Grit Biscuits Unveiled

For my May book signings I decided to unveil the legendary Chocolate Chip Grit Biscuit. Book signing guests received a complimentary Grit Biscuit with the warning, "They're good if you're hungry." I received overwhelming response from my readers. The following are some of the more memorable comments:

"No, thank you, I'm trying to give them up."

"A what? A what? A what? Oh."

"You put a grit in this thing?"

"Are they really made with grits?"

"Is the recipe in your book?"

"Oh, you shouldn't have. You really, really shouldn't have."

My Chocolate Chip Grit Biscuuits have made a statement from Aiken, SC, to Statesboro, GA, to Savannah, GA and to infinity and beyond!

Too Good to be True

I heard on the radio last week, from a faceless morning radio show personality, that NASA is seeking subjects to participate in a microgravity study. It pays $17,000 for three months of work.



What is the work, you ask? What must the human lab rat do to earn his feed? Stay in bed for 90 days.



That's it. Rest and relax for 90 straight days. And as busy as the last 30 days have been (and no one is paying me for carting kids around, doing their laundry, preparing meals, clapping proudly at a hundred different end-of-year programs and recitals, or doing the wave at little league baseball games), I think I could tolerate getting paid to put my feet up for awhile.



If researchers want to examine me flipping through a magazine in bed, reading a backlog of books, spamming my friends with forwarded e-mails, and being an all-around good-for-nothing loafer, AND pay me for the privilege, sign me up!

Still Living Fearlessly . . . Sort Of

Just a question. I've been thinking a lot about my March-made New Year's Resolution to take life by the roots of its hair and pull until it cries, "Uncle." And while contemplating this questionably unladylike behavior, I've encountered a bit of a quandary, even a possible quagmire.

Can a southern lady truly live fearlessly without risking her virtue or her neutral color palette?

My dilemma is a crimp in the curling iron, for sure. What's a girl to do?

Suggested Mother's Day Gifts

As a mama, I look forward to a Mother's Day breakfast in bed with children crowded in around me, watching my face intently to see how much I enjoy the peanut butter eggs.

As a second grade teacher, I have a vested interest in making sure all mothers everywhere get recognized with homemade cards, paper flowers, plaster of Paris hand prints, and heartfelt poems.

And I believe that it is essential for dads to further aid the kids in showing appreciation to mom by taking them shopping for all the extras: Chocolate, wine, diamonds, chocolate, and a good book.

For chocolate, may I recommend Ghirardelli or Godiva? For wine, I suggest something pink. For diamonds, the bigger the better. And for a good book, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that she'll never forget this Mother's Day when, with one click of your mouse, you give her, If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny:

It's All Luck

A woman e-mailed me today asking, "Is it all just dumb luck? I mean, I see so many people in the media who are stupider than the schwa key on my computer keyboard, but for some reason there they are, famous, with the eyes of the world upon them. Meanwhile, truly talented folks like myself wait tables, re-shelve library books, or nanny children, while waiting to be discovered. I'm a really good writer. Lots of people have told me so. I've been assured that I have plenty of talent."

For a moment I paused, wondering if I had been insulted. Is she implying that I'm the equivalent of a schwa? Useless, stupid, but still hanging around because someone else hasn't been discovered, and, thus, hasn't yet replaced me? Then, I quelled my self-doubt long enough to respond to her query:

Dear Ma'am,
A couple of years ago sitting in the hair salon hot seat, otherwise known as "under the dryer," I read a magazine article about successful women and how they achieved it. One woman interviewed said that everything she accomplished in life was due to luck, all luck, that she created. She did everything she could to put herself in the right place at the right time so that luck would come her way. Yes, it is all luck, but anyone can have what you refer to as dumb luck, with enough persistence.

After I hit the SEND button, I decided that I had been insulted and I carried on a monologue with my computer screen as an audience, the e-mail question still staring me down. And I asked the lady, "Ever watch American Idol auditions? All those people traipsing through, crooning their hearts out for the judges, bragging that they each will be THE next American Idol? When those contestants come out of that room crying because Randy, Paula, and Simon said they didn't make it, what do they always insist on? Yes! They tell Ryan Seacrest, 'I can sing. Everyone tells me I can. When I sing in public, people crowd around me and they stare. I'm good. Those judges just don't know what they're talking about.' Sound familiar? Don't let your family and friends fool you."

As my hand hovered to close the e-mail, that nagging voice of self-doubt broke in. What if my friends and family have been lying to me, too? Praising me just to make me feel good? Saying something nice only because it was better than not saying anything at all?

Guess I'll have to go out and create more dumb luck for myself.

The New Faux Pas

Back in Mama T's day, that's my late grandmother, smoking and walking was about the tackiest thing a woman could do. Going in public without lipstick ran a close second. Unlike the lipstick oversight, in which unkempt lips was the real error of her ways, in the walking and smoking travesty smoking had nothing to do with the transgression.

A woman could sit and smoke until her lungs fell out and she croaked like a midnight catfish and not a soul would bat an eye. A woman could chat on the party line and inhale enough creosote to pave a road from Georgia to Montana and no one would think the lesser of her. She could even drive carpool with the windows rolled up and her children choking pneumatically in the rear seat and who in the world would dare accuse her of behaving un-ladylike.

But as soon as she began the long, unvirtuous walk from her car to the doors of the grocery store with a tobacco stick dangling from her lip or squeezed between two fingers with painted over yellowed nails, the Junior League president would be on the phone with the Garden Club president. Her UDC and DAR ribbons would be stripped from her lapel, and she would never again be asked to make her lemon squares for the UMW bake sale the Sunday after Easter.

Of course, now that smoking itself has fallen out of favor and walking has gained great strides in the health and fitness world, we've had to search high and low for a way to distinguish quality folks from the undesirables. But sitting on Charlotte's front porch swing on Tuesday, I figured it out, the standard we've been missing. Some savvy socialites already apply it, but they've jumped ahead of the curve.

The new litmus test for judging character and self-worth is where people park their cars when they get home from a long day at the grind stone. Front yard parkers, who leave their cars on lawn or dirt (same as putting the car on blocks as far as their neighbors are concerned, even if the car is a Jaguar) for all the world to see, couldn't get an invitation to join the Colonial Dames if they descended straight from the Jamestown settlers.

A proper lady tucks her car at the rear of her domicile and enters through the backdoor, so that her premises will appear undisturbed, pristine, and desolate, just as a realtor or HGTV host would have it. She will never mar the beauty of her home by sitting on the front porch, allowing her pets to frolic in the front yard, or letting her children toss a ball where someone might see. No one wants to view an old lady tottering to her front door or sprawled on the steps with a broken hip. It's uncouth. Folks simply can't bear to watch a young mother tote groceries into the house. How degrading.

Walking and smoking no longer the downfall of genteel living, it's the misparked car that will bring civilization to a hallelujah-halt in the south. Untinted lips, however, still run a close second.

Living Fearlessly

"With hair like that, you oughta have more fun," my husband whistled Friday evening, when I came through the door. I had just been to my strategically planned, 6 weeks in advance, downplay-the-gray hair appointment. I looked in the hall mirror. "Oh my gosh," I whispered. "He's right. I should have more fun."

My hairdresser had left me a little long baking under the dryer. What appeared honey-wheat colored under the low lights of the salon now revealed itself to be popcorn blond - the shade of "more fun."

This morning I woke up (thank goodness) and I knew (finally) my New Year's Resolution. I've decided to live fearlessly, starting today. That means not simply existing from moment to moment, drifting wherever life takes me, but choosing my moments, driving my time, taking some risks, having more fun.

I started this afternoon by taking back a room in my house given over to laundry, storage, and clutter. I've avoided cleaning out the room because I didn't want to make decisions about the stuff. I didn't think I could ever get to the bottom of the pile. I agonized: What would be the point of the project, anyway? Why engage in an exercise of futility?

Good things are happening, though. Tonight, my city trashcan is full, I can see the floor, one of my children surprisingly hugged me and thanked me for my effort. And my husband has agreed that we will plunge forward and turn the space into a private den for the two of us, a love nest. Our own escape from the world.

One day down, the rest of the year to go, and tomorrow's Monday - a true test of my resolve. I have to go to work with my hair the hue of hand lotion. But I'm sticking with it, living fearlessly, even though I'm scared to death. The good thing is, since it took me three months to figure out my resolution, I only have nine months left to lose heart and break it. And, since most people have already dumped their resolutions by March, I'm ahead of the game.