As I kept writing, however, I started seeing Maya’s point. (Although—and this is just a personal opinion—I don’t care where she writes but I sure do wish she’d make her poems rhyme like God intended.)
Unlike my twenty years working in newsrooms, working from home has had its own set of distractions and, well, loneliness. In the newsroom, you could always walk away and find a real live grown-up (excluding the sports guys) to talk to, and don’t forget the lure of the office vending machines, all lined up and waiting to serve. No “hairy raspberry Twinkies” beckon me at home like they did at the office.
For the most part, writing this book has been exhilarating, exhausting, and everything in between. I wouldn’t be the first to compare writing a book to the birth process but I swear it’s the truth. The only difference is that there’s not some nice starched lady patting your hand and feeding you little feel-great pills at the end of the process.
I think I’ve learned a lot while working from home and making the switch from full-time newsie to stay-at-home mom/newspaper columnist. Most importantly, I learned that you can actually buy those fabulous hairy raspberry things at the grocery store. Who knew?
But as much as I’ve learned about working from home, I confess the whole mommy thing continues to mystify me. I see others handle it with such grace and skill. Me? I still freak out when the little girl in my daughter’s class picks her nose and rubs snot on my sweater before running away squealing. (Okay, actually it’s me running way squealing.) My PTA legacy may be that I’m the only mommy who ever tried to cut corners and make the cornucopia for the class Thanksgiving party using canned vegetables.
That’s why I’m so grateful to know so many competent mommies. They’re the ones who handle booger attacks with calm acceptance, smiling kindly while simultaneously reaching for the wipes that magically appear from somewhere, perhaps their Superior Mommy gills.
Truthfully, I’m proud to know these women, great strong Southerner women who can hoe a garden in the morning and teach cotillion classes in the afternoon. And I adore our Southern men, too. Contrary to popular opinion, they’re not just NASCAR-obsessed mullet-heads. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
With men and women like that, there’s no shortage of material. As a newspaper columnist, I used to point my old Dodge down a different highway four days a week trying to find someone to write about. It was cake, hons. One day a pair of elderly nightgown-wearing sisters who made clothes out of Budweiser cans; the next I’d meet a woman who spoke in pure poetry (listen up, Maya) when she discussed why she loved hanging her “warsh” out to dry on the clothesline.
That’s the thing about Southerners. It may seem silly to some, but we can actually get misty-eyed about sun-scented sheets and towels.
When I recently closed up the small country house I grew up in, I was honestly touched that everybody I called—the gas company, the water department, and so on—all said, “Oh, we’re gonna miss y’all. Stay in touch, you hear?”
Can you imagine having that kind of conversation anywhere but a tiny Southern town where—I swear—the town’s one limousine service also collects the garbage every week after they fold down the seats and vacuum out the rice and rose petals?
I actually grew up in a town where it was possible that you might get your trash picked up, go to the prom, and get married all using the same vehicle.
And, in the words of that great mentally challenged Southern man, Forrest Gump, that’s all I got to say about that.
Acknowledgments
I can’t imagine having a more dedicated literary agent than Jenny Bent, whose tenacity, sincerity, and humor made this book possible. I am grateful as all get out to her, and to sure-handed editor Jennifer Enderlin of St. Martin’s Press, whose skill and wisdom have made this book the best it could be.
I’m also indebted to the (Myrtle Beach, SC) Sun News, and editors Gwen Fowler and Carolyn Murray, who always make me feel like I’m part of the team, even though I’m writing from home, ninety miles away.
In equal amounts, I am indebted to funny friends who continue to inspire and rejuvenate me. Making me laugh on a regular basis are the incomparable Lisa Noecker, Esq. and David Willard, the two funniest Southerners I know.
I’m grateful to longtime friends Gray Wells and Pam Sander who have always, always been there for me; to Nan Graham and Betsy Pollard, my go-to belles for knowledge of all things Southern; to Clifton Truman Daniel, my very favorite Yankee; and to Joy Allen, publisher of Greater Wilmington Business magazine.
Praise be to the wonderful, insightful, supportive “mommies,” who have kept me sane (sort of) and centered for years: Angela Stilley, Page Rutledge, Dana Sachs, Jana Moore, Tish Baker, Amy MacKay, Michelle Powell, and Susan Pleasants.
Finally, for unabashed encouragement and a steady flow of story ideas, I give thanks to my family: my parents, Howard and Caroline Rivenbark; my sister, Stephanie Rivenbark; my sisters-in-law, Linda and Judy Whisnant; my mother-in-law, Nancy Whisnant; “Uncle” John Bell; Aunt Rachel; and my niece and nephew, Lucy and Nathan Bell.
Most especially, I am grateful for the love and support of my adorable husband, Scott Whisnant, a gifted writer and editor his own self, and of our beloved daughter, Sophie, who will surely despise me when I start writing about her teenage years, but, for now, thinks I hung the moon that we say good night to. I love you all.
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YOU DON’T SWEAT MUCH FOR A FAT GIRL
CELIA RIVENBARK
Available August 2011 From St. Martin’s Griffin
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27
She Drives Me Crazy
(Shaving Time Off the Commute)
My friend Randy is ’bout to lose his religion over his new car.
A good Southern boy, Randy was tickled with his car at fi rst because it (a) has plenty of leg room (b) dual sunroofs and (c) isn’t a Toyota.
Randy’s car is awesome in many regards but it was the state-of-the-art navigation system that sold him.
Who that, you ask? Well, it’s a fab little device that lets you keep your eye on the road while you “talk” to your car. Randy likes to use the system to call people, hands free, or, more often, to command it to play music.
Unfortunately, his car can’t understand Randy’s melodious Southern drawl.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” Randy told me. “I tell it, as plain as I know how, to “Play artist Hall and Oates” and it will come back with this hateful Yankee voice that snaps at me, “I didn’t understand you. So then I say, “I said Hall and Oates, por favor because I’m feeling just a little bit hateful and I might as well be speaking in a furrin language.
“So I say again to the machine, “Play Rich Girl. It’s one of my favorites. I remember the fi rst time I heard it I was in high school and it had been out for a long time but I really liked it because I was actually dating a kinda rich girl at the time and what was her name? . . . She was really cute but a little taller than my usual girlfriends, ’cause you know I’m cursed in the height department. All the Wagram men are. My Uncle Elvin was short, but he never had any trouble with the women. He liked ’em young with old money. I’ll never forget when his mama, who was a real piece of work, got introduced to his newest woman friend and she was way diff erent from his usual teenyboppers. She must’ve been at least forty-five which was perfect because Elvin was close to fi fty. Anyway, Aunt Berle had been sipping cocktails for a couple of hours, and when he introduced his new grown up woman friend to Berle and explained how she owned a highly successful chain of lawn furniture stores, Aunt Berle said, “Well how ’bout that! Usually Elvin goes for young poontang and old money, not old poontang and new money. That boy’s just full of surprises, I reckon. Anywho, I loved that song Rich Girl and had just developed a real hankerin’ to hear it and so I was talking about old times
and that Yankee bitch just cut me off!”
Well, as a typical Southerner, Randy may go on just a bit. And it’s possible that he even forgot for a second that he was talking to a machine. You know those people that you describe as “he never met a stranger”? That’s Randy. Except sometimes I want to say a stranger what.
Randy says that his car’s navigation system’s inability to understand his Southern accent means that he arrives everywhere just a little pissed off .
“That crazy Yankee bitch inside my car hears Derek and the Dominos as Death Cab for Cutie,” he said morosely. “I haven’t been this upset since they put me on the prayer chain at church for foot fungus. You know, I just hate when everybody has to know my business. That prayer chain is something to be scared of. The Baptists print the reason for the prayers right there in the bulletin, you know, so I was embarrassed to wear sandals for a very long time.”
Oh, yes, well . . .
Randy says he gets so upset sometimes that he just pulls over to the shoulder of the interstate and takes a few minutes to cuss out his car.
I told Randy that I was completely sympathetic. And as a member of the pseudojournalistic profession, I plan to investigate this thoroughly and get back to him with the results of my in-depth research and extensive interviews.
Kidding! I haven’t got time for that shit. But I do get it. I told Randy that I have the same problem every time I “tawk” to a phone tree.
I don’t think I’ve ever used directory assistance without a real human having to come on the line to fi gure out what the hell I’m trying to say.
The computer says, “What listing?” in that clipped tone that indicates you better get it right the fi rst time.
So I say something perfectly normal, taking care to enunciate perfectly: “Ah’d lock da numbah for Bream Baituh’s Worms and Cawfee Shop, puleeeeez,” which any moron should be able to understand, but no!
This is followed by that hateful pause and “Please hold for an operator.”
Randy will, I’m afraid, just have to get used to the fact that the rest of the country tawks funny. They can’t hep they-selves.
He shouldn’t oughta be talking on the phone while driving anyway. Even hands-free devices aren’t safe.
You know what’s even less safe than talking on the phone or even texting or reading the newspaper while driving? Shaving your cootch, that’s what.
Well. You asked.
Florida driver Megan Barnes wins the Lifetime Redneck Achievement Award for her behavior while driving along the Keys on a balmy March day.
Megan decided to multitask, as we all have at one time or another, while she was enroute to a date. But while we’ve all done dumb things like applying eye shadow or mascara at the stop light when we’re running short of time, Megan took the whole grooming-while-driving to new heights. That’s right: She decided that she’d use the drive time to spruce up her love rug.
Unfortunately for Megan, this required more attention than she could safely give such an intimate project so, mid-shave, she slammed into the back of a pickup truck at forty-five miles per hour.
That kinda makes the time you drove with your elbows while eating a Whopper seem downright virtuous, doesn’t it?
I’m trying to remember back to my driver’s education classes, and I swear I don’t remember Mr. Kilpatrick ever coming right out and saying’ “What ever you do, young ladies, do not ever be tempted to trim your hoohah while you’re behind the wheel.” No, I would’ve defi nitely remembered that, and I’m certain there was no grisly video to watch that showed such behavior.
Ms. Barnes told the investigating offi cer that she was “on her way to a date and wanted to be ready for the visit.”
Yes, she wanted to look her best. All over. Except, well, I’ve seen Ms. Barnes’ mug shot and she has a face that would stop a clock and raise hell with small watches. I don’t want to sound cruel, but you’d have to be pretty walleyed to even make it as far as her hoohah, bless her heart.
I guess the only thing to be grateful for in this sorry scenario is that Ms. Barnes didn’t try to wax her bidness while driving. Imagine the horror if she’d tossed the used wax strips into the waterway as she cruised toward Key West. Talk about saving the manatees. They might’ve thought those were the pelts of long- lost cousins.
I’ve driven this par tic u lar stretch of highway a few times in my life and it’s one of the prettiest drives imaginable: crystal waters, cloudless skies, gorgeous mangroves. Call me crazy but I’ve never been so bored that I decided to drag a sharp blade over my naughties just to have something to do.
In all fairness, Ms. Barnes was smart enough to realize that she couldn’t shave and steer simultaneously so she asked the passenger in the front seat, who happened to be her ex husband, to take the wheel while she got busy. What a guy! How many men do you know who would help their ex get ready for a big date in quite this manner?
And how did that conversation go, you reckon?
“Here, hon, hold the wheel for a few minutes. I’m gonna hook up with Ray- Ray when we hit Long Key and I wanna try to make it look like a lightning bolt!”
Precious Lord.
Not only did Ms. Barnes’ ex agree to take the wheel, but after the wreck, he switched places and tried to take the blame, too.
Unfortunately, his bare chest sold him out. The airbag only deployed on the passenger side and our white knight (OK, actually more of a pawn) had the bruises to prove it.
To nobody’s real surprise, the Florida Highway Patrol quickly discovered that Ms. Barnes didn’t have a valid driver’s license. Oh, and the day before, she’d been convicted of DUI. (Everybody say, “Noooooooo!!!!!”) Oh, and her car had been seized and had no insurance or registration. (It was a Thunderbird, if you were wondering. Yes, she was having fun, fun, fun til the po- lice took her T-bird awaaaaayyy.) Oh, and she was a probationer. Albeit an impeccably groomed one.
I imagine that Megan Barnes’ tale will be legendary in the Keys and beyond for many years to come. And, thanks to her foolishness, there will doubtless be a new warning label on your razors and shaving products. Because every time a dumb ass does something like this, the companies involved feel the need to explain the dangers to prevent possible lawsuits.
Something along the lines of “Warning! Do not attempt to use this razor in the vicinity of your cooter while driving. Failure to use this product in the safety and sanctity of your bathroom will result in unremitting grossness and possible harm to yourself and others.”
Because these warnings must be accompanied by simple drawings that transcend language barriers, it should be one hell of a picture, am I right?
I told this story to Randy to get his mind off his own language problems, but it didn’t help all that much. He’s decided to accept his Aunt Berle’s wisdom on such matters.
“She always says that which does not kill us makes us meaner.”
She’s a feisty one, that Berle.
We’re Just Like You, Only Prettier Page 18