heavens, no. None of us needs a curse. We have far to much to do & accomplish and no idea how to get it all done...


I guess that means it was a hex and that I'm a frog. 

Why do friends (at least, I think she's my friend) do these things to each other?

Gifts for Gab

The doorbell rang at about 7 p.m. I was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on dinner so my husband went to greet our visitor. When he opened the door I heard the voice of our across-the-street neighbor. I peeked through the dining room to see her standing on the front porch facing my husband. She held a zip-loc bag with unidentifiable contents.

Now most people wouldn't get at all suspicious about such things, but most people don't live in my neighborhood, on my street. Most people have never had their crepe myrtles trimmed by the neighbor's yard man. Most people have never been accused of not only owning but somehow producing stray animals from the crawl space under their house. Most people have never had neighbors complaining that the fleas in the neighbor's yard came from their yard. Most people have never endured the thrill of being awarded yard of the month in the newspaper then being stripped of it the very next week.

I feared the neighbor now on our front porch had a chipmunk or a bird in that bag; that perhaps she had found it dead on her lawn and was seeking restitution. Likely, she believed our cat had shredded it or one of our children had popped it off with his BB gun or it got lost in our lawn and in its confusion ran out into the road in front of a car, then laid up in her yard to die an untimely death. Neighborhood scapegoats, such as us, come to fear and expect situations like this.

A known coward, I went back to the kitchen and let my husband handle it. Shortly he closed the door and came into the room carrying the zip-loc baggie with the meaty creature all wadded inside. "She made you keep it?" I exclaimed.

"Yeah," he said, tauntingly. "I'm going to put it in the fridge for later."

"For what?!" I squeaked.

"For Kerksey Belle."

"That dog catches plenty of her own chipmunks. We don't need any of the ones the neighbors brought by," I huffed. "What did we do now anyway?"

"Nothing." He looked at me sideways. "It's steak scraps for Kerksey Belle."

"And?" I asked, knowing there was more to the visit than that.

"And," he laughed, "she wanted to know what exactly we're doing in the front yard with those columns."

"So she came bearing gifts so she could ask nosy questions about our architectural elements and get away with it," I summarized. "And then report back to everyone else."

"She wanted to make sure that it's just for Halloween and not permanent."

"Then we'll leave it up until Christmas," I vowed.

I never said we didn't bring this stuff on ourselves.

University of Georgia Grad Faces Game Day

This morning as I streamed along toward Sanford Stadium with the rest of the red and black homecoming crowd, something caught my eye. Facing the onslaught of UGA fans and a smattering of Vanderbilt fans, with the beckoning stadium in the background, was a man dressed in a business suit, sans suit coat, holding a briefcase and handing out flyers to anyone who would accept one.

I wondered what he was advertising and alerted myself to not make eye contact so that I wouldn't feel obligated to take a piece of paper that I would then have to deposit in a trash receptacle. I didn't want that kind of distraction. The installation of UGA VIII was slated for the 50-yard line in the nearest future and I was determined not to miss it.

Drawing closer, it became very clear that this man wasn't just any dawg-to-dawg salesman. He is a recently out of work 2000 University of Georgia graduate who went straight to the mecca of alumni networking.

His name is Travis W. Braun. He earned a Bachelor of Business Administration, with a major in international business and coconcentrations in management and German. And I know some of you might be thinking that no one but a desperate man would go to this end to get a job. But Mr. Braun is no desperate man. He only just lost his full-time position as a regional sales manager and project manager in September. He still has his part-time position as an assistant director of commercial development.

So desperation is not the explanation for Mr. Braun's behavior; for his dawg-to-dawg sales.

I would guess that he's driven, highly motivated, energetic.

Who wouldn't want to hire someone like this, who, on top of all that, is also innovative, creative, and an outside-of-the-stadium thinker?

All I can add is Go Dawg!

(E-mail me, lucybgoosey@aol.com, if you'd like to get in touch with Mr. Braun about  possible employment.)

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.