I resisted getting a pick-up truck until I scraped the living daylights out of my Mazada bringing wicker chairs home from a sale at Lowe’s. So we now have the obligatory southern pick-up truck parked in the driveway.  It’s red and worn and it has a front bench seat which means some late evening drives with snuggling. Not bad. It came with a rifle rack which I use for my beach umbrella and hiking stick. See, I AM SO trying to assimilate to the south.

Hello!  The south LOST the Civil War. Maybe it’s just me…but plastering a confederate flag on your vee-hic-cal is like saying “My kid flunked grammar school and got his butt kicked in gym class”. Not to mention, correct me if I am wrong here, but isn’t a confederate flag a blatant neo-nazi racist statement? Looks to me like some folks have been pulling in their Bible belts just a might too tight. Aren’t we commanded to love one another (and not the Jef Foxworthy/Jerry Lee Lewis way of dating your cousin)? Get over the confederate thing willya?

Speaking of give-it-a-rest…down a ‘holler’ or two, there are these mutant throw-backs to the 50s who are nuts for Debutanting, D.A.R., and bragging-on (yes that’s how it’s said in ‘these here parts’) Civil War decorated relatives. I’ve been at social events, in 2009 folks, overhearing people boast about their kin who killed ‘Yankees’ (Ouch, that would be MY , relatives, thank you very much). Yikes,  I feel like Peter Fonda in “Easy Rider”.

I’ve sashayed across ball room floors with people whose families still own plantations and are proud of it…I mean ALL of it. Oooo, oooo boys and girls it’s Myth Busting Time: no, the slaves were not singing because they were happy; no, little girls do not aspire to grow up to be hookers; and no, I never needed ‘something to really cry about’ when I was already sufficiently upset enough to be already crying at age 4!

Slavery was/is evil (and yes I will concede that most of the slaves were imported through Boston), but can we get over ‘celebrating’ this period of history? Don’t we all have bigger fish to fry than to glorify a war that happened a LONG time ago and killed a lot of young decent boys? How about instead of confederate flags and ‘hoity-toity’ mixers we start a united campaign called: “Where the hey is the bail out money, I still can’t get a loan?” Together we can fight a worthy cause such as repaying our national debt. But no the Civil War buffs (they call themselves historians, which is like an obese person saying they are just taste testers)are alive and well and sporting confederate garb galore.

I don’t get it…well, maybe I do. Somebody said Texas still wants to leave the United States of America. Now there’s a civil war worth fighting. Let’s make the Bush crew the royal family, continue to build and arm that wall between Mexico while all the while the Texas conglomerate farms are still hiring illegals. (I’m sorry, how much in health benefits do they get to work with pesticides? “None they should all be shot on site…well, as soon as they pick the strawberries in 105 degree heat.”) Of course if Texas goes adios all the NASA folks who are from the north will leave the Lone Star state, so will the banks, Fortune 500 companies and people of color–any color. But Praise the Lord the malls will stay open so that the peachy-sweet women-folk have a place to contribute to the new economy one designer pocketbook at a time. Please, Texas, leave. Go on. bye-bye. I long for the day I can proudly spatter a sign on my red truck that says, “I helped Texas vamoose!” And yes, I’d pass that legacy onto my children’s, children’s, children. But again, I would be bragging about the winning side (do you see the difference?)

Yup, some back country folks  are big on revisionist history…but they are not alone. There is an upper strata (which is like being the top layer of a taco salad just under the mayo, but above the frozen peas–if ya know what I mean). This upper crust is hysterical. It makes JR and Lucy likable. I mean Pull-eez! They have taken snobbery to whole new level of ridiculous. You have to be invited to join in Supper Clubs (eating monthly with the same people; woo-woo. Dang, I can eat everyday with the same people at Popeyes!) You have to be invited to join hunting clubs, ’causen’ the ducks and deer know which land they are on and the better ones stay around the $500 a year clubs. You have to be asked to work on charity committees. (And if you do a good job fancy-ing-up the toilets next year you might be promoted to napkin folding.)

I repent of my sins Lord. Take me out of this Rainbow, Sorority, Stepford hell. Yes, Siree-Bob, ‘ope-da-die’, down in some parts of the south their repugnance for anything not covered in Spanish moss and lemon tarts makes the Boston blue-bloods look like pikers. To qualify as ‘worthy’ in some parts ’sud’ (not your part if you are a southener reading this, of course) not only do you need some 3-block street named after your family in a town that Mapquest can’t find and GPS registers none existent, but your Uncle should be in local politics, and you should make sure you publically snub anyone who doesn’t have a pedigree. (Must be why the women are known as female dogs. And I apologize to all canines for that one.)

Now in all fairness I ran into this sort of thinking when I lived in Santa Barbara, California. Gaggles (emphasis on gag) of producers of forgettable movies, one-hit wonder screen writers and aging movie stars live there in abundance. Add to that a Huffington (emphasis on huffy), and a Governor who cannot say the name of his own state and everyone was FULL of themselves. Social climbing in LA-LA land is an Olympic sport (But watch out for those shoots after you get up those ladders, it can burn your butt–like totally, dude.)  So, I’ve boiled being snotty down to this: in the south it’s “Who was your daddy?” in California it’s “Who is your daddy?”  OMG, I feel like I am back in 6th grade and everyone is passing notes (that would texting now) to vote who is ‘out’ or ‘in’ that day. Maybe the Californians and the Southerns are taking youth hormones and it’s making everyone act like they are acne-covered adolescents. “Carrie” meets “Shawn of the Dead”.

Folks, you don’t have to believe in the Bible to agree that it is from dust we came and to dust we go. How is it anyone claims to be of better breeding than anyone else? And except for a few test tube kids, we all got here through someone ‘doing’ someone, so it’s not all purity and lace.But yet the pecking order continues. Oops, there goes the New Age theory that humans are growing more enlightened. How can anyone in this country of privilege, education, libraries, parks and Sweet Tarts not see we are all valuable and worthy? Why this low self-esteem that turns adults into playground bullies? Where does that sh#t come from, I ask you?

But not to be out done…I too could waltz (or is it two-step) right into southern social hierarchy in a heartbeat by bragging that I have a distant relative from the Civil War era. My great, great, great (blah blah blah) uncle assisted Wilkes Boothe by holding his escape horse. How’s that for a skeleton clanking out of the family closet?

I swear, I am dressing up like Mary Todd Lincoln the next time there is a Civil War re-enactment on the town square. My costume will include a sandwich board that reads: “Didn’t your well-bred mother ever tell you…nobody likes a bad loser!”

Down side, I won’t be invited to fold 500 linen napkins in the shape of magnolia flowers for the next Hoop Skirt Arts Festival. Ratts and I have my parasol in my pick-up. Bummer!

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Southern women love Galas. In fact, they love any occasion to gussy up and not eat.

I was privy to a wonderful Southern Gala just last week. I bought a new dress made of spandex and cotton. perfect for the gluottony at hand. I did my hair in a French Braid (why it is French and not Nordic, I have not a clue). Why do the French get credit for spud fries, horrible salad dressing, and wet kissing? Was putting ‘French’ in front of words as an adjective a slander or a marketing ploy? But I digress.

Late winter and early spring is the time for finery and spackling among the female birds down south. And just like DazyMae who left Horton sitting on the egg back in the jungle to go to Miami beach (raise your hand if you know of any jungles north of Florida), these woman leave their well-pampered children far behind and head to the bright lights of the party scene. Albeit, twinkle lights. There must be 3 or more events a week just in the small town where I live. Guess I better not  shop for my dresses at the local Thrift Store. I can see the scene from Cinderella where the Step Sister Gang  rips poor Cinderella’s dress from her, piece by piece. I was afraid someone would appear in the dress I bought off the rack, but it was a false alarm, these women did not shop at Jacque Pene’s so I was off the hook as far as that goes. But danger lurked close at hand.

There past the live band (a species all but extinct thanks to the pariah of the DJ) , next to the dance floor, was a huge tent all bedecked in, (what else?), jungle themed decor.  And under the 15 foot foliage quivered mountains of food. Now the first thing I noticed in the food tent was that folks were grazing rather than gathering. Furthermore, they stood in line at a roundabout table rather than the New York ’strategery’ of duck-pluck-and-go. In fact, when I suggested that we all just grab what we liked and leave the circle. I was greeted with stares of horror. One bedazzled belle gasped, “I certainly would never do such a thing as that!” So much for my attempt at mutiny. Thus it was, with woozy head and grumbling stomach, I politely waited for a circular line to move several inches so that I could grab the chicken salad sandwich and move on with my life.

I piled as much food as was humanly possible onto the 6″ plate: gelatin mold, humus and celery, meatballs and brownies. Then I nimbly wove between spiffy guest after guest. At last I sat down, fork in hand and looked about. Not a single women had more than a chicken wing on her plate, and that from a sickly chicken indeed. Yup, I had just created another “Fox Paw”. I’d broken the Scarlett O’Hara Etiquette Rule Number 2. “Never eat in public, it looks as if you are hungry. ” See, in a Yankee party…you come hungry and expect to eat. In fact, if the cook is known for good food, you actually don’t eat for the whole day beforehand, then you can plow and chow at will. Coming with your stomach on ‘empty’ especially happens when you have dropped some serious bucks on the tickets.

Yet as I perused the jungle encrusted room, I was, in fact, the only woman publicly wolfing down her weight in canapes. Ah, this was a very enlightening moment. Down south, the goal of a party is to show up thinner than the last time anyone saw you and to look as if all food was enemy number one. I seriously expected to see Cheescake on the Most Wanted poster in the nearby Post Office. I know Cheescake is on my most wanted list. But down here, things are rearranged from my sensibilities. Down here, a Gala is a place to meet, greet, be sweet and discreet. It is no mystery that I do none of those tasks well.

As indicated before, the women loved to see and be seen. Of course, no one mentioned my ghastly behavior. But I know better than to assume their public manners mean I am in the clear. I was probably the center of several conversations the next day. “Did you see her ingest the entire contents of her plate leaving nothing but the Country Club monogram. If that!”

Alas, Scarlett the Sacred Saint of Southern Manners also has Rule Number 1. Always wear a dress one size too small so that you have to wear a foundational garment under your clothes. This garment is a massive girdle which can only be described as a synthetic anaconda. If you follow rule number one you can’t get a grape past your esophagus. This also explains why these parties are roving 3 hour cocktail events with folks schmoozing and laughing and STANDING because bending is impossible in a ‘foundational piece’. Perhaps the laughing from the women was more like hysteria from their binding underwear and lack of protein. But hey that’s only a Yankee gadfly talking.

CHECK OUT THE REAR VIEW! “UBER THIS! ” is a new entry by our guest essay author and national media guru: Marilee Williams!

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Come on, tell the truth, have you become a weather weenie? Do you make up excuses to go to Florida, or California, or the Amazon as soon as the airports de-ice and schools close? Have you joined the ranks of the white-haired snow birds? Because I for one am a card carrying member of the Snowbird Club.

I used to love a brisk walk in sub-freezing weather. Skiing over President’s week-end, ice skating for Valentine’s Day was heaven. I loved the crunching of ice beneath my feet from a shallow stream or a deep puddle. Snowball fights, snow caves, snow angels, blowing steam from your hot breath pretending you were smoking, it was fantastic. I went to college classes with the wind chill dipping to 40 below zero. But now? I don’t even drink ice tea in winter.

What the last straw was I cannot say. One day I was schussing down black diamond slopes in 10 degree weather with windchill that could give a pork chop freezer burn, and the next I was wearing sweats over jeans turning up the thermostat and carrying a space heater from room to room. Even playing with grandchildren in the snow had become less about fun in the outdoors and more about a good excuse for hot chocolate inside.

It might have been the dead battery in the mall parking lot in single digit weather. It might have been the frozen pipes thawing all over the new carpet. It might have been the stupid Scout Calendar that showed tulips blooming in March, when my flowers were still 8 inches down and shivering. I snapped. I called the moving company and headed for warmer climes.

Turns out I am in good company down south. North Carolina is filled with weather weenies, many classmates of mine from New Jersey. We migrated down with the ducks. There was a promise of cheaper taxes, lower fuel bills and legal fireworks. As frostbitten Yankees we have seen our share of Dr. Zhivago winters. We remember shoveling cement wet snow, cracking ice off of steps and fishtailing toward oncoming traffic. Done that, been there, have the T-shirt and lunch box. We have paid our dues with days without electricity or water. Flowers actually bloom in March down south. What’s not to love?

Needless to say, now that we are south of the Mason-Dixson line we roll off our collective sofas when the weather ‘dude’ looks into the camera and says deadpan, “We have a threat of an arctic blast, Missy, more on this catastrophe after the commercial.” An arctic blast is defined by temperatures getting into the mid 30s at night. Not enough to freeze a birdbath.

I guess bad weather is all relative. This came to mind last week when I tried to fly out of Raleigh, NC to run away to California. There was a rare snow storm at the airport. Four inches of snow dusted the runway. I had arrived 2 hours before my flight and was able to catch an earlier plane. Good thing I did. They canceled my flight and those after that. I guess they were all trying to locate the one snowplow in the state. As it is, the sun melts most of it before they can remove it. Yup, when the times get colder, I point my compass toward WARM.

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2009 a Space Oddity

How much stuff would a woodchuck, chuck if a woodchuck could chuck the useless sh$# he/she’s collected over the last 30 years? Some of you have not moved since your twenties. Some of you have moved maybe three times, but like the very slow snail you have dragged it all with you. I know of people who can’t imagine moving because they don’t want to face their piles of useless, albeit sentimental, crapola.

One lady I recall was convinced that everything she held on to (I mean old empty candy boxes, chipped vases, vintage potato chips) was increasing in value until the Salvation Army came to see her things and announced the stuff was useless to them! Think about that. The ultimate low end chain store rejects your stash.

So I declare 2009 a brand New Year! It’s time to reckon with your stuff. ALL of your stuff. Your clutter, your attic emporium , your (lord help us) storage barns and rental spaces. You know the rule…(now in Yoda-speak) “If in 2008 you have used it, not, to charity it goes or in trash may it rot.”

And what about the “air-looms” you were saving for your grandchildren? Do you really think the next generation will ooo and ah at a Cabbage-does-nothing- but-sits-there-ugly-Patch doll? Forget the value angle…I just saw a Cabbage Patch doll tossed in a bargain bin at Ross for less than a pair of pantyhose. Now I know you will tell me there are collectors who will pay big bucks for an original Scuby Doo lunchbox. Okay, define big bucks! $25, $50 $100? Divide that by the cost of storage. You get the picture.
You don’t need stuff that you don’t use, so toss it (granted, give or take a desk Charlemagne used to write thank you notes to everyone for naming him one of the “Nine Worthies”) but the rest? Heave-ho.

Yes, this New Year is a great time to scale down for your retirement (albeit years away now thanks to the depression–mine and the economy’s) , you might want to start cleaning house right NOW as you take down the decorations. If it’s faded, chipped or ripped–bye-bye! Then when you return the good stuff to the closet, garage-once-used- for-cars, storage shed look around. What else can get “offed, whacked, exterminated”? I swear most folks have a harder time throwing out an old Mr. Potato Head than they did their last spouse. Of course in some cases the similarities are scary.

Speaking of dwindling spaces…all of our brain cells have been collectively and quietly in a mass suicide pack since before Jonestown. It’s amazing I can still do square roots in my head and quote the first 100 digits of pi (just kidding!) I can’t even remember where I put the piece of pie I just got out for my snack!

Fortunately we can leave more and more on our computers (PLEASE BACK-UP REGULARLY and learn how to use the ‘restore-to-previous-day-thingy-ma-bob’). But we have to face it, it’s triage time for the gray cell library as well. We only have so many neurons and we need to jettison out the garbage.

Garbage includes bad memories (I know, I know you finally had time and money for that much needed analysis which is digging up all your issues), hate and loathing of others, need for more stuff (see above), and adios to fear (F-false, E-evidence, A-appearing , R-real)…this last one includes worry. Baggage weighs you down, it literally hurts your body and doesn’t mean anything. Ask yourself about anything that is hard to let go of, a set of unused golf clubs or a memory of being cut from the team in 1968. Will it matter in 50 years, 500 years?

I know it is easier for me because I have moved so much I can get all my belongings except my kayak into a VW…bug. But I highly recommend divesting your personal portfolio of extra weight. In the end no one cares but you, so don’t hold on to anything that doesn’t allow you to feel weightless and free.

If our homes and our brains have limited storage, let’s choose quality over junk this year!

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