American Thighs

by Jill Conner Browne

I miss those days. I suppose my still-underage daughter has some degree of understanding for the pleasant thrill associated with dancing around government regulations—Lord knows how many fake IDs she’s had confiscated in recent years. But, while there will always be SOME-body from whom a truly dedicated minor will be able to procure alcohol—border crossings have gotten a tad bit trickier, not to mention, like, totally vital. I mean, not for any amount of refreshing tequila-laced beverages consumed watching any number of sunsets on any pristine but foreign beaches would I want to get STUCK somewhere OUTSIDE the US of A and not be able to get back IN.

  Tips for Trouble-Free Travel

  No matter what your age and/or station in life, I actually have only one travel tip for you: DON’T DO IT.

  This works for me. After much study of this problem of travel-related woes, I have found that as long as I am sitting on my back porch—or lolling in my tub—I spend zero dollars per gallon for gas, I am literally unaffected by commute times and/or traffic snarls, I don’t worry about what to pack—too little? too much?—I am affected only by the weather if the wind is blowing rain from the south, in which case I get dampened on the porch and must take to the tub unless I am already in the tub, in which case the weather does not matter.

  Airport security bothers me not at all—new and more stringent regulations do not affect my plans—I can make pipe bombs on my back porch if I decide I want to and someone shows me how—but I have only very simple plans, which are to sit and mouth-breathe while staring at water, whether in the lake or in the tub.

  I don’t care how small the seats have gotten or that there is sufficient leg and head room only for individuals five feet tall and under.

  No one ever tries to make me eat pretzels.

  My skin is not turned to thin, powdery leather by the negative humidity in a hotel room.

  I am never awakened at some ridiculous hour by the bedside alarm inconsiderately left set by the previous room’s occupant, who had to get up in order to arrive at the airport the prescribed six or eight hours in advance of a (delayed or canceled) flight.

  If I choose to dine on Pringles and old jelly beans, it’s because I’m home alone and lazy—not because delayed flights meant that I arrived at my hotel long after room service shut down and I thought I would surely die if I didn’t ingest some form—any form—of calories immediately.

  My credit cards are never in any danger of being either stolen or declined.

  The restrooms are as clean as I want them to be and there is no wait to use them.

  I don’t ever go out to sit on the porch only to be told—either by a hard-to-read blue screen or a nearly impossible-to-understand bellowing voice on the PA system—that my sitting-down place has been changed and that now I must go to the other side of the lake and that the train that would normally take me there is malfunctioning so there will be a “short” walk involved in the relocation process.

  Any and all travel-related problems can be easily averted with this one simple step: stay home. It works beautifully for me and I recommend it to you most highly.

  13

  Onward, Through the Fog

  January and February of each year finds me running all over the country, hawking my latest book—a brutal task but not without its benefits, the primary one of those being the opportunity to meet and visit, up close, with all manner of Queens. This gives me the chance to hear, firsthand, your own personal tales of your own journeys into Queenliness, and it is just the most gratifying and reassuring thing in the world to me—to see the Queendom ever growing and the Queens themselves growing ever wiser.

  For example, I learned that Queen Crystal is enjoying peaceful sleep, night after night, undisturbed by any free-floating fears about the away-from-home-supervision conduct of her teenage daughter Meg. Here’s why: our little Meggie loves to cook and she’s always in the kitchen trying new recipes, which often call for ingredients that Queen Crystal does not keep readily on hand. One creation called for Parmigiano Reggiano, of which there was none in the house, and so off the two went to the grocery store together to secure the necessary provisions. As long as she was there and walking RIGHT BY the beer and wine section, QC thought it was as good a time as any to sample the newest flavor of wine coolers, and so she snagged a six-pack. Meg was off on the cheese hunt and did not, therefore, witness the wine cooler selection.

  Okay, so they’re in the checkout line and the little checker girl scans the wine coolers through the register and asks to see QC’s proof of age (always thrilling to those of us of a certain age), but when she made this request, she was holding up the CHEESE. QC joked, “Wow, getting carded for CHEESE! What next?” and Meg looked astounded. “You got carded for CHEESE?” “It’s imported,” QC said, without missing a beat.

  As they walked to the car, Meg was clearly processing the moment, and as they got in the car, she asked her mama, “How old do I have to BE before I can buy that cheese?” Hmmm…and thus, Queen Crystal sleeps in heavenly peace.

  I’m told that Queen Pat’s parents slept well during her teenage years as well, although they certainly should not have. This was one of those blissful-ignorance situations and nobody would EVER have been the wiser, except, of course, for the fact that—like so many of us—Pat has herself a big-mouth buddy—by the name of Laura. (Yours may have another name, but a big mouth by any other name will naturally blab just as much.)

  What Pat did and got away with that Laura is now blabbing is this: as a teenager, Pat found herself on a pretty tight parental curfew leash, and she was instructed not only to be in at what she deemed to be a ridiculously early hour for one as trustworthy and mature as she (snort), but she was also to briefly waken her parents upon her home arrival to confirm that she was, in fact, safe in the coop by the witching hour.

  While still out on the town in full carouse mode, she would note that her curfew time was fast approaching. A few minutes before she was due in, she would take herself to a quiet spot and phone home. A sleepy parent would fumble for the bedside phone and mutter a muffled hello—whereupon Pat would quickly say, “It’s okay, it’s for me—I just walked in the door—sorry the phone woke you”—AS IF she had just answered the phone in another part of the house—when IN FACT, she was merely pausing in her debauchery miles and miles away. Sleepy Mom and/or Dad would look at the clock and hang up the phone in annoyance at being awakened thusly, but most of all, just relieved at the knowledge that their little angel Pat was safe in the nest once more. And the little hellion would go right on partying until she and the cows decided it was time to come home, and she would slip in—undetected.

  If, as you read this, you’re still young enough to be living at home and adhering to a curfew—you should be aware that YOUR MOTHER CAN READ and so this tactic, if you were thinking of employing it, has just been removed from your arsenal of trickery. If you’re the kid—sorry. If you’re the mom—you’re welcome.

  I’ve Searched the World Over

  And learned this for certain: The Secret to a Happy Marriage…remains a secret. Suffice it to say that while LOVE may, in fact, be BLIND, marriage is NOTHING if not an eye-opener. Boy-hidee—is it ever! Do y’all ever read the newspaper advice columns of Carolyn Hax? I adore her—I think she is just ate up with good ole COMMON SENSE and that, coupled with a mighty fine turn of phrase, makes her worthy of our attention and praise. Somebody wrote in once and asked her what she thought was a “good age” at which to get married. Ms. Hax responded that the “good age” would be the one at which you find somebody so good for you that spending your life with him would be a natural extension of who you are—which SEEMS like SUCH a simple answer, doesn’t it?

  She went on with the tricky part—that being that FIRST you have to be mature enough to KNOW who YOU ARE—which, unfortunately, is too often clear only in hindsight—or, worse, full-on delusion. Immaturity and bad choices CAN be caught early, according to Queen Carolyn—IF we are ready to see it—in arguments we have with ourselves and/or others
about how mature we are or how great our potential mate really is. OOOOH, she is soooo smart.

  As a semigeezer gearing up to hand over the world to the next generation, I am greatly heartened by a delightful missive I received from one of my very favorite little Larva Queens, Alexis. First of all, Alexis considers my dear friend Marlyn Schwartz and me to be veritable fonts of wisdom—which I think indicates a pretty fair share of wisdom in her own young self—and she states that betwixt us, Marlyn and I have helped her on more than one occasion as she fumbles her way through her twenties, and we are gratified to hear it.

  We are further gratified to learn that little Queen Alexis has started a rebel faction in the very midst of her local Junior League. Don’t those very words give you a little thrill? A REBEL FACTION in a JUNIOR LEAGUE! It is rare that one is privileged to witness such raw courage in one so young. It seems that after some discussion with the dozen or so other Single Members in the League, Alexis determined that they had all grown just a bit tired of hearing, repeatedly, from the MARRIED membership, “You’re still SINGLE? That is a SIN!” Ostensibly this is meant as a sort of compliment to the single one, indicating that she is just so obviously completely and totally FABULOUS in every way, it is just a SIN for her to be “going to waste” as an unmarried person—but it sorta stops feeling complimentary after about the 438th time one hears it about one’s fabulous self.

  Thus, Alexis rallied her little band of “spinsters” and dubbed them “The Upside of Sin” and declared herself Benevolent Dictator for Life—to which the other girls had no objection because Alexis is a consummate party planner and they knew they would be in very fun hands. By the end of the first meeting, Alexis had already announced the party schedule for the upcoming year, which would include the Bridesmaid Retirement Party, the Beware the Ides of March celebration, as well as other festivities to commemorate any and all perhaps lesser-known holidays, such as September 2, which, you may be unaware, is National Beheading Day, and even though we are not sure in what COUNTRY that is a national holiday—we have our suspicions, of course—nonetheless, it clearly calls for cocktails, no?

  Alexis further decided but with unanimous support that whenever one of the Upsiders did get married, the group would throw a funeral for her. They would all wear slenderizing black cocktail dresses and celebrate the end of the life of a fabulous single girl—complete with eulogies—and gorge themselves on time-honored funeral foods from the appropriate sweet, salty, fried, and au gratin food groups.

  I feel a welcome sense of relief as I read any e-mails from Alexis—that we have somehow managed to impart worthy ideals to at least ONE young woman, and it makes it just a little bit easier for me to contemplate retirement—knowing that we are in at least ONE pair of capable hands.

  Okay, make that TWO—because an e-mail from Queen Christen has just come to me and caused me to wonder if the Nobel committee would consider offering a prize for Most Diabolical Divorce-Related Revenge Tactics. If so, Christen is a mortal lock for this year’s award.

  She left the SOS (sack of shit) right after obtaining a restraining order—which the good folks in the ER, where she’d spent the previous night, helped her get right quick-like—and when she left him, she also magnanimously left in his possession ALL the televisions in the house—without even so much as a hint of a demand from the SOS that she do so. She just did it out of the unbearable sweetness of her soul. But then, out of that OTHER part of her soul, she TOOK every single REMOTE CONTROL with her—bwahahahaha!

  Furthermore, it seems that, throughout their ill-fated marriage, the SOS had clung with demonic ferocity to a pair of decades-old deerskin slippers that looked and smelled like roadkill, and whenever he would misplace them, she would be viciously accused of having some responsibility for their disappearance. She knew that if, as a parting gesture, she were to dispose of them, he would know instantly that she had done it, and she feared the consequences would too far outweigh the satisfaction, and so she just took ONE.

  Whenever she felt glum for any reason over the next year or so, she had only to call up the mental picture of him tearing the house apart—over and over and over again—looking for those remotes and that one ratty-ass slipper—and presto change-o! The dark clouds rolled away and she felt all sunny inside once more. It IS, after all, the simple things in life that really count.

  I am thrilled nearly but not quite beyond words to report that just a few short years later, Christen met up with a lovely young man from Memphis who, on their first Christmas together as a couple, gave her a complete set of Sweet Potato Queen books. Of course, she married him and we are so certain they are living happily EVER after.

  And THEN, I was further gratified to hear from Queen Sheryl that, after ten years of marriage, her first husband ran off with her hairdresser, and frankly, it took Sheryl quite some time to get over it. I mean, how would YOU feel? We all know how hard it is to find a good hairdresser.

  After the ensuing divorce, the hairdresser-stealing ex would come pick up the kids for a visit on Sunday morning and return them on Sunday evening. Whenever he brought them back, he would actually come into the house and, in a seemingly offhanded manner, just sort of saunter to the back of the house and peek into Sheryl’s bedroom. He was no longer interested in occupying it hisownself but was nonetheless way too interested in seeing if anybody else was. This was a source of irritation to Sheryl and so she Took Steps.

  The next Sunday, as soon as he left with the kids, she went to work. She tangled the bedsheets and threw the throw pillows across the room. She burned incense, drew the blinds, put a pink scarf over a lamp with a low-watt bulb, put two wineglasses on the nightstand (with a few drops of Kool-Aid in the bottom of each), put soft music on the stereo, threw a pair of panties and a bra on the floor, made two distinct head prints on one of the bed pillows, and then she went next door and BORROWED a FULL ashtray from her neighbor—which she placed on her headboard above the bed.

  And then she rested, although it must be said she was too excited to nap. FINALLY, the hairdresser-stealing ex returned with the kids. She immediately engaged the children in a lively discussion in the kitchen, to give him plenty of leeway to meander down the hall for his routine observation run. She stood where she could watch him without being seen. She said he gently pushed open the bedroom door and glanced in—clearly expecting to see nothing but the normally perfectly ordered room he was accustomed to viewing and, WHOA-NELLY! He nearly tripped over his own jaw when he saw the Evidence. She was gleeful.

  As he approached the kitchen, she asked the kids, in her sweetest Mommy voice, “Did you guys have a good time today?” and while they were assuring her that, yes, ma’am, they sure did—he walked in and said, “Well! Did MOMMY have a good time today?” Winking, she said, “Oh, you bet!” knowing he wouldn’t be able to leave it at that—and she was right. He then said, “So, was it anybody I know?” and without so much as a pause, she said, perky as you please, “Hell, no! It wasn’t even anybody I know!”

  Sheryl says, to this day, it was the best orgy she never had. Sometimes, I swear, all IS right with the world, isn’t it?

  14

  Still Men—After All These Years

  First, of course, they are BOYS, and all evidence indicates that it’s a case of early onset approximately 100 percent of the time. Once upon a time, in the little town of West Point, Georgia—which is the only place in the universe that I know about where one can get crispy-fried black-eyed peas, and that is at the Heart of the South Tea Room (which also has THE finest Southern cooking anywhere on the planet)—so it is worth going there if for no other reason than that—just to experience the miracle of the black-eyed peas, which are like salted peanuts only peas and nobody can figger out quite how they do it and they ain’t tellin’ so you just have to go there if you want some—there lived three little boy-type brother boys.

  By boy-type boys, I mean the kind that’re just as full of their own boyness as they could possibly be without busting wide
open. Just so BAD, you could pinch their heads off—if they weren’t so dang funny about it.

  Okay, so Mom is driving them to school one morning and they are all buckled up in the backseat. The one in the middle announces that he is experiencing that happy-boy thing—the hard-on—and he is, in fact, quite happy about it and is equally happy to share the glad tidings with his fellow passengers. Brother-to-the-left gives a cursory glance in the direction of Middle brother and says, hmph, yeah, looks like you do, and goes back to staring out the window. Brother-to-the-right does not even look in Middle brother’s direction but maintains his steady window gaze, but nonchalantly says, “Yeah, when I get a hard-on out in public, I usually just tuck it up under my belt.”

  This at first seems to Middle brother to be a most excellent—indeed brilliant—solution to what could be a troubling matter—since he, too, often found that he would be visited by the hard-on fairy at public and therefore inopportune moments—and his face kinda lit up at the suggestion momentarily. Just as quickly, his expression turned to confusion and then consternation as he processed the entire equation and realized that either his pants were too high or his equipment was too short for him to avail himself of this fine remedy.

  If the smug faces on Left and Right brothers did not betray their treachery, their ensuing guffaws certainly did, as Mom just watched it all in her rearview mirror, thinking to herself what mean little shits they were—but she still laughed.

  Phase Two

  I’ll grant you, they do walk a bit more upright these days and the prehensile tails seem to have vanished so, yes, they have become Men, but it would seem to me that there have not been any real discernible upgrades to the product in the last several thousand years.

  Queen Jamie told me she’d been reading the online personal ads and came across this one that some igmo had posted: I am lowering MY standards so that YOU can RAISE YOURS. Where was he listed? In the Unmitigated Gall section? And how many affirmative responses do you reckon he got with THAT plum of a come-on?