You Can’t Drink All Day if You Don’t Start in the Morning

by Celia Rivenbark

  Since y’all know a little about my home county now, perhaps you should also know that the population is so small that they’re going to run out of people and have to start giving the award to farm animals. So, at this rate, I stand a fairly good chance of losing out to a chicken. And if that happens, somebody’s gonna die. I’m not kidding.

  The rejection letter always says the same thing: “All nominees are deserving of the honor and recognition of receiving the award, for they have contributed in a significant manner to the growth, development, and well-being of Duplin County, North Carolina, the United States, and/or the world and its people.”

  OK, maybe I’m not deserving of being considered. After all, I can’t honestly say that writing a few books and a humor column that runs in a few newspapers has exactly helped the well-being of “the world and its people.”

  After ten years of rejection, I’m feeling like a younger, fatter Susan Lucci, although even she eventually got her Daytime Emmy.

  Because there are actually two Hall of Fame recipients announced each year—one living and one deceased—I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to have to die to win this thing. I’ve got my pride, hons. If they pick me posthumously, I won’t show up to accept it or to enjoy the much ballyhooed “nice steak dinner.”

  Which brings us back to Outback, where Duh had invited his redneck cousin, Dink, to join us. And, yes, it says “Dink” on his birth certificate. This is the South; pay attention.

  The waitress greeted us and shot me a look that seemed to convey pity. How could she know my secret shame? Did I have “loser” written all over me? I considered resubmitting my own application to the Hall of Fame and mentioning that I had once had an entire conversation with the girl who plays Peyton on One Tree Hill when they filmed across the street from my house. Fonzie that.

  We settled ourselves into the booth beneath the slightly creepy gaze of a stuffed koala bear clinging to a plastic replica of a eucalyptus tree. Travel broadens the mind so.

  Dink was in town for a convention of fellow fastener salespeople. He started to tell me more about that but I fell face forward into my kookaburra cocktail from the sheer drudgery of it.

  Kidding! Dink can make any story livelier. He’s a classic Bubba, the kind who not only helps you tote off the oyster shells after the roast but drops them into a neighbor’s driveway to fill in a pothole he noticed.

  Dink was telling an extremely funny joke about how a group of kindergarteners were being told not to use baby talk anymore.

  “The teacher says to ’em, ‘From now on, you just use big-people words.’ Then she says to ’em, ‘Now tell me what y’all did this weekend’,” drawls Dink.

  “So when one little boy says he went to visit his nana the teacher says, ‘You mean your grandmother.’ Then another boy says he rode a choo-choo and the teacher says, ‘You mean you rode the train.’ Then a third little boy says he read a book and the teacher smiles and asks, ‘What book did you read?’ and the little boy thinks for a minute, then puffs his chest out really big, all proud of his answer, and says, ‘Winnie the Shit!’ ”

  Well, what can I tell you? I forgot all about my Hall of Fame diss and couldn’t stop laughing.

  Sometimes a night out with your super red cousin-in-law is just what the doctor ordered.

  It was time to order so I told the waitress I’d like my favorite: the eight-ounce Victoria’s filet, cooked medium.

  The waitress looked at me and said, “Medium. Now that’s done on the outside with a warm, pink center, OK?”

  I thought this was a little weird but, hell, maybe she just had a slight hearing problem and wanted to make sure she had it right.

  “Yes,” I said. “Fortunately, our understanding of ‘medium’ is exactly the same.” I hated the snarkiness in my voice, but the kookaburra cocktail and Dink’s joke had me feeling a little bitchy/silly.

  She then turned to Duh, who ordered his Outback special, a twelve-ounce sirloin, medium rare.

  “Hmmmm,” said the waitress. “That’s going to be pink inside fading to a grayish brown color throughout the rest of the meat and with a grayish-brown outside.”

  “Yes!” said hubby as if he’d just proved to be more intelligent than a fifth grader. I was afraid he was going to pump his fist in the air.

  Meantime, all that talk about gray meat was making me a little sick. Or maybe it was the bloomin’ onion, which Dink ordered for the table but which I had demolished in my Hall of Fameless–induced depression.

  The waitress turned to Dink, who also ordered the Outback special, but cooked rare.

  Once again, the waitress took on a look of concentration like she was going to kinetically cook it by using her own thought rays.

  “Rare . . . That’s—”

  But Dink held up his hand to stop her. Uh-oh. I knew what was coming.

  “I dunno about all that, lil darlin’,” he drawled. “Just knock his ears off, wipe his ass, and lead ’im to the table.”

  The waitress looked down at the descriptions that Outback had provided and pondered, I thought, the proper response. It was obvious to me that Outback was sick and damn tired of dealing with idiots who send their steaks back whining about degrees of doneness. There are just some things in this life that we should all agree on without a lot of explanation, including the definitions of rare, medium rare, medium, and (shudder) well done, which is also defined as “charred on the outside without a remnant of juiciness left intact.”

  Dink laughed at his own joke and the waitress looked mildly uncomfortable. Clearly she wasn’t used to being in the company of a high-dollar fastener salesman.

  “Right,” she said. “Rare.”

  “I mean reaaaal rare, baby girl. Listen here. When you bring that steak out I wanna be able to tell you that I’ve seen cows get well that weren’t hurt any worse than that.”

  Then he rocked back in his chair and laughed at his own cleverness all over again.

  “OK,” said the waitress—gamely, I thought.

  “You owe her a big tip,” I hissed at Dink after she’d finally left, presumably to bring us water, which would probably be cold, induced by its proximity to ice.

  His dopey LIFE IS GOOD T-shirt stretched tight over his enormous belly, Dink picked at the greasy remnants of the bloomin’ onion and seemed content to picture his Outback special mooing noisily on the grill for a few fleeting seconds before being led to its plate.

  He started telling about how his friend in South Carolina had “kilt” a five-and-a-half-foot-long timber rattlesnake, soaked it overnight in milk, dipped it in batter, and fried it ’til it was crispy. Being health conscious, they served it with salads. Dink said his friend kept the snake alive in a barrel overnight until his grandson could come see it the next day and feed the rattles to his pet ants. Did Dink know anybody normal? I mean, besides us?

  Meanwhile, my thoughts wandered to the steak dinner I wasn’t going to be having at the Hall of Fame banquet that night.

  At this rate, they’d go to the crazy house and give the damn award to that crazy-ass Sister Admira before I’d ever get it. She could bring along her bucket and stand on it to make her acceptance speech.

  In the meantime, all I could do would be to watch the mailbox every October, sulk a bit and, oh yes, one more thing, continue to work on my newest book: Duplin County: Gateway to Paradise!

  That oughta learn ’em.

  Dink, who is usually about as sensitive as a toilet seat, noticed that I wasn’t as cheerful as usual, despite having just eaten most of a bloomin’ onion and a perfectly medium Victoria’s filet.

  Finally, after a (very) little amount of prodding, I told him about the whole Hall of Fame shame thing.

  He shook his big curly head in sympathy. Like any good Bubba, he stands ready to defend the honor of a Southern woman who has been forced, through no fault of her own, to endure some trauma or other.

  After listening to me and wiping the last bit of cow blood off his stubble, Dink leaned fo
rward and said that I should always remember the words of his granddaddy who had raised him.

  I braced myself for something wise and useful. Dink, like most Bubbas, could be quite insightful and kind when you least expected it.

  “Always remember one thing in this life,” he said, pausing to stare at the koala’s big brown glass eyes. I knew he woulda shot it if we were really in the wild.

  “What is it, Dink? What should I remember? I could really use some perspective here.”

  “Always remember . . . you can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the mornin’.”

  And with that pronouncement, Dink laughed loud enough to make the boomerang nailed to the wall above our booth rattle a bit.

  True that, I thought.

  Dink, Duh, and I are crazy about a good steak and even crazier about my almost-famous perfect prime rib with horsey sauce. It’s supereasy but most people think it’s a really big deal to make. I served this to friends for dinner one night when we rented an oceanfront cottage at Bald Head Island, a one-hour drive and twenty-minute ferry ride from my house. Bald Head doesn’t allow any cars, so you ride around in little golf carts all day, exploring the island’s maritime forest and beaches. At sunset, there’s nothing like sipping cocktails on the porch of your cottage, listening only to gulls and the distant purring of golf carts while the amazing scent of this fragrant roast floats onto the deck and away on the ocean breeze. This recipe will always be in my culinary hall of fame, and it should be in yours, too.

  EVERYONE’S-A-WINNER PRIME RIB

  1½ teaspoons kosher salt

  1 teaspoon pepper

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  6-pound prime rib roast (3 ribs)

  Combine salt, pepper, and oil and rub evenly over roast. Place roast on wire rack in a foil-lined roasting pan. Bake at 450 degrees for 45 minutes; reduce heat to 350 degrees and bake 45 minutes longer (or until meat thermometer reads 145 degrees). Remove from oven; cover loosely with foil. Let stand 20 minutes before carving. Serve with horseradish sauce made by combining 3 tablespoons prepared horseradish with ¼ cup sour cream, a tablespoon of mayonnaise, and a teaspoon of Dijon mustard. Supereasy and supergood.

  15

  When Celia Met Sally . . . A Convertible Love Story

  There are two kinds of people in this world: those who drive convertibles and, well, the rest of y’all.

  That’s right, hons. Thanks to a whopping birthday surprise from duh-hubby, I have finally shed the abysmal anonymity that comes with driving a Ford Taurus. A tan Ford Taurus. A tan 1999 Ford Taurus, to be precise.

  I believe I’ve made my point.

  The delivery was successful, and it’s a girl. At least that’s what I like to think. She’s red and shiny and, best of all, she’s a Mustang with many horses under her hood and I love her more than cheese and TiVo combined.

  The thing about “Sally” is that she is, unlike my tan Taurus, easy to locate in a parking lot.

  Never again will I have to ask the security guard at the mall to ride me around in his little electric car like some kind of moron, trying to find my car. Who knew it was National Take Your Tan Taurus to the Mall Day?

  I’ll never forget the hopelessness in his voice when I described my car to the security guard.

  “This may take a while,” he said.

  “Oh!” I said, suddenly cheerful. “I just remembered! My Taurus has a bumper sticker that says “I heart my cat.”

  “They all do,” he replied, looking even sadder.

  Now that I’ve got Sally, I understand how Harley owners feel. I’ve heard there’s a secret Harley wave they’ve worked out so that even if they’re driving a (snicker) Prius, they give the wave of brotherhood to a passing biker who then knows there’s something infinitely more cool at home in the garage and that the (OK, now I’m laughing out loud) Prius is just being driven because the biker is on his way to take his ailing mama to the orthopedic doctor.

  Convertible people, of which I am now one, did I mention, have a similar kinship on the road. Nothing is more embarrassing than to be caught top up on a warm, cloudless fall day, passed by another convertible with the top down, whose driver gives you a well-deserved, “man, what is your problem?” look.

  I’ve actually pulled up beside another convertible, our tops down, my hair in a kerchief that is less Jackie O and more Lucy-stompin’-grapes and exchanged the knowing, self-satisfied smile of the Chosen.

  Sometimes, sad to say, there is snobbery among the Chosen. For instance, I see how the guy with the BMW convertible looks at me as he takes his position in the carpool lane beside me at my kid’s school. It is not an exaggeration to say that we rev our engines a little as we sit side by side.

  He’s pretending to ignore me but I know that’s impossible. Mostly because it’s hard to ignore the overwhelmingly cool sight of me singing “Cheeseburger in Paradise” into my hairbrush, with the top down, natch.

  He’s listening to his XM radio or something talky and pretending not to notice that Sally has a phenomenal stereo system.

  “I like mine with lettuce and tomato! Heinz fifty-seven and french-fried potato! . . .”

  Despite this impressive show, BMW dad is smug because, no doubt, his convertible was a lot more expensive than Sally. But Sally has heart, she’s a real slice of Americana, something special, her shapely fortieth-anniversary edition lines reminding us of that sixties generation poised on the verge of rebellion. She is cool with a capital “Brrrrrr.”

  The BMW convertible, on the other hand, is usually driven by men who work in vague and boring fields like finance and know nothing of blasting old Stones or Cream because that would interfere with their prolonged Bluetooth conversations with others of their own kind.

  The only sour note since Sally came into my formerly beige life has been the inability of young men to mask their deep disappointment when they move closer to see the blonde in the hot red convertible only to discover that she is, well, their mother. They might want to work on that.

  When they see me at the wheel, their faces drop in much the same way my daughter’s does when she goes trick-or-treating with her friends and the asshole family hands out pencils.

  But just because I’m nobody’s version of a MILF or even a GMILF, it doesn’t mean I am ready for the old folks’ home. Women aren’t aging like they used to; we’re talking tough and driving fast cars. It’s not easy being impossibly cool at my age, hons. The other day my daughter wanted to hide under Sally’s floor mats when I announced, with radio blaring, that I really liked the artistic rap stylings of Florida.

  “Did you just say Florida, like the state?” Soph asked.

  “Well, sure, honey. It’s f-l-o-r-i-d-a, right?”

  “It’s pronounced Flow-ride-uh,” she said, barely able to control her contempt.

  Oh.

  “You didn’t say that in front of anybody else, did you?” she asked, squinting at me through hands covering her face. She had the very same look I once gave my parents many years ago when they asked, “How’d he do?” after I came home from a Steely Dan concert. He???!!!!

  “Of course I didn’t say it in front of anyone else. For Christ’s sake, I drive a convertible. I’m the cool mommie!”

  “Florida!”

  “Stop saying that!”

  “Florida! Florida! Florida!”

  “Grounded! Grounded! Grounded!”

  Am I in some sort of second teenhood, driving a cool car and playing my music too loud?

  We’re all in some sort of acting-out crisis, it seems. I’ll never forget Aunt Sudavee’s horror when, just as she was preparing to take the first bite of her raisin toast with Promise spread, she heard Diane Keaton drop the F-bomb live and in person on Good Morning America.

  Keaton’s always been quirky and ageless, wearing her ubiquitous white suits and wattle-disguising scarves. Midway through a fluffy little plug for her latest movie, she got caught up in some sort of faux lesbian girl-crush rant about the beauty of Diane Sawy
er’s lips. As in, “If I had lips like that, I wouldn’t have had to work on my f’ing personality.”

  “Well, I never!” Aunt Sudavee said, dropping her toast on the floor, Promise-side down, of course, ’cause that’s just what kind of day it was going to be.

  A couple of weeks later, just when Aunt Sudavee thought it was safe to return to morning TV, there was Jane Fonda dropping a bomb of her own during an interview with Meredith Vieira.

  What did she say? Let’s just say that I’m too much of a lady to speak or write it, so I’ll just describe it as the big scary worst one that women never use, you know the one, it rhymes with hunt.

  Unlike Sawyer, who giggled, licked her f’ing gorgeous lips provocatively and then threatened to wash Keaton’s mouth out with soap, things didn’t go so well at the Today show. Vieira returned from a hasty commercial break with a stiffly worded apology that just made things worse. I had the feeling that she thought Jane Fonda was a pretty big rhymes-with-hunt herself.

  Fonda shouldn’t have said it, but she was just quoting from her role in The Vagina Monologues, so there was some context to it.

  Then, not a week later, there’s that woozy old cougar, Kathleen Turner, dropping, not the effenheimer, but “asshole” during a live interview on local TV.

  What’s next? Roma Downey greeting the ladies of The View with “Whassup, bitches?”

  Truthfully, I’d rather hear the rough talk than that weird Oprah baby talk.

  Can we please sign a petition or something to get her to stop calling vaginas “vah-jay-jays.”

  Every time she says it, it’s as if she’s saying it for the first time, hooting and clapping her hands at her own cleverness.

  What is she, two?

  What’s next? Telling us that she has trouble finding blouses that fit because of her enormous ninnie pies?

  So what’s with the aging movie-star potty-mouth syndrome? Maybe they’re tired of the twits on America’s Next Top Model having all the fun.

  People always say that one of the perks of getting older is that you can get away with some major shit, which I guess is why Queen Elizabeth and Barbara Bush can hardly open their mouths without resorting to F-bombs. What? You never noticed that?