American Thighs

by Jill Conner Browne

  “And then what happened?” I wanted to know. Queenie said she left to go to the bar after the woman blessed her heart and everybody else looked real uncomfortable.

  Oh, my—poor Queenie. She had no idea what just happened to her. I explained to her that what the woman had been doing was venting her spleen about the poor planning that caused the overcrowded conditions and she was affixing the blame for her discomfort to a certain person or persons but she was not sufficiently displeased as to be willing to confront the planners face-to-face about the situation nor did she wish to be quoted on the matter, and thus, the all-purpose Southern anti-venom—“I don’t want to be ugly, but…”

  Ugly in this case is not describing an unattractive physical appearance—it means being unkind or unpleasant—and if one is Southern, one can freely SAY all the unkind, unpleasant—indeed, snipey and downright snarky—things one wants to say about another and then totally defuse it by assuring one’s listeners that one “doesn’t want to be ugly” about it.

  About the heart blessing—I asked Queenie, “Did she laugh and give you a hug when she said it?” No, Queenie said—the woman gave her a pitying look, patted her hand, and said, “Bless your heart, hunny.” “Was that bad?” she asked.

  Oh, mercy—I knew instantly why the rest of the group had fallen into an uncomfortable silence. Queenie had just been dog-cussed by the quintessential Southern Woman—who still didn’t want to be ugly.

  This stuff cannot be taught, can it? Y’all all saw it coming from the first paragraph—and she STILL doesn’t know what hit her. Bless her little heart.

  Ahhh, my South—home of sweet tea, tall porches with ceiling fans, warm hospitality, and the most gracious hostility.

  Asset-Preserving Tip

  Stand in front of a good-quality mirror and practice smiling over-broadly while saying these words in as lilting a tone as you can muster: “Well, HEY, hun-ny! How ARE yew? You little steatopygious thing, yew! I swear, I do NOT know HOW yew do it! Yew are just A-MAZIN’! I don’t think I could BEAR senectitude—but every time I see yew, I declare, yew just look like yew are eatin’ it UP!”

  The big smile and the sweet, bubbly tone are what will carry the day here on account of you have just told somebody that she looks as if she is thoroughly enjoying her immensely fat behind as well as her old age.

  Buh-bye, now! Y’all come see us, y’hear?!

  P.S.

  While there may be the occasional misunderstanding about the use of the word ugly in reference to one’s self and one’s desire to not be so, there is, as far as I know, only ONE accepted use for the word pretty, and it means just that, which is not to say that no care need be taken in the use of it.

  Case in point: A bunch of us Queens, all of or above a Certain Age, encountered a woman who, although admittedly younger than US, was still not likely to be considered exactly “YOUNG” by anybody’s standards, and somehow or other this only-slightly-less-old-than-us woman worked it into the conversation that the great burden of her LIFE had always been that, in whatever crowd she found herself, SHE was always…. “The Pretty One.” Oh, my, what an affliction.

  Needless to say—as a group, we found this terribly off-putting, and the looks exchanged amongst us registered, wordlessly but nonetheless unanimously, the opinion that “either she must have always made sure to run with a fairly unattractive bunch of dog balls or she was perhaps giving herself unwarranted airs on account of, she was okay but we didn’t think there was any overabundance of letters being written home about her great beauty.”

  Word to Those Wishing for Wisdom: While it is wonderful and certainly important to have and maintain a good opinion of one’s appearance, it’s generally best to let others notice it for themselves and offer any verbal confirmation they choose about the subject rather than introducing the topic one’s self.

  16

  Help Is Close at Hand

  There are times when Life Itsownself seems more difficult than it should be and we may feel the need for a bit of a leg up on a perplexing problem, and toward this end, we often seek the costly opinions of professional listeners.

  I am of the opinion that—except in the case of true mental illness, which I believe is still fairly uncommon—most “therapy” amounts to expensive self-indulgence for those of us who have used up our free resources by wearing all available friends and family slap OUT with our never-ending whinings about our Situations, and now we would prefer to pay large sums of money to a stranger who is willing (for a price) to endlessly listen to our endless crap—as opposed to just, say, DOING something DIFFERENT.

  What all GOOD “therapy” boils down to is this:

  Patient: “It hurts when I do this.”

  Therapist: “Don’t do that.”

  Now, you can pay thousands and thousands and a few more thousands of dollars over decades of your life to Talk About Your Problems—and that is certainly your prerogative—but sooner or later, if you want things to actually GET BETTER, there will come a Time when you identify what it is you’re doing that’s making you miserable and then, hopefully, shortly after that, there will come a time when you STOP doing whatever it is that’s making you miserable and START doing something else instead. All I’m saying is—you could do that SOONER rather than LATER, if you was of a mind to, and that a therapist who is willing to “take you to raise” (for a fee) by endlessly indulging your fascination with yourself is not doing you any favors.

  A GOOD therapist will help you identify your problem and your options for resolution—perhaps encourage you to choose one and act on it—and then send you on your way with some new tools for living your own life. You can pop back in the next time you need such help—it shouldn’t be like a standing NAIL appointment, for crying out loud—which, now that you mention it, is kinda what it amounts to: crying out loud.

  Endless Therapy—just like Worry—is not a substitute for taking action—it’s something we do when we don’t WANT to take action. And that’s fine—as long as we know what we’re doing—and not doing, as it were. But once more, let me say, I’m not talking about mental illness here—that requires an actual physician-type person and it is not within the personal power of the patient to control. Choosing to NOT use our personal power is infinitely different than not having any.

  Okay, for all of us who just basically want to be rescued from whatever life situation we’ve gotten ourselves into—and who doesn’t?—that would be SOOOO great if some mama or daddy figure could just pick us up and tell us don’t worry about this for one second and then go fix it for us. Whooo-man—sign me up for THAT! However, that is NOT available, and even if it was, the line would be way too long—we’d prolly die before it was our turn. But, in lieu of actual rescue, perhaps some diversion would lighten your load.

  Toward that end, let me suggest that you visit the Web site of Alexyss K. Tylor. She and her mama have a teevee show that airs on public access in the Atlanta area and they have got, as the evangelists love to say, a WORD for YOU today, my sistah! Ms. Tylor and her mama want us to know that we are GODDESSES and that we have, right there betwixt our very own legs, THE POWER—as in THE power—the MOST POWERFUL power on THIS planet—that’s right, VAGINA POWER trumps ALL.

  And Ms. Tylor and her mama are here to tell us all how to put our very own Vagina Power to work not only for ourselves but for the whole world—especially for ourselves, though. My very favorite episode, so far, is where Ms. Tylor explains to her mama how it is that, on occasion, “DICK will make you SLAP SOMEBODY—inna FACE!”

  I know I have found that to be true in my own life experience so many, many times—I just never fully understood WHY it happened—and now I do. You can have this understanding, too, and learn all the many ways that you have been underutilizing your Vagina Power, and, even better, the many more ways you can improve your interpersonal relationships, particularly with men, so that you need never again find yourself involved with a man to whom you have personally given Everything and from whom you h
ave not even received so much as a shrimp dinner from Long John Silver’s, which only costs, what? $2.49?

  I’m telling you—Alexyss K. Tylor has some Answers for some of you this very day. The information is free—as is your choice to make good use of it. If you are consuming liquids when you access the show, make sure that you turn your head AWAY from your monitor and keyboard—the eruption from your nasal passages will destroy them.

  I recently saw an ad in a small-town Southern newspaper for a man representing himself as a marriage counselor. It features a photo of him wearing a big smile and a rakish fedora hat, which inspired my confidence in him from the get-go. His lead-in was quite catchy, although somewhat cryptic, in my opinion: “IT is what IT is,” with the two its in all caps for emphasis. He claims the title of “Dr.” and has the initials “B.Y.U.” after his name, in parentheses. W.T.F.? Okay, and he’s not JUST a doctor and a B.Y.U.—he’s also a Prophet, excuse me, The Prophet AND The King of Wisdom.

  Perhaps this is what has led to my rather less-than-high opinion of so many so-called therapists—none of the individuals from whom I personally ever sought help had the “B.Y.U.” distinction and certainly none of them claimed overtly to be The Prophet and/or The King of Wisdom. Not a ONE of them EVER told me, “IT is what IT is.” This explains a lot about me, in my opinion, and now that I KNOW that IT is what IT is, I expect things will be a lot different around here. And I got that for FREE, from his ad—I can only imagine how much more my life can be improved if I avail myself of his actual services for dollars.

  In addition to marriage consulting—that’s the next word he used in conjunction with marriage—is the consulting different from the counseling? I’ll ask him and let you know—no charge. You can also get him to help you with Mental Dynamics—not sure what that is but it’s bound to be good, don’t you think? In addition, he can help you out with Spiritual Awareness—also sounds helpful—and then you can get some Brain Building.

  My sister, Judy, wants to get some Brain Building assistance but I told her I thought it was a bad idea because unless she gets all her friends (and me) to sign up for it as well, she will not have anybody to talk to. She saw the wisdom of this theory right off.

  The Good Doctor further states in his ad a description of What a Woman Needs—I read this part closely—being a woman and often in need, it was of particular interest to me. According to him, our needs are as follows:

  From ages 0 to 18 we need “Good Parents!” He uses an exclamation point so I will, too!

  From ages 18 to 35 we need “Good Looks!” That’s all we need, or at least that’s all he listed, but he also ended with an exclamation point so here you go!

  From ages 35 to 50 we need “Good Personality!”

  From ages 50 to 65 we need “CASH!”

  There is no mention of any womanly needs that might arise from age 65 and older.

  Well, he certainly has got it all figured out so I guess I’ll be calling him, and I feel confident it will be the best money I ever spent—I can’t wait for the New Me. I am happy that I am past the point of needing both good looks and good personality—whew, that’s lucky!—and now am in the “cash only” phase of life. I am only hoping that he has some fund-raising ideas for ME that are as good as the one he’s found for HIMSELF.

  With any luck, I might even be able to open a branch office for him in Jackson. Need to know what the “B.Y.U.” is—perhaps it’s something I can already do—Blow You Up or Bring Your Underwear? Upon further inquiry, I learned that he offers counseling only on specific days—I would like that, setting my own hours and allowing for a lot of downtime—but he also offers a hand car-wash service, which I am under NO circumstances willing to do for anybody anytime. I won’t even drive THROUGH a car wash. I’ll be willing to work for less money and focus my energies solely on the counseling aspects with no bonus car washes thrown in. If you want the full-service deal, you’ll just have to see him hisownself.

  He closes his ad with yet another snappy but obscure motto: “REMEMBER, LET IT DO WHAT IT DO!” Uh-huh.

  Now, SEE? And you thought life was so hard. If you’re reading this as a youngster, great, I just saved you several decades of chasing your tail. If you’re old, like me, well, it’s better tardy than not at all, isn’t it? Let’s go lie down and ponder this great wisdom. I am SO READY to just let it do what it do.

  Not sure what that means, though. Am I doing it now? Does this look right?

  17

  Living Will

  My sister, Judy, and I have recently been lamenting the loss of our late and, we tell ourselves, very great minds. If you are over forty-six and a half years old, you know what we’re talking about—at the moment anyway; in just a second, you’ll forget what we’re talking about.

  Not only do we walk purposefully into rooms and forget the purpose for the trip, we even forget the WORDS to describe the purpose. The so-called experts assure us this is nothing to worry about. We don’t trust them. We’ve seen them. They’re old, too. They’re just trying to convince THEMSELVES there’s no problem here.

  I’m telling you, it’s a problem. Trying to write a book is hard enough if you have a decent vocabulary. The other day, I could NOT think of the word nostalgia. Ironic, huh? Also maddening. I called Judy, naturally; she has a most impressive command of the language, in my opinion. Of course, how hard is it to impress me? I can’t think of fucking nostalgia.

  I told her I was trying to think of a word that means remembering something fondly and she couldn’t think of it either. We went back and forth, ending up practically hollering at each other in frustration over our mutual failure to come up with the word. She thought I was just being difficult and refusing to use any of the what she thought to be fine words that she offered. They were fine words indeed—they just didn’t have any relation to the word nostalgia. Judy thought I was being nitpicky and stubborn in my refusal to settle for a different word, meaning nothwithstanding.

  When nostalgia finally surfaced in my muddy brain, she insisted that she had offered me any number of words that meant the same exact thing and I said no she did not and she said yes she did, too, but then neither one of us could remember any of the words she’d suggested so that was the end of that.

  She confessed that she had herself—just the other day—forgotten the word croissant and nearly lost her mind over it. Her housekeeper was going to the grocery store for her and Judy was wanting some…some…oh, shit, what are those things? It’s hard to act out croissant even by the most creative actress for the most astute audience—neither of which was this duo. Judy finally got online and Googled “French pastries” and went down the list until she came to “croissant,” and a great shout of jubilation could be heard throughout the Garden District of New Orleans.

  A discussion ensued about what if we really were completely losing our minds and did I think she was and did she think I was and what would we do if either one of us really was and how could we tell and when would we know it was time to do something about it?

  We both promised that whichever one of us was the last one still in possession of a brain cell would somehow kill the one who had lost all of hers. But how would we know when the Time had Come? This is a pretty important distinction and one we felt needed to be clearly defined for future reference.

  It was therefore decided that it was okay that she could not remember the word croissant. She at least had the presence of mind to use Google to find it and, I might add, the great good sense to be sending someone else to the store to fetch it for her. However, the day she no longer knows what to DO with a croissant will be her last day. Likewise, she will know that if I start watching reality TV, quoting Dr. Phil, riding roller coasters, and seem to have forsaken bacon in favor of anything soy—it’s time to Get the Pillow.

  That’s what—well, I can’t tell you who but she’s a nurse—says they all say when they’ve got a particularly cantankerous patient on their wing. They tell the night nurse, “It’s time to get the
pillow for 322,” meaning “If you don’t mind, and you have a minute, would you please smother that old bitch before I come back in the morning?” Nurses just have a wry sense of humor, don’t they? I know a bunch of ’em who work for a place that has the words “continued care” in its title. They say it should actually read, “pretend to care.” Which I find hilarious—as long as I’m not needing tending to, of course.

  Asset-Preserving Tip

  No matter WHAT your age—ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS be very, very nice to nurses.

  18

  Our De-luxe Apartment Awaits

  We, The Cutest Boy in the World and I, are making big check marks on each day of our calendar until November 23, 2012—for on THAT day, I will be sixty and therefore qualified to move into the retirement home where my mama lives—The Waterford, or, as we like to think of it, Old Folks’ Heaven. You have to be at least sixty to live there, and at that low age, I think you also have to have some sort of infirmity, but I don’t think that will be too hard for me to come up with, so we’re counting on it.

  Kyle, of course, can go only on MY coattails since HE will be only a mere whippersnapperish fifty then, fie on his young ass. Don’t you know he will be some kind of popular up in there? I mean, the most wiveled up, decrepit ole boy in the joint can have all the old women he could ever want in those places, and actually, if they survive that long, they’re prolly a pretty good bet, so maybe it’s no wonder they are in such hot demand with the ladies. But KYLE, at fifty, will be like anybody else’s thirty—I’ll have to guard my meds to make sure them old biddies don’t try to poison me to get at him.