The Confederate States Of America

I was flipping channels last night and landed on a film called The C.S.A. (The Confederate States Of America). I'm a bit of a history buff and at first thought it was a real documentary about the Confederate side of the Civil War. But it soon became clear that it was a "mocumentary", answering the question, what if the South had won? The film, made by Kevin Wilmott and produced by Spike Lee, is a satirical look at what would have happened to this country had the North lost, Abraham Lincoln had been hounded to Canada, and we made slavery mandatory back in 1865.

It is a very well done slice of alternative history, filmed in the irresistible style of Ken Burns. There were the eloquent historians talking to camera, old black and white photos, "historical" documents, clips from fictional movies such as "I Married An Abolitionist!", and the now de riguer celebrities reading letters in a very moving way. In this reality, The C.S.A. conquered Mexico and most of South America, was allied with Hitler during WWII, and Canada was the home of Hollywood and rock and roll.

One of the more amusing conceits was the inclusion of "commercials" from the present day pushing products like Niggerhair Cigarettes, Darky Toothpaste, and Sambo motor oil, and urging you to visit The Coon Chicken Inn, to name but a few. Very clever, I thought to myself - until the end of the film when it was revealed that these were, in fact, all real products and places from the 19th and 20th centuries. Then it wasn't quite so funny anymore.




As a matter of fact, Darky Toothpaste was still being manufactured in Asia until 1978, when Proctor and Gamble bought it and changed the name to Darlie. And although it wasn't shown in the film, I did find that there is a condom still being sold in Japan called Power Black Color Rubber, with the tag line "Keep it real. Keep on faith. Keep it going. Piece! So cool. Respect."

Right.

I'm late to this party - the film came out in 2005, the DVD in 2006, and only now is it being shown on cable. But if you get the chance to watch it, do. I bet Aunt Jemimah and Uncle Ben would probably really appreciate it.

The Swarm

The cicadas arrived a couple of weeks ago and they are driving me crazy. The little buggers appear out of nowhere about this time every summer and do their best to scare the total bejeesus out of me.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not afraid of bugs (that is me holding the one pictured to the right. You can tell it's me by the total lack of any kind of manicure.) And it's not even the incessant "songs" they sing every night that can get so loud it will drown out all normal conversation.

Nope, it's because they deliberately lie in wait just outside the door; and when I take a step through .... BAM! ... I get nailed. At least once a day, I am dive bombed by one of the damn things. They are pretty big bugs and fast, too; if they manage to smack you upside the head, you feel it. And up close and personal like that, they sound like a chain saw.

Recently I walked out onto the deck, carrying a glass of wine, and one flew straight for my eyes. This startled me into involuntarily hurling my own drink up into my face. As much as it royally entertained everyone else present, I was much less than pleased.

The one pictured above knocked himself out trying to get me last night, so I grabbed him to have a little talk, and maybe get him to pass on a few words of warning to his friends. He got a little angry, but that just made me enjoy it even more.

Right after that, I squashed him! Haha, just kidding! I only flicked him between the eyes like he meant to do to me, then I let him go free. I am expecting some sort of revenge attempt later this evening, but I'll be ready with my tennis racket, baby. Bring 'em on!

Good Neighbors

Our next door neighbors, who pretty much disliked us the entire time we had a blue tarp on our roof, have done a total 180 since we finished up the house renovations. As I mentioned earlier, they have taken to bringing over huge bags of their home-grown tomatoes every other day or so. Okay, I'm getting sick of tomato sandwiches now. There, I said it. But still, better than the cold shoulder we used to get, I suppose.

Unfortunately, our neighbors on the other side of us have sold their house, as all their kids are in college now and they are downsizing. They were great; very friendly, someone you could get help from in a pinch, yet didn't want to really socialize too much. They were perfect. Mom stopped and chatted with them today at the yard sale they were having (I thought they could have given us a heads-up on their wicker porch furniture, but noooo it was already sold) and it seems that the people who bought the house are, and I quote, "Yankees from Connecticut" who tried to "nickel and dime" them on the price. Good lord, we have Northerners moving in next door! I hope they don't try any kind of that funny foreign stuff with us.

Roadkill

I ran over a baby squirrel today on the way to work, which is always a pleasant way to start the day. I'm telling you, the amount of dead animals you see on the side of the road around here is mind-boggling. And no, it wasn't me that smooshed them all.

Just in the general vicinity of my little town, I have noticed dead dogs, cats, raccoons, possums, deer, foxes, chickens, squirrels, turtles, beavers, birds, a pig and once, I-swear-to-God, a big black bear cub. You become immune to it after a while, but when I first came back here from the UK I had a bit of trouble taking in all the carnage. In England you might see a dead hedgehog on the odd occasion, but they probably keeled over from some old lady overfeeding them.

Although, now that I think about it, when I married The Wanker in Yorkshire, a guest hit a huge pheasant on the way to the reception and very kindly brought it with him as an extra "gift". He was a bit of a toff and didn't like to see such good meat go to waste. And people make fun of rednecks....

'Mater Sammich

It seems that our stock with the neighbors has skyrocketed since we finally got the roof done.

Yesterday, they brought over a whole bushel of home-grown tomatoes. Mmmmmmm. So, I'm gonna let all you Yankees and Brits that read this blog see for yourself one of the finest examples of redneck cuisine going, the good old tomato sandwich.


First you need the 'maters. Then you slice them. That's it. Even Joe-Bob can do that! Dayum!






To complete the process you MUST have two more items; good redneck mayonnaise and white bread. I used Hellman's, but Duke's is a nicer choice. Any kind of crappy white bread will do, the doughier the better.


Hang on bubba, I can tell what you're thinking .... for gawd's sakes, DON'T make your own mayo OR use some kinda fancy French bread! You're not from around here, are ya?

Okay, slap on the mayo, loads of it, layer on the tomato slices, add salt and pepper and dig in.

This is truly a slice of Southern Heaven on a plate.

Putting On The Gritz

Overheard at our Country Club swimming pool yesterday .....

Immaculately coiffed and painted mom #1:
"Well, I just don't know about her. The last time we had the Daughters* at her house, she served deviled eggs in a deep dish ..." (rolls her eyes)

Immaculately coiffed and painted mom #2:
(In amazement) "Good Lord! No egg tray plate?"


*Daughters is in reference to the Daughters of the American Revolution. A hoity-toity group of people, if you ask me. But they are right, you should NEVER serve deviled eggs in a deep dish. I'm betting the lady in question is a Yankee.

Gone Fishing

After the last couple of weeks of stress, we decided it would be a good idea for the family to go fishing for the weekend. I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking, as the last time I went fishing Jimmy Carter was President, but I agreed to the plan.

The SO and our good friend GW left towing the boat Thursday night; I was to pick up the girls from school Friday and meet them at the lake. It was to be a relaxing family-type weekend of sun and fun.

But first, I had to take them to the movies; somehow I had been maneuvered into a promise to take them to see "The Last Mimzy". The little buggers held me to that promise with a steely determination that is to be much admired.

For those of you with more than one child, you know that when they are hell-bent and presenting a united front to get what they want, it's a tough row to hoe. I swear, if they were put in charge of US Foreign Policy and told that getting our troops out of Iraq would earn them candy or a Bratz doll, the war would be over in less than three days.

As much as I tried to twist out out of it, they had a good comeback and never once whined. They are getting very clever in a way that makes parents start losing sleep and looking over their shoulders with a nervous tic. But hey, I'm not proud; I gave in. The movie was pretty good, though.

I then had the pesky task of buying a fishing rod for The Princess. Not just any old pole would do for her Majesty; we had to spend 35 minutes picking out the right color. What can I say, she is my child. I KNEW she wasn't the slightest bit interested in actually catching a fish, but she still had to have the best on offer. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Finally, we set off on the road; me, The Princess, The Teenager and The Movie Star (so called because she swans around quite dramatically like a '40's starlet - if we would have let her pack a silk headscarf, feather boa, or ballet shoes a la Audrey Hepburn to wear while angling, she would have).

They had the ginormous bucket of $20 popcorn left-over from the movie riding in their laps. After multiple pit stops to get rid of the $20 giant keg of Coke they had consumed, we arrived at the lakehouse just in time to go to bed! Hurrah! I gratefully fell asleep on the couch with my shoes still on.

Saturday was glorious; GW is an early bird and got up and made the girls breakfast and let me have a lie-in; I knew there was a reason he was our friend! They plonked down in front of the TV while he and the SO got their gear ready and I dragged my sorry butt out of bed. The boys took off in the boat and we girls wandered down to the pier. We said hello to the grizzled old men perched on the shore and set up camp.

Three and a half hours later, there was still no fish caught. The Princess had long since thrown down her pole, declaring fishing "stupid" and was happily immersed in her Naruto book. She was content that she had hooked The Teenager's hair by accident, causing much commotion, and that was the "catch of the day" as far as she was concerned.

The Movie Star flitted up and down the pier chatting to anyone who walked by and happily posed for photo-ops; she was much more interested in what the breeze was doing to her coiffure (she was without the aid of her silk headscarf) and squealed like a banshee over every bug that came remotely near her personal boundary of 100-feet-in-any-direction.

Thankfully, The Teenager actually likes fishing. She approached the task at hand with serious intent and massive patience. Suddenly, she started catching fish. I was alarmed, as I had not seriously believed she would actually snag one. The grizzled old men wandered over to comment on her skill, which is quite a compliment.

However, her skill ended at the catching and she didn't know what to do with the gasping fish at her feet. I was forced to shed the years of chic urban cosmopolitan living I had built up as a protective shell and revert back to the country girl I grew up as. Yeehaw!

As I held down each flopping brim she wrested out of the lake, getting stuck by their sharp stabby fins and wrenching the hooks from their mouths with a pair of pliers while their blood splurted all over my shoes and the two little girls screamed in disgust, I realized I was having a great time.

I sure hope they remember that day as fondly as I will.

Keeping Up With The Joneses

Today, The SO and I were outside admiring the work that has been done on the house when our next door neighbor came out and SPOKE TO US. He hasn't done that since we accidentally blew insulation out of our attic into his yard last year.

Things are definitely looking up.

It's Raining Multi-National Roof Men, Halliluja!

A little over two years ago, we started to notice that every time it rained, a small leak would appear in the upstairs hallway ceiling. For a while, we would just put a bucket under it and forget about it until it rained again.

Unfortunately, as the leak didn't go away, and in fact kept getting worse, The SO decided he needed to take a look at what exactly was going on in the attic. As I stood underneath the access door waiting for the verdict, his foot came crashing through the hall ceiling.

"Yeah, it's what I was afraid of" he stated calmly, sticking his head through the gaping hole to peer down at me. "Oh my god, what the hell was THAT?" I shrieked. "It's bad. Very bad. You need to come up here and see for yourself." he replied. "It's worse than you deliberately kicking a hole in the ceiling?!" I shouted nicely. "Yep" he answered. "Much, much worse".

And so the saga of our roof began. It seems that previous owners had taken short cuts when it came to home repair, and had just layered shingle-upon-shingle on the roof. It's a 100yr old house, and they were seven layers deep in some places. This, I have learned, is wrong roof maintenance in a very wrong way.

When it rained, water poured through all those old decayed shingles straight onto the main support beam for the entire roof....which was rotting. Rotting so bad you could actually flick pieces off of it with your fingernail. Which I did out of curiosity, until I thought about what I was doing, got scared, and quit.

Lucky for us The SO is an old-school Southern boy who can fix or build just about anything. He decided that since the roof had to be repaired anyway, he would make the attic into another room, re-frame the roof himself, and then hire someone to shingle it. The way he explained it, it sounded easy-peasy and not so expensive!

Mom and I agreed that we KNEW there was a reason we loved him and said, "let's do it"!

He tackled it immediately, beavering away every weekend. Over the course of a year, he singlehandedly replaced the massive rotting support beam and re-framed almost the entire roof. He built a staircase up to the next floor, re-routed electrical wires and heating ducts, blew insulation out and in, and was just generally everything a girl wants in a man; handsome, sweaty and working hard for her.

Okay, so the roof had a blue tarp on it for eight months and we became a kind of land-mark in the area. I once heard someone in the local quickie mart say, when giving directions to a lost soul, "You'll want to take a left at the corner of Sunset - you can't miss it, it's the big house with the blue tarp on the roof". I was proud.

By the end of last summer, it was *this* close to being complete. He had gotten to the point where he needed at least one other person (who was not me) to help him get the last bit done. His brother kept promising to show up but could never find the time. Then The SO had his accident. We pretty much knew, after that, he wasn't getting back on the roof for any reason and we reluctantly began to look for someone who could.

Gone are the days of Billy-Bob's Roof Repair in these parts; it seems the good old boys have moved on to other professions that pay less but aren't nearly as hard work. In the end we hired a Mexican crew to come and finish it up, which they did very fast and very well. I thoroughly enjoyed watching them squabble over who had to take the old shingles down 3 flights to the skip and I distinctly heard the loser mention to the winner that the winner's "madre" was a "puta". Quality entertainment.

Now we have a Franco crew re-siding the house, replacing windows and screens and generally making it look like we aren't poor white trash. I believe they are Quebecois and am burning to know how the HELL they ended up down here but, quelle domage, only one speaks English. He has rebuffed all my attempts at conversation with that irritating Gallic habit of staring at you until you finish talking and then shrugging his shoulders and wandering away mumbling.

My school-girl French is spoken with such a distinct redneck accent - "quelle heure est-il" comes out sounding like "killeraay tee y'all" - that I am loath to attempt it again with real Frogs (I tried to speak French in Paris, once, which is a butt-clenching story for another time) and so I remain in the dark. Tomorrow I am going to shout "Freedom Fries" at him and see what happens.

Times in a small Southern town, they are a-changing....

But the fantastic news is; the roof is fixed, the house is re-sided, new windows are to be installed, and my children will be able to swear in Spanish AND French!

Now that's value for money.

Gray Hair And Speeding Tickets

I found a gray eyebrow hair yesterday. It was trying to hide, but came to light as I was plucking its brethren, and it died a speedy death. After I disposed of it, I remembered the old wives tale that if you pluck one gray hair, five more grow in its place. That sounds just like something they would do, those tricky little bastards.

I do NOT wish to think about what else might be turning gray, as it is just too grisly to contemplate right now. Plus, today I had my eyes checked and I have to get bifocals. Double aging whammies, bam BAM!

However, I comfort myself with the absolute knowledge that aging doesn't slow you down. I mean that literally, it doesn't slow you down. Our resident wild-child, better known around these parts as Grandma, got a speeding ticket. She was driving 50 in a 25. I know this because I was in the car with her. Just as we hit railroad tracks with a BANG and entered free-fall, blue lights started flashing. "Uh-oh", muttered the elderly speed demon and pulled over.

The cop obviously thought he had a live one, as he had called for back-up. Did I mention this happened in a town even smaller than the one we actually live in? He must have thought he popped a gangsta running drugs, or maybe a murderer fleeing the scene of the crime. Good Lord! The excitement, the drama! His partner rolled up and he ran to our car. He was visibly deflated to find instead a flustered old lady, her smirking daughter, her mortified granddaughter, and her delighted grandson staring back at him.

"Ma'm, was there a reason you were going so fast?" he asked her in bewilderment. Grandma was flushed and looked like she might break into tears at any second.

"I don't know this area very well, Officer, I had no IDEA I was speeding." she replied in her best wavering, confused-old-lady voice. She is a sly minx, as that is a bold faced lie, and after she said it, she surreptitiously glanced at me and winked.

He stood and stared at her, mouth agape for just a second, then shrugged his shoulders, defeated. As he wandered back to his car, dragging his feet to tell his back-up buddy the gangsta was just an old lady and NOT America's most wanted, I felt kind of sorry for him.

Finally, he came back and sloooowly explained to the doddering old Grandma, who was becoming more pathetic by the minute, how he was only giving her a ticket for going 40 in a 25 and how to pay that ticket in Court. He nobly tried to ignore The Boy, who was shouting "Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!" from the backseat and waving at him to beat the band, but he just couldn't do it. He waved back with a smile and left. What a nice guy.

As we peeled out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel, the steel-haired Speed Racer guffawed out loud. "He could have gotten my license for that!"she exclaimed with glee, relishing the fact that the Officer was a sucker.

It seems you're never too old to stick it to the MAN.

Tarheel Born

" I'm a Tar Heel born I'm a Tar Heel bred
And when I die I'm a Tar Heel dead.
So it's RAH, RAH, Car'lina 'lina
RAH, RAH, Car'lina 'lina
RAH, RAH, Car'lina
RAH! RAH! RAH!"

You may know that you are an avidly crazy sports fan (see Boston Redsox fans, pictured left). You may be certain you support a team that has an intense rivalry with scum (see the Everton slam against Roooney joining Man Utd., pictured right).












But those of you not living here in the U.S. South watching Atlantic Coast Conference basketball will probably never understand its importance to the warp and weave of the entire culture here. What is the ACC? It is simply the best of the best of college b-ball.

Professional baseball, football, hockey, hell, even NBA teams, can't hold a candle to our interest in this amateur sport.

The Carolina Panthers were in the SuperBowl in 2004; we were mildly excited (they lost). The Carolina Hurricanes won the Stanley Cup last year; good job guys (we had a half-assed local parade). The Charlotte Bobcats .... well, never mind about them (they suck). The Durham Bulls even had a hugely successful Hollywood movie made based on their club, and they're lucky to get 7,000 fans to turn up for a title game.

But when the ACC Tournament season begins on the 8th, employees from seven states around will be calling in sick and kids will be missing school, if the schools haven't provided TV sets on which to watch the games (it happens on Tobacco Road).

The intense rivalries of the teams permeates everything here and woe betide a foreigner (or worse, some kind of Yankee) moving down here who just doesn't get it. You better pick a team quick, buddy, and stick with them until the bitter end. You can't sit on our white picket fences in this case, there's no middle ground here.

You might think that most supporters would be alumni of a particular school, but that's not the case. There are generations of fans who have never sent a single family member to higher education, yet metaphorically live and die with their team. And which team you root for can get you a job interview or cost you one, get you out of a fist-fight or quickly into one.

We are immensely proud of our collegiate system, which has provided the most top draft picks in the NBA since drafts started, and currently has placed players in 25 of the 29 NBA teams. We are the birthing place of Michael Jordon, the frickin' god of basketball. Enough said.

If you are born and bred here, you will already be assigned a team by your kith and kin. Sure, you can be a rebel and go against them, but that way lies madness, chaos and bitter family reunions. I can't ever remember NOT watching the University of North Carolina play basketball.

I stayed out of school (with my dad) in 1982 to see Michael Jordan make the miraculous Hail Mary basket against Georgetown that won the NCAA title. When I lived in the UK, my lovely parents sent me VHS tapes of games in '93 so I could see the Tarheels wipe up Michigan State for yet another Championship. You can see it was a forgone conclusion that I was going to UNC-Chapel Hill to get my degree. Go HEELS!

"So why is ACC basketball different from any other sports? I am a rabid fan of Team 'X', who are the best, what makes you lot so special?", I hear you asking. And what a valid question, well done!

In my opinion, the ACC is unique in that support from fans cuts through all social classes. For example, in the UK (generally speaking) football is considered "working class", cricket is for the "toffs" and rugby is for the "Welsh". In other countries (and most U.S. cities), one sport rules all, like Canadian ice hockey, Japanese baseball, or Brazilian football. You don't really have a choice; if you want to be a winner, you support your team.

Around here, we look down on other sports, of which there plenty, EVEN WHEN WE ARE GOOD AT THEM. They just ain't OUR boys, dadgummit. I'm not sure that happens anywhere else.

P.S.
Go to hell DUKE. Why did you have to beat up on my boy Tyler? If I was his mama, I would have rushed the court and wailed on Coach K's skinny rat-like butt until he squeaked.

The Five Steps To Heaven

The waiting room of a colonoscopy clinic is just about the last place I expected to be recruited for a whites-only Jesus Army, but God does move in mysterious ways.

Yesterday, I took Mom for her fun date with the colon camera. She was a little tense, so I managed to refrain from cracking bad jokes at her expense ("Hey Mom, say cheese!" et cetera). It's a lengthy process; although the procedure itself usually lasts about forty-five minutes, they keep patients in the recovery room for a couple of hours for observation and to let the sedative wear off. Meanwhile, the person who brought you gets to hang around in the waiting room. I normally go armed with a book for those sorts of things, but this day was special. It was crowded.

I squeezed onto the end of a couch next to an elderly lady, smiled at her, and prepared myself for boredom with a sigh. The lady smiled back at me and said, "Was that your mother with you? What's she in for? I'm here with my husband, he's having a biopsy done. Tomorrow is our 37th wedding anniversary."

She was obviously in the mood to talk, so I put my book down and struck up a conversation. It turned out that she lived not too far from us; after establishing that we didn't have any mutual family or friends, which is always the first thing done when meeting new people in The South, we began to chat amiably about life in our small town.

Then the talk turned to the local school system. I told her I was pleased with The Princess' education thus far. She disagreed with my assessment and informed me that she had home-schooled her four children when she discovered that they were learning sex ed. "My husband and I felt that learning was agin' our religious beliefs" she explained. I smiled and nodded, inwardly marveling that she had actually used the word 'agin' in a non-ironic fashion.

"And then my oldest told me he had to read Black Boy. That book was just downright objectionable!" she proclaimed. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, as Richard Wright has always been a favorite of mine. A little butterfly of anxiety fluttered in my stomach, warning me to stand back from the approaching train wreck. "I understand that blacks are unhappy but there's no need for us to read that sort of thing. I loved teaching history to my kids, what really happened. You know, they got sold as slaves by their own people in Africa! I don't know why they blame us." she continued.

My mental alarm bell began to ring, and in my head was swirling the thought - 'please don't say it, please don't say it, please don't say it, please don't s-' She perked up and interrupted my interior monologue with, "I mean, they lived on plantations and were treated like family. Why did they complain? It just wasn't that bad!" D'oh! She said it.

I rose to flee when she stopped me. "Let me ask you this though. Do you think you're going to heaven?". Okaaay, the afore-mentioned mental alarm bell was clanging loudly now. A racist and a evangelical... definitely time to run away!

"I sure hope so", I replied quickly and hoofed it to the bathroom. To be honest, I was hoping she would be gone when I came back out, but no such luck. I peeked around the corner and there she was, waiting for me with an expectant smile on her face. "Do you go to church?" she asked me, when I reluctantly sat back down. "Yes, and I'm very happy with it, thanks anyway" I said, hoping to stave off the inevitable pitch.

But she was not to be denied and handed me a brochure. "Well, I just wanted to give you this pamphlet before I go. This is my church and I wanted to share the good news of Jesus-Christ-Our-Lord-and-Saviour with you, so you don't have to hope to be saved, you will be".













She then recited from memory the entire Five Steps To Heaven at me, with the requisite biblical quotes, as I read along from my copy. My personal favorite was Romans 6:23, spoken with only a tiny hint of hysteria. "And the wages of sin are DEATH!". Yikes. She stood up, patted my arm and whispered, "Just think about it for the sake of your children's souls." She bestowed one last beatific gaze on me and went on her merry.

As I carefully watched her to make sure she was really leaving, I saw the other people sitting around us grinning at me with looks that positively screamed, "Ha! Better you than me sucker!" Gee, thanks waiting room people, you've been swell.

As for Mom, she has the cleanest, healthiest colon east of the Rockies and doesn't remember a thing about it. I do believe I suffered more than she did. She says it's instant karma for posting about her poo on the internets, but I know it's because Jesus loves me.

At The Gym With The Fabulous Miss Vee

Just back from my second visit to the gym this week. I recently found this picture of myself taken the summer before The Boy was born and realized that I couldn't even get my leg into that mini-skirt I'm wearing (I'm the second from right). I also realize now, looking at it posted, that I have incredibly knobby knees. What's up with that? Oh well, my friends are smoking hot - they all still look like that, those biotches, and two of them have had kids since me! So, I tell myself, who's gonna notice my knees (or fat) when surrounded by such beauty, eh?

Tragically, as I can't always count on my friends being available to distract others from my overt voluptuousness (to put it kindly), to the gym I must go. Lucky for me my gym buddy is the Fabulous Miss Vee, a long-time childhood friend of mine (not pictured). She is a six-foot tall blond Amazonian goddess who has no real need to exercise, but she does have the super-motivating effect of making me look even shorter and dumpier when I stand next to her in front of those god awful ceiling-to-floor mirrors doing squats.

I think she missed her vocation; she should have been a drill sergeant, as she excels at shouting at me when I want to quit. "Think about The Boy! Don't you want to be able to run and actually catch him without having a stroke?" she cajoles. "No whining! Whining is for flabby people!" she reminds me gently.

Not only did the Fabulous Miss Vee grow up here, she has the added bonus of being married to a county government official and is also a member of the Junior League. This trifecta results in her knowing practically everyone who walks through the door. If she's in the mood, she can keep me entertained with amusing stories while we walk on the treadmill until I forget that I am totally out of shape and end up pulling a hamstring.

Having been the subject of town gossip for over a year, I don't have a problem with listening to tales about other people now. Life in a small town was ever thus, I say philosophically to myself, whenever I feel guilty. Which is not often.

Tonight our workout was a goodie as always, the time just flew by:

"You see that guy in the blue sweatshirt? I remember when he was little, he was kind of fat and dumpy and could never get a date. He's a good guy, he just looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy, bless his heart. Hi!", she shouts, waving to a pretty brunette getting off the elliptical nearby, who cheerfully waves back.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"That's Michelle, she's married to Andy, you know the local insurance guy, you met them at my Christmas party last year. Nice couple. That's the party where Laura announced to everyone on the patio that her husband got a lap dance from a stripper the last time he was in Atlanta on business, and then they had that big fight and went home?".

"Oh yeah, I remember that, the SO was trapped out there for an hour listening to her tale of woe, he was really mad at me that I ditched him with her", I say. We laugh, thinking better him than us. Women can be cruel.

"They're having trouble getting pregnant." she continues.

"Who, Laura?" I interrupt, confused.

"Oh my god, no, Laura got pregnant that very night when they went home and had make-up sex. Apparently, all you have to do is look at her and she gets knocked up, sad to say, their first kid was bratty enough for three. No, Michelle and Andy want a baby, they're doing all that fertility stuff where you have to take your temperature and then stand on your head after you do it, but they haven't had any luck yet. Anyway, when he graduated from high school ..."

"Who, Andy?" I interrupt again, still confused.

"No, the guy in the blue sweatshirt over there, his name is Michael. When he graduated, he started working out and got pretty buff and eventually managed to snag Amanda, she's that gal who works for the Farm Bureau, you remember her, the cute little blond I pointed out at Belk's the last time we were there? Everyone thought she was kind of out of his league at the time, but they went ahead and got hitched. D and I went to their wedding at the Baptist church on Main Street, what a palaver, it was a real society la-di-dah "do", you know the deal. Her daddy is some big corporate chief over at RTP, I'm sure you've seen him driving that yellow Porsche around town".

"I have no idea who you're talking about." I assure her.

"You haven't seen him? You will, he must be going through the male menopause, he's all over the place in that thing. Is your heart rate at 140 yet? At your age, it's got to get at least to 140 for the cardio, I always increase the incline for a better burn. You doing that?"

"Yes, increasing the incline right away", I whimper and comply.

"Dammit these pants from Target are sweaty! You get what you pay for, I always forget that. Anyhoo, before the wedding cake crumbs got dusted off his jacket, he let himself GO and BAM he was fat as all get out. Now he's working out again, and people are wondering if he doesn't have some bit on the side. I don't think so, I think his better half told him to shape up or ship out, her type is shallow like that. But there's definitely some woman behind it, he's looking slimmer now, that's for sure. Lord, I should have shaved my legs, they are driving me crazy. But I never shave the whole leg in the winter, only the bits you can see. Maybe I should, D would probably think he'd died and gone to heaven..."

Ding! chimes the timer on my treadmill. Damn, is that the time? Another workout done before I know it!

"Too bad this place doesn't have a bar in it, I could kill a beer right now!"

Are you listening gym owners? Words of wisdom from the Fabulous Miss Vee....

Out Of The Mouths Of Babes

I had a disturbing conversation tonight with The Princess. She tearfully informed me that she is getting picked on at school because she is half-English, which somehow makes her suspect. She was told today by a boy in her class that she wasn't really American, and that she should just go back to her "own" country. It really hurt her feelings, as she is very proud of the fact that she was born in the UK and that she has English family and friends.

I was intensely pissed off and immediately had the idea of tracking down the wretched snot who said this and wringing his scrawny little neck. I ignored that impulse and instead suggested the conventional "why don't you just ignore him" parental advice.

"I've tried that, it doesn't work", she said.

"Okay, tell him you're not going anywhere, if he doesn't like it, HE can leave", I offered.

"I SAID that already! It didn't work!" she rebutted.

"Babes, you know he's only picking on you because he likes you." I said. It's amazing the lines you trot out by habit that you can remember your own mother telling you back in the day.

She rolled her eyes at me and said, "No he DOESN'T! He doesn't like me because I'm white. He doesn't like any of the white kids at school, only the black ones because he's black! He says we're all white devils!".

Whoa Nelly! Now THAT'S a different kettle o' racism altogether. Here I was so busy trying to teach my child to be open to all cultures and ethnicities that I totally forgot to mention to her that intolerance cuts both ways. And damned if it doesn't start at a tender age; I don't know why I was so surprised, but I was really taken aback. Silly me, I forgot where I live yet again, it seems. If my white half-English child is getting so much stick, I dread to think what the Muslim and Latino kids at her school hear on a daily basis.

I'm going to be paying a visit to her classroom in the next few days; I think a swift kick of consciousness-raising is a tad overdue.

Not Ready To Make Nice

Just watching the Grammy Awards; sadly I missed the much ballyhooed Police reunion, but I have been tickled pink by the fact The Dixie Chicks pretty much won everything they were nominated for, including album of the year.

If you don't know anything about them, they are a country music trio who were wildly popular until the lead singer was quoted on the eve of the invasion of Iraq saying, "Just so you know, we're ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas" during a concert in London (they are from Texas as well).

They were instantly pilloried in the U.S. press, country music stations stopped playing their songs, and former fans destroyed their albums because they were "un-American" in the usual over-reactionary hysterical fashion. It was a real witch-hunt, all very well documented in Shut Up And Sing. I recommend watching it if you get the chance.

"Taking The Long Way" is an excellent album that addresses what they've been through the last few years as social and commercial pariahs (who turned out to be right). They were very gracious in their acceptance, pointing out that the Grammy voters seemed to be exercising their free speech more than commenting on the quality of their music.

Although the quality of their music is top-notch, I would say they were right; up yours Dubya.

Viva the Hoo Ha!

There is a dinner theater in Atlantic Beach, Florida that is currently presenting an amateur version of 'The Vagina Monologues'. It's being produced by a group of law students, with all proceeds to be donated to local charities. That's a worthy endeavour, I hear you say; nicely done you wonderful law students but shouldn't you be suing someone, I hear you wonder; please GOD don't make me sit through an amateur version of the 'The Vagina Monologues', I hear you beg. Look, please stop begging, I can assure you NOBODY wants to see that.

The reason this dinner theater has come to my attention is that they have voluntarily changed the lettering on their marquee after a complaint from a local citizen who did not want to see the word "vagina" written on a sign IN PUBLIC. The nerve! I almost felt like swooning myself!

Their solution? Change the name of the play to......'The HooHaa Monologues' . I know it sounds too good to be true, but you can read about it here. For those of you NOT from the American South, hoo ha is a slang word for .... well, you know, that place in your down-belows that only women have, that wereallyshouldn'tbetalkingabout!

I got the impression from the article that the dinner theater *might* have been taking the piss when they changed it, probably hoping to point out that the whole friggin' raison d'etre of the play is to demystify, and yes celebrate, the word "vagina".

I'm pretty sure the irony was lost on those who complained, but me and my hoo ha got a big kick out of it!

Little Missies

We finally got around to watching Little Miss Sunshine the other night. Brief synopsis; a dysfunctional family make a road trip to take their little girl to the 'Little Miss Sunshine' pageant. It's a pretty funny, classed-up "indie" version of National Lampoon's Vacation, and I mean that as a compliment.

The SO was a little wigged out by the kid's beauty contest at the end, as it very effectively highlights the freakish aspect of those shows. The sight of tiny Lolitas wearing layers of make-up, sporting big hair and sexy cocktail dresses, shaking their booties, made him feel.....what's the word? Disgusted. Yes, that's it. As the father of three little girls himself, he was disgusted. In fact, most people probably have the same reaction. Which makes the pay-off at the end (I won't spoil it in case you haven't seen it) hilariously inappropriate, as the film-makers take the whole contest to its extreme logical conclusion. Let's just say, Rick James' Superfreak makes a timely return to popular culture.

Truth be told, Little Miss Whatever pageants like that have been going on for years and are BIG business, especially in the South. Families can win money, scholarships, cars, the works. It's an estimated billion dollar a year industry in the US. Those who participate in them say it helps girls learn poise and confidence, how to lose gracefully, and that the girls want to compete, et cetera. Those who are against them say they wreck girls self-esteem, can lead to eating disorders and are more about the parent's wish to win, et cetera.

Personally, I think they are .... icky. I disagree with sexualizing little girls; girls have enough stuff to worry about as it is. But then I have always had a mis-trust of beauty queens (along with cheerleaders and sorority girls). They are terminally smiley and peppy, and I hate smiley and peppy. They are the sort of people who tell you to "turn that frown upside down" or "chin up! it's not that bad!". Well, yes actually it is, sod off, thanks. Nobody can be that cheerful all the time, dammit.

In the interests of disclosure, I was entered in a 'Little Miss' pageant in 1971. I was six. The dress was a lovely shade of lilac, the white gloves spotless, and my hair was teased a good foot up off the top of my head. Ahh, the bee-hive, too soon you were gone...

I'm quite sure I wasn't soured or scarred by this experience in any way.

Embarrassment ...

...sympathy, extreme annoyance and a vague hint of fear. It's amazing the feelings that can overwhelm you when confronted by a very pissed-off fat lady.

Allow me to explain.

I work at a small-town craft gallery; it's a family run business that has been trading for nigh on 40 years. We sell pottery, glass, jewelry, mixed-media, textiles and much more. It's all hand-made; quite a few items are created in local studios, right next to the store, by very talented artists. I think one of the elements for its success has been that the customer is always right. We bend over backwards to deliver the goods and service that people want, and I think we do a pretty darn good job of it.

Last Sunday I had quite a bewildering retail experience. A customer came up to the counter to purchase a bracelet. As my colleague and I rang up and bagged her selection, the lady stared at us intently and then angrily yelped, "Is there a problem with the pewter?". We jumped, startled at her tone, and confused by her question. "Huh?" I said in my most intelligent manner, for I am good at that sort of thing.

"The pewter. Over there. I was holding a pewter hippo and my mother saw you laughing at me because of my size. Ha ha, a fat lady holding a hippo. I get it, I know I'm fat, but that's uncalled for. I mean, I don't care, I'm used to it, but it really bothered my mother!" she concluded in a shriek. I stopped and looked at her. REALLY looked at her. And she WAS fat. No, she was beyond fat, she was obese. Her rear-end was like a ledge on which you could place a formal table-setting, slide a chair up under it and have a five course meal.

My colleague and I looked at each other in astonishment, as neither one of us had made any comments, nor laughed at anything, probably all day. This would be due mainly to my colleague's irritating OCD tendencies, which goad her to do things like continuously re-arrange paper bags while I hiss at her, "Stop it, LEAVE IT! It looks fine!"

We found ourselves lamely apologizing for something we DIDN'T do, because *the customer is always right*, and feeling extremely embarrassed for both us and her. The thing is, she was convinced that she was the butt (pardon the pun) of a joke and any denial on our part would have been totally unconvincing.

Should we have not apologized and told her, "Look you're really fat, sorry love, people can't help but notice it, don't be such a sensitive cow?" No, I didn't think so, either. In the end, she left somewhat mollified, while we sat around and moped the rest of the day, feeling rather upset about the whole sorry episode.

Did we do the right thing? And what is the proper etiquette when one is accused of making an insulting comment of which you are not guilty? That's uncharted territory for me, as in most cases I have made the insulting comment and am just patiently waiting to take credit for it.

It's a philosophical exercise for better minds than mine. So what do you think?

Peanuts and Coca-Cola

When I was a little girl, my daddy used to take me to the local store and buy us both a cold bottle of Coke and a pack of peanuts as a special treat. You would take the peanuts and empty the bag into your bottle, and enjoy the ambrosia that is peanuts and "co-cola". You don't see that much anymore, I guess because a) you can't easily get glass bottles of Coke anymore, and b) it's kind of gross if you think about it.

I was reminded of that recently when the significant other and I were dining at the Italian restaurant in town. They had recently remodeled and re-opened their doors promising "gourmet" food, so we excitedly gussied up and went, having tired of Cracker Barrel.

An elderly couple came in and sat down in the booth behind us. Obviously country folk, she wearing her best day dress, he wearing his best overalls, they looked bewildered at what had happened to their local pizza place and sat in silence, darting little uncomfortable glances at the other people there. Being notoriously nosey, I ceased listening to the SO, and immediately went on point, intrigued.

The server, who used to be a down-to-earth waitress before the great makeover and was obviously underwhelmed by it all, shuffled over with the complimentary appetizer and dropped it down on the table with a clunk.

"What is THAT?" asked the elderly gent. "I dunno, honey, but it's free", said the waitron-turned-server, who quickly scurried away from the confused pair. "It's bruschetta.", I pipe up from my side of the adjoining booth. I had, of course, been waiting for just such a chance to get closer in my eavesdropping attempt.

"Brewshitta?" queried the lady, peering suspiciously at the offending food item. "You know, it's Italian. Like pizza." I answered helpfully. "Well, I don't know about all that ..." muttered the man and the pair slumped back into silence, glaring balefully at the plate.

It struck me then how fast the world is changing for people like them. Imagine it; one day you're out farming your tobacco fields and enjoying your peanuts and coke, the next day tobacco farming is dead and a snotty chick in a jumped-up pizza joint is lecturing you on some weirdo foreign food.

As they say in the South, bless their hearts.

Steel Magnolias

There is a certain type of older lady one can find in any small Southern town. You will see her tooling around in her brand-new Cadillac (preferably white), windows and nose firmly up. She is immaculately coiffured and painted, and her clothes are screamingly chic. It would not surprise you to walk into the local Sunrise Biscuit at 8 a.m. and encounter said lady wearing an electric blue couture Ungaro cocktail dress capped off by a full length fox-tail fur coat. In July.

She is usually the proprietor of her own successful business, yet gets along with nobody, especially not her immediate family. And she is completely and utterly looney. Mad as a hatter, nutty as a fruitcake, crazy as a shit-house rat. She has a persecution complex as big as the plantation her old-money family used to own, convinced that everyone is beneath her and out to "get" her in some mysteriously incomprehensible way. I always enjoy the company of these ladies immensely. *Caveat: Go out to dinner with them, just don't work for them. Trust me.*

They are the proto-feminists; while their sisters played safe by getting married and having kids, these grand old dames mucked around with business and played with the big boys, effectively, if somewhat bitchily, paving the way for us later gals to get where we are today.

In the particular town I live in her name is Sadie, and she has been waging a glorious war against the local government for the last twenty years. The origins of the rift are murky, but it appears to have all started with a botched paint job on her turn-of-the-century house on Main Street. She refused to pay the painters, they refused to come back and fix it, she dug in her heels (they were probably out to get her), and that was that. The paint began to slowly fade and peel in long obnoxious strips, the end result being her house now reminds one of Miss Haversham's crib in Great Expectations.

The state of Sadie's house, being right in the midst of the local poobahs and their "society" wives, caused an uproar. The City Council got involved after a couple of years. They sent letters, they begged, pleaded and cajoled to no avail. Sadie was famously seen cussing out the Mayor in front of the local Post-Office when he dared broached the subject of her "eyesore". It was a town scandal, and has generally entertained the non-society populace for quite some time.

So I had mixed feelings when I read in the local paper that the Council had finally managed to bully through a "beautification ordinance" last week. We all know why that ordinance was passed and who it is aimed at. Another magnolia seems doomed to wither and fall.