While I don’t think it’s smart to force people into marriage through a guvmint program, I’m actually a big fan of weddings—old-fashioned ones, that is. That’s why I’m so distressed to see the disturbing trend of tacky engagement announcements. You know the ones I’m talking about. The bridal page picture where He is tightly wrapped around Her in their best impersonation of a couple desperately in need of a room.
Now I realize that we live in an age in which most people actually believe you can—heck, you should—meet your soul mate on a TV show catfight filmed in a borreyed castle somewhere. Therefore, maybe we’ve let a lot of wedding customs go by the wayside.
Still, I must speak out against the “modern” engagement photos of couples wearing bathing suits or tube tops and muscle shirts looking slightly hungover. And, at the risk of offending more than a few friends and relatives, I don’t think grooms belong in engagement photos at all.
One reason is they’re impossible to pose. How many times have you seen the studio portrait where she is standing behind her beloved, arms wrapped around him like a sumo chokehold? They sure look happy.
Call me old school, but I think engagement portraits should be of the bride only. Men have no business being in the picture. Just show up at the chapel and remember not to smash cake in her face on the big day. You’re a guy, for heaven’s sake. No one cares what you look like, and neither should you.
The tacky wedding write-up is another pet peeve. There is simply no need to advise us, as one wedding announcement did recently, that “two have become one during a spectacular Maui honeymoon trip.”
Oh, precious Lord.
Ditto the fact that your children served as your junior attendants. We know you’ve shacked since Clinton’s first term; just don’t rub our noses in it.
As a native Southerner, it’s possible that I am irrationally traditional on such matters. We Southerners cling like kudzu to our traditions. Every so often, though, things go awry. I’m remembering a bridal shower I helped host in which a friend thought it would be a good idea to have tiny plastic cherubs frozen in the punch bowl ice ring. Instead of evoking the image of merry cupids that we had hoped for, more than a half dozen guests gasped in horror and demanded to know, “Why are there dead babies floating in the punch?”
Like picking a wedding photographer based solely on which one of your redneck cousins has the biggest lens and best chance of staying sober, the floating cupids seemed like a good idea at the time.
And speaking of wedding photography, y’all show some love to Catherine Zeta-Jones, who has gone to court, repeatedly, to claim that her wedding day was ruined by unauthorized photographers.
Oh, how I have cried myself to sleep thinking about how CZJ has had to suffer. And Michael Douglas, too. They’re outraged that the paparazzi snapped unauthorized pictures of their wedding at the Plaza Hotel years ago.
My heartless friend Susan thinks it’s ridiculous. “I mean,” says Susan, “doesn’t this woman know there are people with real problems out here in the real world?”
What can I tell you? Susan clearly can’t comprehend deep pain. After all, as I pointed out, CZJ said that both she and Michael broke down and cried in phone calls to friends about how tacky tabloid photos ruined their most special day. At least the most special since Michael’s last wedding.
One gets the impression that Michael Douglas would say just about anything to keep the missus happy, and for that he gets major props. But it does tarnish his macho image a bit to see him wringing his hands in public about how “devastated” and “emotional” he is about photos that “made the reception look like a disco.”
The Zeta-Jones–Douglases did allow that the pain and stress of the wedding day ordeal, while irreparable, could be mollified somewhat by $800,000.
Big of them.
To the two of them I’d say, that having a wedding at the Plaza Hotel doesn’t entitle you to a lot of privacy. Hell, even I have had tea at the Plaza and roamed its hallways, so that should tell you those folks are about as discriminating as a pre-Trimspa Anna Nicole Smith at an all-you-can-eat chitlins buffet.
Marriage isn’t easy, even with federal grants and lawsuits to help. Perhaps the Zeta-Jones–Douglases can bravely soldier on, despite this numbing tragedy of disco receptions and allegations of matching chicken necks on bride and groom. Perhaps some of Bush’s counseling could help them work through the stages of grief: denial, anger, greed, and a new house in Bermuda.
Works for me.
Southern-Style
Silliness
24
Illness and Death, Southern Style
(Or Why I Will Never Eat London Broil Again)
I’ve always been an obituary junkie. If there’s a long, fabulous obit accompanied by a picture obviously taken at least forty years earlier while wearing a sailor hat, then I’m hooked. If there’s a nickname in quotes, say, Red Eye, Tip Top, or simply, Zeke, then my entire day is made.
I don’t like obituaries that don’t list the cause of death. Even if the newly dead was ninety-six, one can’t assume. I crave details. I must know whether death resulted from accident, disease, or simply an unfortunate tuna casserole.
I don’t like obituaries that don’t list charities. Not long ago, I read about a Wisconsin mother of six who died at seventy-one and specified that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to any organization supporting the impeachment of President Bush. You just know she died with her little fists all curled up, mad as a mule chewing bumblebees.
I don’t like obituaries that just list the bare facts: name, age, place of death, relatives, funeral details. No, no. I want to know that the deceased loved the Atlanta Braves, Reese’s Pieces, Dale Jr., and going to Mr. Tang’s Imperial Wok on all-you-can-eat crab legs night. People, is this too much to ask?
Occasionally, readsers are rewarded with a list of survivors that includes beloved family pets: “Joe is also survived by his faithful standard poodle, Rhett, and a somewhat sickly betta fish he purchased at Wal-Mart only a week before he died and had named Stumpy for reasons unknown to anyone else.”
I like obituaries that aren’t afraid to let loose a little bit. “Crossing Jordan,” “racing into the arms of the Almighty,” and “leaving all earthly cares behind” (including, perhaps, an unpaid Belk charge card and that nagging thumpa-lumpa-lump noise that had been coming from beneath the hood of the LeSabre for a couple of months now) are powerful descriptions, all.
I love obituaries that take the time to point out that the deceased died “peacefully, surrounded by his entire family.” Celebrities appear to be especially good at this. Not only are they rich and famous, but their families can assemble dutifully and peacefully from around the globe on a moment’s notice. I hate them.
Still, it’s a tremendous accomplishment for any family to be assembled in one room and peaceful! But, unlike the Thanksgiving table, in which all manner of grievances tend to spill out over the creamed onions, deathbed etiquette demands that Aunt Pearl refrain from calling Uncle Gene “that lying apostate of hell who cheated on me back in ‘57.”
I’m too young to be talking about death and dying, I guess, but it’s a Southern thing to obsess over these matters. Funeralizing is second only to hospital visitation in occasions that call for you to dress in your best Jaclyn Smith for Kmart Collection.
I did an inordinate amount of hospital-visiting when my friend Lula was admitted.
The best part of our visits was listening to this wiry little redneck woman who was her roommate on the other side of the curtain.
Here’s something you need to know: Little old Southern redneck women are always pissed off. They can’t help “they-selves.” Maybe it’s from a lifetime of living with a man who thinks a talking bass plaque is a suitable fortieth anniversary gift.
Lula’s roommate was one of the most hardcore little old rednecks I’ve ever encountered, so naturally I just pulled up a chair and listened while Lula just scowled.
Azelene had s
tarted firing questions as soon as Lula got settled into her bed.
“What’re you in for?” she snapped.
“Oh,” said Lula, “we thought it was my heart, but it turned out to be my gall bladder, so I’m going to be just fine.”
“Hmmmph!” Azelene snorted. “Don’t you let ‘em tell you you didn’t have no heart attack, honey. When I had my first heart attack, they tried to tell me it was just indigestion. They don’t know nothing! Damn thing like t’ have bio wed the whole back of my heart off!”
Lula gasped.
“That was almost as bad as the time I had to call 911 on account of my backbone was a-poking outside of my skin. They said it wasn’t, but they don’t know pea turkey squat. You don’t believe me? Just feel this scar on my back ratch ‘ere. Go on! Feel of it, honey. You know, I’ve lost all the feeling in all my arms and laigs ever since I got the sugar.”
Redneck vocabulary tip: A good Southern redneck doesn’t know from diabetes. It’s always the sugar. They also call Alzheimer’s old-timer’s and don’t know that’s funny. (In a related vocabulary note, redneck old people always call SUVs SOBs, and they really don’t know what they’re saying. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard old Aunt Bettisue say, quite innocently, “That there SOB’s gonna run right over us, he’s so big.”)
Redneck Southern women of all ages love to dress up any ailment, no matter how minor. My redneck friend Verna-Lynn is particularly blessed with a colorful vocabulary when it comes to her “ladies’ time.”
“I swear I’m flushing clots the size of a London broil,” she announced one day over lunch.
Check, please.
Elderly redneck women will go to dramatic lengths to get attention. My friend’s mama used to look both ways down the street before carefully lying down in the shrubbery near her front door with just her legs showing from the kneecaps down.
The first time I saw this, it was naturally quite upsetting, and I raced to help. My friend stopped me. “Oh, hell, hon, that’s just Mama’s way of getting attention. She’s forever hiding in the shrubbery and pretending to have blacked out. Come on in and borrow that casserole dish you needed; she’ll crawl out directly.”
I tell you this so you’ll have a bit of context when you consider Azelene’s conversations.
During a break in a long discussion about her latest bout of hemorrhoids (“I swanee they’re as big as sofa cushions”), I noticed a spit cup surface from under Azelene’s bedcovers.
For a few moments, all you could hear in the hospital room was the sound of an old woman’s spit hitting the side of a Tar Heels 1993 National Champions mug. The relative peace was disrupted, as it always is when the Southern Redneck Woman has company in the hospital.
A friend had dropped by to visit but confessed he was nervous. “I haven’t been in a hospital since my brother shot hisself in the leg on account of trying to commit Hare Krishna.”
Somebody brought fried chicken.
Lula and I, bored by the Falcon Crest reunion that was taking place on the TV overhead, just soaked it all up, including a lengthy visit from Azelene’s preacher, a thunder-voiced Pentecostal who sold double-wides by day. He’d come straight from his weekly visit counseling all the lost sheep in the “pentenchurary.”
“Did you see my Edwin?” Azelene asked.
“Shore did. He said he didn’t rob that Kangaroo Mart, and he can prove it.”
“Course he can! My baby’s innocent as the day he was born. Which like t’ve killed me. He weighed damn near sixteen pounds, you know. They had to remove all my internal organs just to prize him out. They say you can’t live without a liver, but I been doin’ just fine. I knew they didn’t put everything back. Saw it sittin’ on the counter just like it needed some fried onions with it.”
“Merciful heavens,” Lula half groaned.
The next day, rolling out of Azelene’s life forever, Lula waved good-bye. Azelene, not a sentimental sort, just yawned. “On your way out, tell that bony little hank o’ hair out at the desk I need a pan. Did I tell you about my hemorrhoids?”
25
Want to “Talk Southern”?
Here’s Some Advice from My Abode to Yours
I had to call the phone company after a small hurricane passed through, ripped the line down, and left it in a mangled mess on my deck.
This didn’t go well. See, I live in North Carolina, and the phone company representative—who for some inane reason began every sentence with “Now, Miss Riventybarky, we understand that you are frustrated” while simultaneously adding to my frustration—was elsewhere, like Bangalore.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Some of my best friends are Bangaloreans. Okay, not really. I’m from the South, where when we say, “The phone line’s down, and y’all need to get a truck over here to put it back up,” this is somehow greeted by the Bangalorean as completely unreliable.
“Miss Riventybarky,” she began, “have you considered that perhaps the phone is unplugged or there is a problem with the, uh, [sound of shuffling translation guides] jack inside the [shuffling again] abode?”
I distinctly remember grabbing an unopened bottle of wine at this point and considering banging it open on the side of the kitchen counter, thus bypassing the more time-consuming corkscrew method.
“I don’t live in an abode; I live in a house, a house without any telephone service and my name is not Riventybarky!”
“Miss Riventybarky, now I do understand that you are frustrated—”
“Arrrgggh!”
Long story short, I finally convinced my almond-eyed friend on the far side of the world that I really did have enough sense to recognize a tattered phone line on the ground. She finally agreed to believe me, and we all gave peace a chance. The very next morning, a fabulous crew from the local phone company showed up in whipping rains and “got ‘er done.”
I was thinking about this because I just learned that my Southern hometown is now a major “call center” for Verizon, a telecommunications giant whose name comes from the Latin Veri, which means “bladder” and zon, which means “elongated.” I don’t care; it still sounds cool.
Any who, the funny part is that here we are, in the Deep South, and we’re the call center servicing, get this, Metropolitan New York City! What elongated bladder genius thought this would be a good match?
NY CALLER: My phone’s broken and you need to fix it today.
US: Todaaaay? Do what?
NY CALLER: Yes, today, Gomer. I’m a very busy and important person wearing way too much hair product.
US: I understand your, uh, frustration—
NY CALLER: “I’ll give you somethin’ to be frustrated about. Now get the grits outta your mouth and fix my f-ing phone.”
US: I bet you wouldn’t talk like that in front of your mama.
Click.
Thing is, we don’t talk like the rest of the country, and we’re frankly relieved.
Remember this above all else: Southerners despise bad news and loathe sharing it without some gloss. We invented that classic joke about the beloved cat that was killed while his owner was away from home. It’s the one where the neighbor bluntly says “Your cat’s dead,” and his devastated friend says, “Couldn’t you tell me nicer? Ease me into it? Tell me the cat got up on the roof and then tumbled down and died instantly and without any undue suffering?” A few weeks later, the same neighbor is forced to relay some sad news again. Remembering his friend’s request, he begins, “See, your grandma was on the roof. . . .”
This near-pathological avoidance of bad news has led to such famous Southernisms as using “the late unpleasantness” to describe the War Between the States. We don’t just come right out and say something; we have to cozy up to it like the cat to the cream jar.
One of the best examples of classic Southern under-statement is found in the word unfortunate, which, in the South, can describe anything from losing all one’s earthly possessions in a house fire (“Selma and Jim-Bob experienced
a most unfortunate fire”) to describing your exceedingly homely girl-cousin as having “a most unfortunate nose.”
Unfortunate, you’ll notice, is usually paired with most for purposes of emphasis. Don’t use very, or you will be revealed to be the outsider that you truly are and told to go back to sprinkling sugar on your grits and similar abominations.
Here’s a quick checklist for dos and don’ts down South. No thanks are necessary; it’s thanks enough that I am able to help.
DON’T say yous. Practice saying y’all, y’all’s, or yalls’es without sneering. Get over yourself.
DON’T discuss how much money you make or how much you paid for your leaf blower, standing mixer, lawn tractor, shoes, and so on. Southerners don’t do that, because it’s tacky.
DO realize that tacky is the worst label that can be applied to any person, behavior, or event in the South. As in, “Mama said Raylene’s bridal shower coming three months after she had the baby was as tacky as those Sam’s Club mints she served right out of the carton.”
DON’T criticize our driving. We know where the turn lane is and what it’s for. We’re just messing with you.
DON’T accuse us of being “thin-skinned” or lacking a sense of humor. We laugh plenty behind your back.
DO remember that barbecue is a noun, never a verb, and it’s a holy noun at that.
DON’T question the superiority of Atlantic Coast Conference basketball. This could lead to a most unfortunate coma.
Of course, as is often the case, we in the South can be our own worst enemy. I recently learned that there is a course being taught at the University of South Carolina that helps Southerners lose their accents. Can you believe it?
My ox is gored, my tater fried, and, yes, the red has indeed been licked off my candy.
You see, I have a dog in this fight. The notion that you should try to get rid of your Southernisms makes me madder’n a wet setting hen.
Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank Page 13