by Julia Fowler
in his shorts.
She’s prettier than
a basket of peaches.
He’s hotter than fish oil.
I wouldn’t kick him outta bed
unless he was better on the floor.
He’s hotter than
doughnut grease.
You better come
gimmie some sugar!
That feller's got an ass l
ike a forty-dollar mule.
Darlin’, you’re cuter
than a whole
litter of puppies.
He’s so cute
I could eat him up
with a spoon!
I could suck the sugar
right off his cheeks.
I’d like
to sop him
up with a
biscuit.
She’s cuter than
a bug’s ear.
I'm gonna climb
your frame like a coon
climbs a corn stalk.
That gal makes me grin
like a possum
eatin’ sweet ’taters.
That boy’s got more
moves than a
slinky going down
an escalator.
He's hornier than a
three-horned billy goat.
Well, ain’t he just the
tomcat’s kitten.
You’ll never find
Mr. Right
hanging around
with Mr. Wrong.
She’s so trashy
she better not linger by the curb
on garbage day.
She's anybody's
dog that'll hunt her.
Flit around from flower to flower
and you wind up an old maid.
With great
cleavage
comes great
responsibility.
You can’t ride two horses
with one ass.
If you lay down with dogs
you wake up with fleas.
Love can’t help what it falls on even if it’s a pile of sh*t.
There's an ass for
every seat.
The older the fiddle,
the sweeter the tune.
Sugar, you’ve still got
that new car smell.
I love you
more than a pig
loves slop.
I love you like a
coon dog
loves hunting.
That couple’s
tighter than bark
on a hickory tree.
She’d be better off sticking a toothpick
in a lion’s ass than messing with my man.
Southern women forgive
their men when they are
safely buried.
There's no difference between a
hornet and a yellow jacket when it's
in your britches.
You'll never find a
rose in a pig pen.
Bluebirds have
enough sense not
to marry
buzzards.
A blacksnake always finds his
way to the hen's nest.
That man’s just another job
that don’t pay.
If he ain’t handsome
he better be handy.
You can't turn a hoochie
mama into a housewife.
You don’t have to
eat the whole egg
to know it’s rotten.
If you marry for money
you earn every cent of it.
Love flies out
the window when
poverty walks in
the door.
If it has tires or testicles
it's bound to give ya trouble.
Talk
Southern
to Me 'Bout
Parenting
Parenting
“You can get glad in the same britches you got mad in.”
Southern parents are ’bout as subtle as a tornado in a trailer park. They call it like they see it and rarely sugarcoat it. In order to be considered a true Southerner, you gotta be raised by one. I was raised by a village of Southerners: Mama, Daddy, two sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles, teachers, preachers, and babysitters. None of these folks put up with my shenanigans. As a child, I was confused by their quirky philosophies and annoyed by their strict rules. But I now realize I was brought up with tremendous love and wit and am forever grateful that my family molded me into a strong Southern woman with social graces.
Traditionally, Southern children are taught to respect their elders and do not call their elders by their first name. It’s always “Ms. Honeycutt” or “Mr. Littlejohn.” These are the rules. “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, sir” are not optional—these phrases are required for survival. On several occasions I have offended a non-Southerner by saying “Yes, ma’am.” And believe me, there wasn’t enough time left in the universe to get them to understand I was simply being polite.
A healthy amount of fear is instilled in Southern children. The most dreaded thing Mama could say to me was, “Just wait ’til I tell your Daddy.” And all my Granny Fowler had to do was simply cut her eyes at me in church and I knew immediately that I better sit up, shut up, and respect the Lord if I wanted to live to eat another piece of her mouthwatering Minnehaha cake.
Southern children aren’t raised in a democratic fashion. They aren’t given much of an opportunity to negotiate with their elders. A phrase I heard a million times as a child was, “ ’Cause I said so, that’s why.” End of discussion. Bellyaching (aka whining) is frowned upon, and hissy fits, especially in public, are not tolerated. That’s ’cause Southern Mamas do not like to be embarrassed in public . . . ever . Lord knows, I’m no parenting expert, but I do know that the South has its own particular style of child rearing; a style that I haven’t observed while living in other parts of the country.
Here’s a li’l story to illustrate my point:
While in a fancy department store in Los Angeles on a crucial mission to find the perfect shade of coral lipstick, I saw a little girl running amuck in the makeup department. She was putting her hands all over the makeup samples, knocking over displays, climbing on the makeup stools, and using the lipsticks as body crayons. We’ll call this precious child “Little Miss Nightmare.” I thought the weary sales ladies’ eyeballs were gonna pop right outta their sockets from holding in their anger.
Now, Little Miss Nightmare’s mother was unaware of this madness ’cause she was too busy talking on her phone and puckering her silicone-injected lips in every mirror she encountered. When Little Miss Nightmare sprayed her mother with some foul-smelling perfume, her mother finally took notice and calmly said to her child, “I’m shopping, please behave.” That’s when Little Miss Nightmare proceeded to have a full meltdown. She threw herself on the department store floor, kicking, screaming, and crying uncontrollably. I watched as the mother casually sampled hand cream and chitchatted with her screaming extraterrestrial.
The mother said, “Tell me what you are feeling.” The child squalled uncontrollably. The mother said, “Use your words and tell me what you’re feeling.” Little Miss Nightmare squalled louder. The mother, who could not have cared less that her daughter was causing a scene, continued this line of questioning, “If you could describe your feelings as a color, what would it be?” To everyone’s delight, Little Miss Nightmare squalled even louder . The mother casually said, “Try to articulate what would make you feel less distressed.” The child replied through sobs and tears, “Chocolate.” The mother, still wrapped up in her lotion sampling, said, “You already ate some organic cacao today, remember?” Little Miss Nightmare sobbed and stomped and yelled, “BUT I WANT REAL CHOCOLATE!” The mother, who had moved onto eye shadow sampling, said, “We’ve discussed this. Chocolate is bad for your skin.” This sent Little Miss Nightmare into full dying duck fit frenzy mode screaming, “I WANT CHOCOLATE NOW! I WANT CHOCOLATE
NOW NOW NOW!!!”
The mother refused to fold on the chocolate, but I’m sure that’s because she couldn’t bear facing the Los Angeles mommy cliques with a chocolate-eating, sugar-consuming, acne-prone kid. I watched in awe as the mother went into full negotiation mode agreeing to buy something for the child in order to get the kid to calm down. I stood there, jaw dropped, looking like a carp as the mother bought Little Miss Nightmare a tube of Chanel lipstick. Chanel lipstick. Good gussie! You can’t make this stuff up.
Now, here is how that scenario would typically play out down South.
The very moment the child begins destroying the makeup department, the Southern Mama says sternly, “I’ve got two words for you: BE-HAVE.” The Southern child, being a child, still proceeds to pitch a fit. The Southern Mama narrows her eyes and warns, “Quit actin’ ugly.” The Southern child, testing boundaries, continues the fit. The Southern Mama, now in full-on embarrassment mode, smiles apologetically to everyone watching then turns to her child and snaps, “Stop making a spectacle of yourself!” The stubborn Southern child’s fit escalates. The Southern Mama, now furious, plasters on a pageant smile and under her breath through gritted teeth gives the ultimate Southern parental warning, “If you don’t stop crying, I’m gonna give you something to cry about.” The child immediately calms down, sniffles and says, “I want chocolate.” The Southern Mama dryly retorts, “Yeah, well, people in hell want ice water.”
“If you don’t stop crying, I’m gonna give you something to cry about.”
Now I’m certain there are plenty of fancy child psychologists who find fault in this Southern parenting style. Nevertheless, this is generally how it’s done down South. And we grow up knowing it’s rooted in immense love. Funny thing is, Southern parents don’t stop raising you just ’cause you grow up or have kids of your own. No, no, no—it never stops. For the sake of sanity, I have learned to never embarrass my Mama in public and have resigned myself to the fact that my Mama’s way of doing things will always be better than my way. And I know that my Daddy will forever scold me like a five-year-old if he thinks I am acting meaner than a snake. And yes—Southern adults call their parents Mama and Daddy ’til the day their parents die. And then ironically, they deeply mourn the fact that all that suffocating, supreme Southern rearing is officially over.
Y’all play pretty.
You ’bout to
poke somebody’s
eye out!
Bless your little
pea-pickin’ heart.
Act like you
got some raising!
It ain't dirty.
Just blow it off.
When in doubt,
ask yourself
what Jesus would do.
You better march
your behind over
there and
apologize.
Quit workin’ all that devilment!
Never pays to get
too big for your britches.
Be home by dark thirty or I’m sending
the hounds to look for ya.
Eat this . . . it’ll make you pretty.
Suck it up, buttercup.
Stop cuttin’ up!
I’m ’bout to jerk a
knot in your tail!
Idle minds are the devil’s playground.
Don't you roll your eyes at me
in that tone of voice.
You get
what you get and
you don’t
throw a fit.
You are who you associate with.
Don’t act like you
were raised in a barn!
Don’t you track up my floors!
Just wait ’til your
Daddy gets home.
Did your
Daddy teach you that?
Get your hind end
down from there.
Keep your dress down and
your nose clean.
Your face is
gonna freeze
like that.
If you don't stop doing that
you're gonna go blind.
I brought
you into
this world
and
I will take
you out.
You need to drink
some act right juice!
You’re cute as a
bug in a rug!
Life sucks, hun.
Get a straw.
If y'all are gonna kill each
other,then go outside.
Child, you gotta
cowboy up.
Quit wigglin’ like
a worm in hot ashes.
You need that like you need
a hole in your head.
Do not bother me
unless
you’re on fire.
You didn't get that
from my side of the family.
Me and you are
’bout to have a come
to Jesus meeting.
That’s your little red
wagon to pull.
No child of mine is going out
of the house dressed like that.
Use your head
for more than a hat rack.
Don’t you
back sass me!
Piss-poor planning on your
part does not constitute an emergency
on my part.
Get outta that!
You gonna ride
to town on that
pouting lip?
Darlin’, you got
a caviar appetite on a
peanut butter budget.
You better give your
heart to Jesus 'cause your
butt is mine.
Pee in one hand and wish in the other and
see which one gets filled up the fastest.
Can’t never could
’til he tried.
You’ve made me
proud as punch!
You’re gonna
miss me
when I’m dead
and gone.
Talk
Southern
to Me 'Bout
Your State
of Mind
Your State of Mind
“I’m madder than a cat being baptized!”
Are Southerners more emotionally expressive than people living in the rest of the country? Does a cat have climbing gear? Does a one-legged duck swim in a circle? Does a fat baby fart? Duh! As a matter of fact, I’m downright irritated somebody might think we’re not more emotional than our northern and western counterparts. It irks the stew outta me! Makes me wanna slap the taste outta somebody’s mouth! Oops. Sorry. My hot-tempered Scotch-Irish heritage is showing—I better tuck my tongue behind my teeth.
The irony is that although Southerners are extremely emotional creatures, we are masters at holding our tongues for the time being in order to put on a good face in public. No matter how upset you are at your lazy brother and his wife for mooching off your parents, you will act happy at their Fourth of July lake party on a pontoon boat your parents essentially paid for. Even if your husband informs you he wants a divorce while y’all are driving to the annual church Christmas pageant, you will arrive as the picture perfect couple and stew quietly as you endure amateur actors anointing baby Jesus. Of course, in the long run this only makes things worse. Our tendency to temporarily sweep our emotions under the rug only allows them to fester. Our emotional pot simmers beneath our sparkling, pleasant, pearly white smiles until it erupts with the force of a volcano. Ultimately, Southerners can’t hide from their emotional nature.
The Scotch-Irish were early settlers of the Southern United States and brought with them a tough defensive attitude that stemmed from the necessity to safeguard their livestock from rustlers. Some believe this is why Southerners still live by a deep-rooted protective code of honor. Others argue that our emotionally reactive nature is due to the South’s warm climate—we tend to get hot under the collar.
Many would argue that our tetchiness comes from the burden of history that weighs on Southerners and the amount of suffering we must endure from patronizing non-Southerners. Here’s what I know for certain: antagonizing a Southerner is like picking your teeth with a rattlesnake.
I’ve always battled my temper. But I take some comfort in knowing that I get it honest. My Daddy is a prime example of a Southern hothead. He’s a loving, mild-mannered Southern gentleman who has a wonderful sense of humor—until you make him angry; then all bets are off. He transforms into an unrecognizable alien of fury who courteously warns his provoker, “You better give your heart to Jesus, ’cause your butt is mine!” You just never know what might set him off.
A few years ago, Daddy went in for a routine heart catheterization and wound up being immediately prepped for emergency triple bypass surgery. The concerned surgeon popped into Daddy’s hospital room and asked, “Mr. Fowler, are you aware you are obese?” Well this sent Daddy into a rage. “What kind of question is that? The very idea! Of course I know I’m fat! I’m not here to get a dayum tooth pulled!” Thankfully, Mama was there to remind Daddy that his life was in the hands of this surgeon, so he best calm his fat ass down.
Daddy’s brother, Larry Dean, has the same temper. When I was a kid on vacation at the “luxurious” Viking Motel in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, my Aunt Kathy made beef stew for supper. I’ll never forget Uncle Larry getting madder than a cat being baptized simply because we didn’t have any ketchup. In his defense, we were too poor to go out to dinner, so our little home-cooked family motel meals were a “special occasion.” But, still . . . Uncle Larry fumed for days over ketchup. Even now, if we bring up this story his face gets redder than ketchup. I’m convinced the origin of Uncle Larry’s heart and hypertension problems is dadgum ketchup.
My Mama is a perfect specimen of the paradox that defines Southern women. She’s a quintessential Southern lady who can mask her emotions if necessary, but she also has a temper. To this day, my high school girlfriends are still afraid of her. “Don’t tell Claudia!” continues to be our gang’s motto. Of course, it doesn’t help that Mama is a bit OCD when it comes to cleanliness and organization, as that only makes her more susceptible to irritation. For example, Mama organizes Daddy’s closet into “yard shirts ” and “forbidden shirts.” The “yard shirts” are for working in the yard and the “forbidden shirts” are for dinner, church, doctor’s appointments, etc. Daddy, of course, mocks her system, so when Mama catches him in the yard wearing a “forbidden shirt,” she raises hell like a pig caught under a gate. This woman’s blood boils over a shirt. And Daddy’s blood boils over her systematic shirt arrangement. It’s a combustible situation. I can only pray they don’t kill each other over this, because the headline in the local newspaper is sure to read “Southern Town Shattered By Scandalous Shirt Slaughter.”