Bubba Land

(Okay, so I'm humming Beulah Land as I type. How appropriate.)

I read a comment recently on a blog I follow, and I was very dismayed at the commentor's apparent dislike for our regioin of the country.

I wish to move back to the beautiful Pacific Northwest and out of bubba land, she said.

As much as I wanted to say my wish was for her wish to be granted, I really wanted the green mixer that was being given away so I wished for something like world peace or whatever.

So what's keeping y'all here in bubba land, I wanted to ask. I know times are tough and you go where the work is and all, but really, we probably want you here less than you want to be here, so fly, fly away.

Then I felt bad for not extending that Southern hospitality we're known for around these parts (only for a little while, though because even though I am proud of that Southern hospitality, when you go calling my people bubbas, I get turned off real quick like.)

Look, can't we all just get along? I mean, what I love about my heritage might not be your cup of (sweet) tea, and I certainly don't agree with all your left coast ideas, but we can coexist without calling each other names like kindergartners on the playground, right?

So, DJ, if you're ever in my neck of the woods, come sit a spell. We'll get along or we won't, but it won't really matter because as much as I love my bubbas, grits, collards, mint juleps, azaleas, college football Saturdays, white sand beaches (come on, face it -- what's not to love about the South?) I'm looking to a land to which I've never been before, where time won't matter. And I'm even hoping you'll be there, too.

(You're humming it too, now, I know. Don't forget that small church choir twang, y'all.)

Boys vs. Girls - Prom Edition

Do you remember your prom? It took two sets of hot rollers (what are those, mom?) to do my hair, more hairspray than you care to know and several hours of my afternoon.

Things are different when you're a boy. You can literally shower in the morning, go about your day like it was any other, play video games with your friends, text your girlfriend asking what she's doing (having the hair done three hours beforehand, as it turns out), put on your tux about 30 minutes before you have to leave and still turn out as handsome as this...

or this...

with time left to act goofy...

or try to be cool...

while wondering if Mom will ever stop taking pictures...

and still being able to leave on time to pick up your date.

It just doesn't seem fair being a girl does it?

Happy Birthday, Cody!

Diet Coke and IVs

I am happy to report that the partial meniscectomy on my right knee is over and all should be well in 4-6 weeks. For the record, though, the day was, while the absolute best experience I've ever had with any healthcare facility, not without incident.

• I couldn't pee in the cup. I just couldn't. I didn't have to go. And so I held up the surgery rotation until I could do it.


• I have been carbonated beverage free since April 1, 2009. Yes, by choice. Until Friday. My blood pressure and blood sugar dropped so low following surgery that they made me drink a Diet Coke. I cried. I'm back on the wagon.


• I don't like IVs. The needles bother me. And someone could put whatever they want in it and make me really whack out. That's scary. So I put my foot down and said I sould not let them put an IV in me anywhere but near my elbow...you know, the normal place and all. Only my blood vessels didn't get the message and , well, see for yourself...

Remember those big tubes connected to the back of the people's heads in The Matrix? Ugh. That's what it looks like to me all plunged into the flesh and all. Gross.

Don't Be Shy

This is Baxter.

He's my new best friend. It's very sad, I must say. My late grandmother would be so proud and that's why it's so sad. I sit on the back porch watching the birds...like an old lady. And taking it a step further and naming them is even worse. I must get out more.

Baxter seemed to be camera shy one summerlike day last week. I don't know what it was 'cause he usually struts his stuff all around the yard. He flys from tree to tree, shakin' his tail feather, and perches on whatever limb gives him the most screen time. Or maybe he was just refusing to smile until summer comes. I'm with him.

Come, come summertime...don't, don't don't be shy. (by some cat named Schwayze)

Mmmm, Mmmm Good

Not long ago -- back before Thanksgiving -- I was watching a lady bug crawl around on the skylight (how do they always get inside, year after year?) and pondering one of those really important type questions...how do you make deviled eggs? Really, because my sister was so tired of bringing them to every family function. I mean, she's the logical one, don't you think, what with the chickens in her backyard and all. But nooooooo, she gave the task to me and that meant at age 37, I finally had to learn to make deviled eggs.

How do you devil an egg? I wondered.

I could have phoned a friend but that would mean I'd have to hear about calling myself Southern without knowing how to make deviled eggs. So I did what I knew best: consulted a cookbook. But not just any cookbook, this cookbook:

Oh my, it's become my go to for those dishes that everyone's mama and grandmama just know how to make, but the rest of us haven't bothered to master yet. Like Chicken Fried Steak, Squash Casserole, Chicken Noodle Soup, Pimento Cheese, buttermilk cornbread, greens, macaroni & cheese, and yes, deviled eggs. This should be required reading for all new Southern brides. Honestly, I figure all of us in my generation really should learn how to cook these things (disregard the fat if you really must) before those who have cooked it for us for so long are no longer around to give us pointers.

Easter Dress

Does anyone other than me remember what a huge deal it was to go shopping for an Easter dress when you were younger? I can still remember that is was most often white ('cause Easter officially kicked off the white clothing season and all), had some sort of eyelet lace somewhere (we didn't have the whole monogrammed craze back then), and most definitley was accompanied by white shoes, white lacy socks and more often than not, a hat (which either had a wide ribbon or stretchy piece of elastic for under the chin that held the hat on your head).

See what I mean...

Now, you have to be careful that flesh of the wing-joint-waitress-sort isn't on display for all to see in the dresses available today. It's just terrible and at total odds with our Southern heritage. It's like pound cake without the butter, or a garden without azaleas, or worse yet, tea without sugar. It just shouldn't be.

For the record, if you happen to see my daughter on Easter, I plead the fifth. Really, it's easier than pleading my case.