I went as the dead mainstream liberal media

I spent Halloween with my family in Southaven, and as usual, we made huge spectacles of ourselves.

My nephew, Hunter, wanted me to come up for the weekend and go trick-or-treating with him and his friend, Matthew. He was going as that scary guy from "Scream." Matthew went as Michael Myers from "Halloween." (Note: Michael Myers still scares the crap out of me.)

Hunter refused to wear his mask. He looked somewhat like Obi-Wan Kenobi instead of crazy monster guy:

Matthew made Michael Myers look like he needed Botox:

On Halloween night, I made seafood etouffe for the family as Hunter and Matthew dressed in their fabulous costumes. I intended on going as a journalist (I know I am so utterly creative. I already sport the high blood pressure and fondness for alcohol like any good newspaper person.)


I was in charge of filling Hunter's "heart" with "blood" so it could be pumped out through his mask. The little vial exploded, and I was covered in red food coloring. I figured I could now go as a murdered journalist. (Notice the beer. I wasn't drinking it. It was merely a prop. I know, I don't even believe that.)

My sisters, Stephanie and Deana, and I took Hunter and Matthew and dropped them off on the sidewalk of a large, busy neighborhood. Hundreds of parents with children walked up and down the streets. We felt it best if we drove along side Hunter and Matthew in the car. Why get that unnecessary exercise? (Next year, we are thinking of investing in one of those Little Rascals.)

Stephanie, Deana, and Me:

Hunter and Matthew politely rang doorbells, got candy, and moved on. I drank beer.

Finally bored with "trick-or-treat," the boys thought it would be fun to play dead. They rang the doorbell, and then fell out on people's porches. This one man stood at the screen door (shirtless and in boxer shorts with massive chest hair and breasts, by the way....who does that?), staring down at them in amazement. It would have been perfect if Deana had not screamed out the window for the boys to "Get up right now!"

The funniest thing was actually watching Hunter and Matthew fall. They should head for the silver screen because they have "swooning" from old Hollywood down pat. I thought I was staring at Lana Turner and Rita Hayworth. They were very graceful.

They even pulled the trick on Momma. She totally fell for it regardless of what she might say. She did.

She didn't even see me hiding the Japanese maple with a camera.

I guaran-damn-ty Brangelina will marry irregardless of Y2K and Generation X

This week Oxford (not the Ole Miss one) made a list of the 10 most irritating words and phrases.

The top ten most irritating phrases according to Oxford:

1 - At the end of the day
2 - Fairly unique
3 - I personally
4 - At this moment in time
5 - With all due respect
6 - Absolutely
7 - It's a nightmare
8 - Shouldn't of
9 - 24/7
10 - It's not rocket science

Well, I think Oxford missed some. I have my own list:

The 10 most irritating words and phrases according to Amanda:

1. Irregardless: So NOT a word! It means regardless, regardless.
2. Swiftboating: Used to describe unfair political bloviating. This refers to advertising sponsored by Swiftboaters for Truth that set out to discredit John Kerry as an war hero in the 2004 election against George W. Bush. It annoys me because this kind of thing has gone on for years, but until recently the media decided to give it a name to refer to anything said negative in a campaign.
3. Utilize: A very pretentious word. "Use" will do in most instances.
4. Generation X: Who is part of Generation W? I'm just asking.
5. Y2K: Seriously, who is responsible for coming up with a name for these things?
6. Phat or other "hip hop" words: If you would not use the expression in a job interview or business meeting, don't say it. If you are over the age of 18, just stop. You will never be hip again.
7. Six digits: People use this term to describe salary. If you are tacky enough to broadcast your salary, don't try to camouflage it by talking in code.
8. Instant message speak: People who speak in initials drive me insane. It is one thing if one is texting someone, but in a conversation, I don't want to try to decipher your freakish tech lingo.
9. Swear words mixed into other words: For example, "I guaran-damn-ty it."
10. Celebrity couple names: TomKat, Brangelina, Bennifer. Just plain stupid.

What are yours?

Conversations with Heaven: 'Hey, God, it's me'

Last weekend, I attended the annual Memorial Service at my home church in Eudora. Every year, our church remembers members of the church family who passed away during the year. A candle is lit and a prayer said for each of the dearly departed.

I wasn't there when the church started.

The service is followed with an old fashioned covered dish dinner consisting of scrumptious casseroles, fried chicken, and Southern-style vegetables. The meal is concluded by a trip to the desert table overflowing with homemade pies and cakes. It is such a delicious occasion.

The church in the valley:

This year, my Aunt Jean served as the keynote speaker and reminisced about growing up in the Eudora Presbyterian Church. She admitted believing as a girl her weekly church offering was taken to Heaven by way of a big ladder outside the church.

Aunt Jean received roaring laughter as she described her mission to catch the church’s treasurer in the act of delivering her money to God.

God's ladder?

Isn’t it amazing what is conjured in the imaginations of children?

Growing up, I believed that God only heard my prayers and no one else’s. I considered God my friend and confidant – telling him all of my secrets and hopes and shame. I didn’t need to have a silly imaginary friend; I had God.

As a child, I was saturated in Christianity. I attended Catholic school. I attended my Presbyterian Sunday school class weekly and Bible school every summer. Momma taught Sunday school for high school students, and I tagged along on retreats, field trips, and youth fellowship. Daddy was a member of the session and was extremely active in the administration of the church. When the doors were open, we were there.

These doors:
I was introduced to God at a young age, and from that, I felt a kinship with him. I can’t even count the many nights I spent soaring on my swing set while chatting with God. I literally filled him in on my day (like he didn’t already know) and discussed pressing decisions like Christmas wishes and birthday party guest lists.

Author Haven Kimmel wrote in her memoir, Girl Named Zippy, that she developed a crush on Jesus as a child – well, Jesus and Telly Savolis. So, obviously, I am not alone in this.
One can only imagine the one-sided conversations between me and the Almighty.

“Hey, God. It’s me. I didn’t do very well on that spelling test. I know we went over it all last night, but I just couldn’t remember. I know you are disappointed.”

I confessed.

“God, I was the one who left the gate open. I know I should have told Daddy it was me, but he was so mad. I never knew horses would eat azaleas.”

Granddaddy on Merry Golden Boy aka Goldie
I also would privately plot with God to punish everyone who wronged me.

“God, my sister was mean to me again,” I said. “I think you should do something about her because she is completely out of control. Not that I am telling you what to do, but she should really punished. Whatever you think she deserves. I have some suggestions….”

When nothing happened, I figured God was just waiting for the right time to enact revenge. Eventually, I forgot and move on to another unforgivable offense.

“God, I need your help again. She just won’t stop being mean to me. You need to do something that will teach her a lesson.”

Wasn’t I a silly child?

Despite a hardening of spirit over the years (we all become jaded with age), I have held onto my kinship with God – in a less naive manner. My prayers are still in the form of a conversation, and I still rely on him to direct me in the right path.

I had one of “our” conversations just last night. “Okay, God. Whatever you think I should do, I will do. Just let me know when the time comes.”

Funny thing is he still lets me know – just a little more subtly.

What is the age limit to trick-or-treating?

I am accompanying my nephew, Hunter, trick-or-treating this Halloween, and I am just giddy with anticipation.

Hunter is dressing like Jason from those Friday the 13th movies, and since those movies gave me nightmares for 15 years, I hope the sight of him doesn’t stir up my old fears of hay lofts, summer camp, and psychotic killers that just won’t die. Me on the other hand, after thinking long and hard, I have decided to go as a journalist. (Am I creative or what?)

Over the years, I have dressed up like a clown (my sisters and I were a set), Strawberry Shortcake, Smurfette, a ballerina, a character from Lil’ Abner, Elvira, a hillbilly beauty queen, and Dolly Parton. Yep, I was a regular Lou Chaney.

Momma would haul my cousins and me all over the community collecting treats – real homemade treats. We got candied apples, homemade fudge, popcorn balls, and caramel apples.
There were also treats that weren’t made to be put in a bucket.

My aunt Gaye Gaye would always make cakes. We would scream “Trick or treat,” and she would invite us in and sit us down for our treat. I wonder if non-relatives were given cake too? Knowing Gaye Gaye, I would say yes.

Trick-or-treating would take four hours to visit 15 houses because we were expected to stay and visit with all the neighbors. We would have to listen to elderly aunts talk about new medications and the neighborhood busy-body repeating information she gathered while listening in on her party line telephone.

Trick-or-treating was an event for the entire community.

That isn’t the case anymore. In the larger cities, it is much too dangerous to allow children to go door to door by themselves. Parents are forced to drive them to house of people they know, and even then, they must sort through the candy to verify that no one put a razor in the candy while it sat on a grocery shelf.

Parents must also worry about unruly children left to their own devises on Halloween. For five years in a row before moving to Winona, my pumpkin was smashed in the street in front of my house. In fact, my entire street was covered in pumpkin road kill.

Every year, teenagers would come to my door holding a fast food sack and not wearing a costume. Personally, I think there should be an age limit on trick-or-treating. Puberty should be the cut-off.

One year, a teenager rang my parent’s doorbell and was extremely rude, and my mother refused to give him candy.

“I am sorry, but if someone wears that much cologne, they should not be trick-or-treating,” she told us after he stormed away.

Halloween here in Winona is a completely different ballgame. No one smashed my pumpkin, everyone was very friendly, and at 8 p.m. the streets were empty. (My yard did get toilet papered, but that is another story.) Organized trick-or-treating – I loved it!
However, I totally underestimated my candy inventory.

I purchased 15 pounds of candy for potential trick-or-treaters. I was out of candy in 20 minutes (toilet paper pay back, maybe?), and I was terribly embarrassed about having to turn my front porch light out when I had nothing left to offer. (I don’t think Winona children would have appreciated a can of peas or a Lean Cuisine frozen dinner.)

Happily, this year, I accepted the position of being the trick-or-treat-toter instead of the candy-bowl-holder. I’m only doing it for the candy. Don’t worry – I won’t be ringing any doorbells. I completely expect to collect my take from Hunter.

Personal to-do list -- check, check

Recently, I made a list of things I wished to do – things I overlooked due to a busy life. My list was simple: visit my family, go on a date with my significant other, finish the half-read books on my nightstand, get a new hairstyle, and unpack the last two boxes from my move a year ago.

Simple and easy, and I should have finished that list in one weekend. However, it has been three weeks, and I am still working on it. (I get distracted easily.)

I started with the new hairstyle. My wish was that I no longer would be able to wear my hair in a barrette, twisted up on the top of my head – onion-style. I needed to do this first because this was the one task that had visible results. I figured I had to get rid of the barrettes because someone might walk up and comment about them in public.

I made an appointment with the stylist, and she wacked five inches off my hair. Now, even if I wanted to wear it up in a barrette, it is dang near impossible. Also, I have read that the shorter one’s hair is cut, the younger one looks. I just give it a couple years before I try out the buzz cut.

Anyway, new hair style – check.

Now that deer season has begun, a date with the significant other was more difficult than I imagined. For three weeks, we planned to go out, but life kept getting in the way. Friday night, we found a few minutes of time and went to eat dinner in Greenwood.

I fell asleep in the car on the way home (before 10 p.m.). I hope he didn’t take offense.
For some reason, dating was much easier when I was younger – especially when dinner reservations did not interfere with my 9 p.m. bedtime.

Date with significant other – check.

I have a very short attention span, and nothing proves this more than half-read books littering my bedside table and bedroom. I get bored very easily, and if a book doesn’t hold my attention, I will put it down and never pick it back up again.

For weeks, I read a couple chapters here and there from my assigned book club book. I picked this particular book to be read, and the meeting was to be held at my house. The book was a novel that depicted the life of a girl accused and imprisoned during the Salem witch trials – perfect for October, right?

What I didn’t count on was the author’s ability to bring the events to life, and I read the book nightly before bed. Unfortunately, even after I put the book down, the haunting story stayed with me, and I dreamt about the witch trials for several days – and not in a pleasant manner.

I happily moved on to another book about a book club. Hopefully, I will just dream of finger-foods and good conversation while reading this one.

Finish reading half-read books – check.

I will confess: I am never going to unpack those last two boxes from my move to Winona last summer. I like those last two boxes. They are in the closet and not inconvenient, so I have decided to just leave them. If I don’t use anything in the boxes by spring, I plan on tossing both of them unopened. If I haven’t used anything in those boxes in nearly two years, how necessary are they?

Unpack last two boxes for move – incomplete.

I visited Bethany Church of God Sunday for Pastor Appreciation Day. My friend, Dr. Duran Palmertree (known by the congregation as Brother Buster) was being honored for his work at the church. While visiting with many of the parishioners and other guests, a lady who reads this column asked if I were close to my family.

“Oh, yes, very close,” I replied.

“I can tell,” she said. “Me, too.”

So if any of you were unsure, I am very close to my family. In particular, I am very close to my sisters.

I haven’t been to visit my family since August, and I was starting to feel a little homesick. I am sure this is a common emotion for the spoiled baby of the family who has moved away to live her own life.

Anyway, I got my family fix this weekend when my sisters and nephew visited Winona Sunday afternoon.

After lunch, we all sat on my porch swing and talked for several hours. My significant other even joined us (bless his heart, he is a good sport when dealing with the Sexton women).

Conversations between my sisters and me are similar to a Seinfeld episode – usually about nothing and always using funny voices. And we are loud. My significant other mentioned twice during lunch that he had a headache. Wonder why?

So with my sisters’ visit, I am revived – personally and professionally. Those two goofballs give me so much to write about.

Visit family – in progress.

The art of hunting (aka, Run, Bambi, run!)

Fall is here, and that means one thing – my significant other neglecting me to go out and shoot furry woodland creatures.

Yes, hunting season has begun. For a foo foo chick, I know quite a lot about food plots, deer stands, and bow calibrations. I have listened to it for the past two months.

Keith has plowed, fertilized, and sown seeds in the middle of a forest. He has repaired stands, renovated camp cabins, and browsed new camouflage on-line. He has prepared for battle against a four-legged prey that is, in his estimation, attempting to take over the world. In the forest, it is man against beast, and most Mississippi boys dream of open season on the enemy.

I have never understood hunting. Daddy has never been a hunter. He did take my sister and me frog gigging years ago, but all I can remember about it was that squishy sound frogs make. Needless to say, I did not dine on Kermit that night.

Daddy is more of a lawn and garden kind of guy. He would much rather work to make something live than run out and kill it.

Momma grew up in the Delta and has hunted her entire life. Being raised with three uncles, Momma learned everything a boy should know about the woods. She can hunt, fish, harvest cotton, and cut the head off a snake with a hoe. And she isn’t scared at all.

I was obviously blessed with Daddy’s genes when it comes to the great outdoors. We are bumbling idiots in anything other than our own backyards.

Mosquitoes follow me around like that dust trail on Pig Pen from the Peanuts gang. Despite my utter disgust for all things dirty, I can’t walk three steps with some sort of nature attaching itself to my clothes. I can come within a mile of poison ivy, and voila, I am covered in it. (I think it can smell fear like dogs.)

Daddy gets stung. Doesn’t matter what it is, he gets stung by it. And he is allergic. So anytime he has spent time outdoors, he comes in with his eyes swollen shut.

Every family vacation that involved nature has always been a disaster. Once, my family rented a Winabego and hit the road. I cannot recall the experience myself because I was under five, but from eyewitness accounts, I ripped my diaper off and mooned all the cars behind us. Then when we finally stopped for the night, I locked myself in that big tin can and destroyed the place. My parents had to call the highway patrol to get me out.

Sextons don’t camp; we don’t cook meat over an open fire, and we don’t use leaves as toilet paper. We are room service kind of people. Air conditioning kind of people. Hot shower kind of people.

But I digress.

I amazed at all the preparation hunters make. Despite the “seasons,” (By the way, Keith does not discriminate against game. He hunts every season all year long.) hunters prepare all year for those three months of camo bliss. And I am talking manual labor preparations.

Let me put this into another context. I want to read a book, but I have to make the book first. I spend an entire year writing the book and typesetting the words. Then, I go out into the forest and chop down a few trees to make the paper. After I haul the trees back to the lumber yard and cut them up….Do you see where I am going with this?

Months and months are spent preparing for a handful of weekends spent in complete silence waiting for some creature to wander into your path. I can’t even fathom the patient of these men. It drives me crazy to wait at the drive through window.

Anyway, Keith purchased some new camo gear to outfit him for the season. Friday night, he laid his new outfit out on the chair in the living room – removing tags and packing his camo duffle (ayhum, man purse). It was almost as if he were preparing for the first day of school.

He packed gadgets and knives and wild animal urine and talcum powder (I didn’t ask), all while blowing some sort of honker that mimics a doe’s mating call. I don’t know if that honker worked on deer, but my Chihuahua was quite interested.

Sunday, I visited him at his new hunting cabin in Ackerman. He was painting the walls khaki. More preparation.

What is it about hunting?

I decided I should probably find out. I have made the decision to go hunting, and no, this is not just to have an opportunity to shop for camo. I need to understand the kind of cult addiction it has on people – not that it will become an addiction for me unless deer start walking around the mall. I need to know what my competition is.

I let you know how it goes.

Missing home

Saturday morning, I spoke with Momma on a marathon two hour telephone call. We discussed everything from her trip to Oregon to Christmas decorating plans, and I must admit it was comforting to talk with Momma over my Saturday morning coffee.

There have been only three times in my life when I did not live within a mile of my parents – college, a couple of months in London and when I moved to Winona a year ago.

Always the independent one in my family, I could not wait to get to college and begin a new chapter in my life. When I decided to study in England, I had no second thoughts. I packed up and flew nine hours to a foreign country – all alone and loved every minute of it. When Winona beckoned, once again, I took the leap and have not regretted one minute of my decision.

Despite my independence and my self-reliance, sometimes I get a little homesick. I want to have my parents dote on me, cook for me, nurture me, and best of all, sleep in my childhood bed and forget about being an adult for just a short time.

Now, remember, if I lived just a mile down the road from my parents like I did before moving to Winona, they would not be nearly as excited to see me. But since I live more than an hour away, it seems like my visits are one big welcome home party.

My sisters come to greet me, and we do not fight (I know, but it is possible). My parents usually plan a special meal – either steaks on the grill or dinner out. Everyone wants to hear about things in Winona, and I am expected to entertain them with stories of my new friends, home, and community. (As the youngest, I love the attention. If you would like, I could perform the number from my fourth grade dance recital – for applause, of course).

After some seriously good sleep in the most familiar bed, Momma wakes me early with fresh coffee. The two of us sit at the kitchen counter until Daddy graces us with his presence and a serious case of bed-head.

Ah, the crazy things you miss when you leave home!

Now that I am not in the everyday drama of my crazy family, I think I might have taken for granted some things that I find so special now.

For example, Daddy can annoy the heck out of someone with the Six Degrees of a Sexton game.

The game goes like this: “Do you remember Joe Johnson? Now, he went to school with your cousin, Cindy Lou. Cindy Lou is Uncle Homer’s daughter from over in Sarah. You remember her from the family reunion – sweet girl, but not attractive. You might be if she would do something with that hair. You know, Uncle Homer is your Granddaddy’s second cousin. Aunt Lorrine’s boy. Well, anyway, he went to school with Cindy Lou over at Lake Cormorant. He died last week. Can you believe that? He was only 87-years-old.”

When I was younger, I would want to stab myself in the eye during one of these conversations, but now, I call Daddy to hear about family happenings and local tidbits. Daddy should have been the reporter in the family. He can relay information like National Public Radio and never miss a detail. Through Daddy’s reports, I never miss a thing.

I also miss the insane conversations my parents have with each other – about absolutely nothing!

A conversation occurred on the way to Hot Springs, Ark. A logging truck pulled alongside our car on I-40. It went something like this.

Momma: “I wonder what kind of wood that is?”

Daddy: “I believe it’s pine.”

Momma: “Yeah. It’s pine.”

The miracle is that my parents found each other. The Lord knows no one else would have either of them.

Growing up with two older sisters was not something I would like to relive. In fact, it is shocking I lived the first go-around. However, I wouldn’t have changed anything – a scar, loss of hearing in my right ear, arthritis in my knee.

Despite the fighting, whining, and lack of sharing, having sisters was such a blessing for me. I can’t ever remember a time growing up that I actually felt lonely. My sisters were always there, and still when I get down or need to vent, I can call my sisters and act a fool and they never hold it against me. (Well, they can’t. I have too much dirt on them.)

Every child should experience the joy of having a sibling. My best friend, Heather, was an only child, and although her family had enough drama to get her through, she relied on my family for that “Father Knows Best” meets the “Emergency 911” experience. Of course, Heather could always go home to her own family to escape the drama of mine.

I sit here and write nostalgically about my family and their quirky ways held so dearly to me, but I often forget that distance makes the heart grow fonder. If I still lived within shouting distance of my family, I probably wouldn’t be so nostalgic about their crazy ways.

The last time I was home, Momma and I came to a realization. Moving away made me appreciate my family. It definitely made my relationships with my family members stronger, and I treasure my time with them so much more.

It is kind of like babysitting. You play with the baby, love on the baby, cuddle the baby, and sooth the baby. Then the baby cries and the babysitter can give the baby back and head on home.

Love the family. Miss the family. Relish the family. A fight breaks out or someone ends up in the emergency room, and I can always run for the hills – literally.

Learning to 'peel the onion'

Recently, I have been busy. Really busy, but good busy.

We are working on all sorts of cool stuff at the newspaper, and I am completely absorbed in it all. Newspaper people talk about having “ink in the blood,” and well, I am no exception.
However, what I noticed this week is that sometimes I can get too absorbed and forget that the world doesn’t stop because I am busy. Recently, I decided I should probably slow down and consider the “little details” that I have neglected in my enthusiasm.

First, I noticed this morning that the result of wearing my hair clipped up in a barrette every day is not in any way in the same ball park as what Sarah Palin has made so popular over the last few weeks. Actually, this morning, I resembled an onion.

In addition, lip balm is not really doing it for me. With my Irish heritage, I am in desperate need of some lipstick. Without it, my lips disappear like those of my eight grade English teacher. It wasn’t a good look for her, and I am assuming it isn’t for me as well.

On the home front, I am displaying two fern corpses on my front porch. They look like two tumbleweeds in hanging baskets. I am sure the neighbors appreciate my green thumb. Note to self: plants like water.

Over the past month, I tried to see how long I could go without doing laundry. I am convinced that laundry – not unlike the gremlin – multiplies in water and turns ugly after midnight. Right now this is just a hypothesis, but I am still investigating.

My kitchen counter just inside the back door is covered with unopened mail, newspapers, and magazines. I could have won the sweepstakes, but alas, I would have to open the envelope.

Sadly, I haven’t seen my family in nearly two months, and I didn’t even realize it had been that long. (Where did the summer go?) And my significant other, I’m afraid he is has begun some sort of relationship with my cell phone.

Every so often, I am forced to have an epiphany and take notice of what I have neglected. As a type-A overachiever, I will always be a workaholic. It is in my genes.

Growing up, I remember Daddy coming home at night and passing out on the sofa from pure exhaustion. Momma would wake him up to eat, and he would return to the sofa until she woke him again to go to bed.

However, Daddy could always get everything done – personally and professionally. He was a machine – still is for that matter. He tended the most amazing landscaping in the county, kept our home in repair, was involved heavily in church and the community, and still managed to recognize his children.

I can’t even keep my ferns alive or remember to buy milk.

So in the spirit of rejuvenation (and I know so many of you relate), I have made a few goals for the near future. I’ll update you on my progress.

1. Visit my parents and sisters. I have more fun with my loud and crazy family. I am certain other patrons at restaurants are jealous at how much fun we have together (I can sense the resentment). When no one ends up in the emergency room, our time spent together is so memorable. For those times we spend in the emergency room (oh, God bless the accident prone), we are more memorable to the hospital staff.

2. Go on a date with my significant other. Bless his heart – he certainly puts up with a lot. I’m a neurotic, high-maintenance, workaholic, foo foo chic. If any of you ever meet him, he deserves a hug.

3. Finish reading the five half-read books on my nightstand. Should I be concerned that I get bored with one and start another without finishing? I think I understand why I can’t find a hobby.

4. Finish unpacking the last two boxes from my move to Winona. Yes, that was more than a year ago. I like to draw out the process to delay the gratification of finishing.

5. Throw away my hair clips. This, my friends, is going to be the toughest part of the revitalization process. When I work, I immediately look for a way to get my hair out of my face with whatever tool is nearby – pencils, paper clips, letter openers. I am like a walking office supply store. Disposing my hair clips and other gadgets, accompanied by a trip to the salon for the works, should make me feel and hopefully look, human again. It is time to peel the onion.

The inappropriate relationship between the cat and dog

Once again, I will prove to you that I spend entirely too much time with my pets.

I am sure most of you believe I am that crazy animal person who sews little outfits for her dogs and parades them all over town in a baby carriage. You may think I am the one who organizes elaborate parties for my dogs and purchases party clothes for them to wear for the occasion (actually, I do know someone who does this). I have never planned a dog wedding, and I have never once believed my dogs actually speak to me (although, I do sometimes think I understand what they are thinking).

I realize I am a little partial to my animals, and I do think of them as my own very hairy children. For years, my dogs have been a sense of comfort, and as a single gal, they offer me not only protection but companionship. In addition, my dogs offer unconditional love, and that is something rare in the world today.

That being said, I just wanted to be clear about my sanity before I shared the following story.
Several months ago, I adopted a stray cat that wandered up to my office one Tuesday night. The cat was very persistent about receiving attention from me and my staff, and the next morning, when we arrived for work, she was waiting for us.

Fearing she would be hit by a car, I took her home and created a home for her in my storage room. It is very comfortable, and she would be quite cozy and protected from the environment. However, Deadline (the name my staff christened her with) would rather live inside the house with my dogs. Being slightly allergic, I have resisted her ceaseless attempts to move in.

I do, however, allow her to occasionally visit, and she immediately stretches out on the sofa and grooms herself in her pretentious, cat-like manner. She does not attempt to roam the house -- trying to sharpen her claws on my upholstery or leaving wads of cat hair on the carpet. She is quite the low-maintenance, occasionally-indoor feline.

Recently, however, I have noticed a change in Deadline. The endless grooming, the staring, the snuggles. I have come to believe Deadline is madly in love with my Chihuahua, Don Juan. Okay, before you scold me for my ridiculous notions and run-away imagination allow me to present my evidence (and please do not think I am a raging lunatic for studying this).

First, Don Juan is an exceptional Chihuahua, and I believe he agrees with this notion. He tends to prance about displaying his fine features, and he is usually very aware of females of any species. In other words, he loves the ladies.

Deadline will follow Don Juan around the back yard, and if he stops and sits, she will sit next to him. If he lays in the grass, basking in the sunshine, she will curl around him and groom him until he growls and lets her know he is no longer interested.

Second, when Deadline comes inside the house for a visit, she will curl around Don Juan as he sleeps – very litter-like. She will groom him for hours, and he will allow it – with his eyes closed as she licks his ears, chin, and head. I have even noticed that he will adjust himself for Deadline to get a better angle behind his ears (he likes to be rubbed behind his ears).

When he is tired of her attention, Don Juan will growl, and Deadline will move just inches away and stare at him while he sleeps.

The entire situation is very peculiar, and I am slightly disturbed by the unnatural and inappropriate relationship between the two animals. Don Juan adores attention and is more than likely welcoming of a nice massage by the cat. However, when he has enough, he lets her know, and she moves along.

Deadline is a different story. She is drawn to Don Juan. She will seek him out and situate herself next to him when the opportunity arises. When he shuns her, she will move away and stare at him longingly.

Why is Don Juan like cat nip to Deadline? Do other cats act like this, and being a perpetual dog person, I am unaware? Have I completely revealed myself as someone who should probably stop studying the social habits of my animals and get a hobby? You’re right, I should.

Mississippians are neurotic according to study

This article was reprinted from the Wall Street Journal. I felt it was extremely interesting -- especially about Mississppians being so neurotic. My old college professor (Ownby taught me Old South and New South) seems to think it is our search for emotional depth. He attributes it to Faulkner and his self-medicating drinking and depression.

Is that true?

I personally believe that Mississippians are constantly in a battle between the past and the present. It is difficult to move forward when you are fighting ghosts from the past, but we are unable and unwilling to let them go.

Mississippi's past is its gift and its curse.

Thoughts?


The United States of Mind (Greatest headline ever!)
By Stephanie Simon, Wall Street Journal. Email stephanie.simon@wsj.com

Certain regional stereotypes have long since become cliches: The stressed-out New Yorker. The laid-back Californian.

But the conscientious Floridian? The neurotic Kentuckian?

You bet -- at least, according to new research on the geography of personality. Based on more than 600,000 questionnaires and published in the journal Perspectives on Psychological Science, the study maps regional clusters of personality traits, then overlays state-by-state data on crime, health and economic development in search of correlations.

Even after controlling for variables such as race, income and education levels, a state's dominant personality turns out to be strongly linked to certain outcomes. Amiable states, like Minnesota, tend to be lower in crime. Dutiful states -- an eclectic bunch that includes New Mexico, North Carolina and Utah -- produce a disproportionate share of mathematicians. States that rank high in openness to new ideas are quite creative, as measured by per-capita patent production. But they're also high-crime and a bit aloof. Apparently, Californians don't much like socializing, the research suggests.

As for high-anxiety states, that group includes not just Type A New York and New Jersey, but also states stressed by poverty, such as West Virginia and Mississippi. As a group, these neurotic states tend to have higher rates of heart disease and lower life expectancy.


Lead researcher Peter Jason Rentfrow, lecturer at the University of Cambridge in England, said he was startled to find such correlations. "That just blew me away," he said.


Psychologists unaffiliated with the study say it's intriguing but limited. There's no way to unravel the chicken-and-egg question: Do states tend to nurture specific personalities because of their histories, cultures, even climates? Or do Americans, seeking kindred spirits, migrate to the states where they feel at home? Maybe both forces are at work -- but in what balance?


Another issue: The personality maps may reinforce stereotypes and tempt us to draw overly simplistic conclusions, said Toni Schmader, a psychologist at the University of Arizona. Knowing Arizona ranks low in neuroticism, Ms. Schmader said, she might conclude that sunny weather makes for sunny dispositions. But if the data had turned out the other way, the sun could just as easily be blamed for high neuroticism -- for driving Arizonans stir crazy by keeping them cooped up in air conditioning.

"We tend to reject information that doesn't agree with our stereotypes," Ms. Schmader said.
Cross-cultural psychology was all the rage in the 1930s and 1940s, driven by a craze among anthropologists for comparing child-rearing practices in modern and pre-industrial societies. But the discipline fell out of favor, partly because of concerns that the comparisons were driven more by value judgments than standardized assessments.


In the past decade, the field has been reinvigorated by the development of a 44-question personality test that evaluates five traits: extraversion, agreeableness, conscientiousness, neuroticism and openness. Some psychologists disagree with this matrix; others would add traits such as honesty. But the assessment, called the Big Five Inventory, has been widely used in scientific research.

Mr. Rentfrow came to the field full of questions gleaned from a life spent hop-scotching across America. Why were his neighbors in Texas so relaxed, so courteous, so obsessed with sports?

Why did New Yorkers seem so tense and inward-focused, often brusque to the point of rudeness?


Eager to dig deeper, Mr. Rentfrow turned to a huge collection of psychological tests administered online from 1999 to 2005.

The assessments were linked to each respondent's current residence, so there was no way to tell if a New Yorker was a New Yorker born and bred, or had just moved from Kansas. But that suited Mr. Rentfrow's purposes. He wasn't trying to gauge how life in New York had shaped any one individual. His goal was a psychological snapshot of the state, and for that he needed to include even recent migrants -- who may, after all, have been drawn to New York because the big-city bustle suited their personality.


Mr. Rentfrow said his sample was proportionate to the U.S. population by state and race. Though it underrepresented the extremes of poor and rich, that shouldn't skew the results, he said.

While the findings broadly uphold regional stereotypes, there are more than a few surprises. The flinty pragmatists of New England? They're not as dutiful as they may seem, ranking at the bottom of the "conscientious" scale. High scores for openness to new ideas strongly correlates to liberal social values and Democratic voting habits. But three of the top ten "open" states -- Nevada, Colorado and Virginia -- traditionally vote Republican in presidential politics. (All three are prime battlegrounds this election.)


And what of the unexpected finding that North Dakota is the most outgoing state in the union? Yes, North Dakota, the same state memorialized years ago in the movie "Fargo" as a frozen wasteland of taciturn souls. Turns out you can be a laconic extrovert, at least in the world of psychology. The trait is defined in part by strong social networks and tight community bonds, which are characteristic of small towns across the Great Plains. (Though not, apparently, small towns in New England, which ranks quite low on the extraversion scale.)

The findings pleased Nebraska Gov. Dave Heineman, who said it was nice to have scientific proof that his state is super-friendly. "That's the Nebraska I know," he said.

But Las Vegas Mayor Oscar B. Goodman can't understand how Nevada got ranked so low in agreeableness. "We're probably the most agreeable folks in the world, because we have to treat visitors with a great deal of kindness ... to get a big tip," he said.

In Florida, meanwhile, tourism official Dia Kuykendall groped to explain her state's high "conscientious" ranking. She was having trouble reconciling that with, say, the party scene on Miami Beach. "Conscientious of how they look?" she wondered.


The research did give Ms. Kuykendall an idea for a new Florida tourism pitch: "Come visit us, we're not neurotic!"

Social scientists suggest other applications for the research as well. In the Northeast "stress belt," health officials might consider programs to help folks relax. In the Midwest, a dutiful state like Kansas might look to woo more innovative personalities, perhaps by nurturing an artists' enclave or encouraging young chefs to start restaurants, said Richard Florida, an economic development analyst who has written extensively on geography and psychology.


"Most cities are still trapped in the idea that they can recruit a call center or build a big stadium" to spur revitalization, Mr. Florida said. "This is a big wake-up call for policy makers."
It's also a wake-up call for proud residents of the great state of wherever -- some of whom aren't fond of the findings. Mr. Rentfrow said he's had to help some of them feel better. Yes, North Dakota and Wyoming rank quite low in openness to new ideas. But why label them narrow-minded and insular? Say, instead, he suggests, that they value tradition. New York may be neurotic, but he offers another way to put it: "It's a state in touch with its feelings."

Or take a cue from Ted Ownby, who studies Southern culture at the University of Mississippi. His state came up highly neurotic -- and he suspects his neighbors would be proud.


"Here in the home of William Faulkner," Mr. Ownby said, "we take intense, almost perverse neuroticism as a sign of emotional depth."

Weekend in redneck paradise

Here are the pictures I promised from our trip to Hot Springs. Still have many more to share -- including Sweetie trying to tube, being thrown off and skipping over the water like a stone.

My nephew, Hunter, and his friend, Asa, enjoyed tubing on the lake. They were trying to be so cool.



The result of too much tubing. Hunter almost looks sweet in this picture, but don't let the little devil fool you!

Such a kiss up (with his mother and my sister, Stephanie)

Stephanie and I

Sweetie before the tubing incident.

Well, Sweetie did not sink the boat. That hand holding a beer in the corner is me -- relaxing with a good book.

More pictures to come when I get a chance....

Blue skies the backdrop to tragedy

Seven years ago today, I woke around 7 a.m., popped open my traditional Diet Coke, and flipped on the television. An old episode of “The Nanny” was playing on Lifetime television, and I sat in a sleepy stupor for a long time staring at the screen. I kept telling myself that the clock was ticking – get up and get going.

It was Tuesday and press day for my weekly newspaper. I dreaded the long hours of layout ahead of me. Most Tuesdays, I did not make it home from the office until well into the wee hours. In fact, the nice lady at the drive through window at Krystal’s knew my assistant editor and me quite well from our 2 a.m. dinner stops.

Finally at around a quarter to eight, I dragged myself to the bathroom for a shower and the miracle of make-up in an effort to become somewhat presentable.

Around 8:30 a.m., the telephone rang. Cindy, my assistant editor, asked me what I was doing.

“I’m almost ready,” I said. “I will be at the office at 9.”

“Are you not watching TV?” she asked.

“’The Golden Girls’ is on, but I haven’t been watching.”

“Turn on the ‘Today Show’,” she said. “Somebody just bombed the Pentagon and a plane just hit the World Trade Center. I don’t know what is going on, but it is crazy.”

With my hair still wrapped in a towel, I sank to the couch as I saw the first images of the attacks on the television. Helicopters were hovering above the Pentagon; an enormous black hole released smoke into the sky above.

“This is bad, Cindy,” I finally said.

“Yeah, I know,” she replied.

“What have they said,” I asked.

“Nothing really, they just interrupted the show with breaking news. They said a plane hit the World Trade Center accidentally like before, but then the Pentagon got bombed.”

We watched together on the phone for a few minutes -- listening for updates on what was going on. Just then, on national television, another plane circled around and exploded into the other tower.

We were silent in complete disbelief.

“I am going to call my parents,” I finally said. “I will be later coming in than I thought.”

“Yeah, me too,” Cindy absently said.

“I’ll see you in a few.”

I never understood why someone would remark about remembering exactly what he was doing when President Kennedy was shot. He was killed 10 years before I was born, so I guess the significance has always been lost on me.

However, just as Kennedy’s assassination follows some around forever, September 11 will haunt me . History happened right before my very eyes, and it changed the very fabric of my being. I was no longer protected in the bubble of rural America – the ugliness of the real world was just something seen on television. I finally realized the effect world events can have on every one of us.

At that time, I was the 26-year-old editor of a small-town weekly newspaper. I was well versed in local events – annexation law, Mississippi code, my city’s beautification ordinances, and high school football. I could discuss millage rates, infrastructure improvements and Community Development Block Grants (CDBG).

However, I was poorly educated in world affairs and national politics. I remember writing a feature story of a local soldier who served in Kosovo, and I was forced to research the conflict on Wikipedia. I knew little of the Rwandan genocide, the Hillary Clinton healthcare plan, or the political evolution of Rudy Giuliani. Worse, I did not know Osama Bin Laden – the mastermind behind the attack.

I realized quickly it was time to pop the bubble and realize there was so much happening outside my state, or for that matter, my zip code. The world obviously wasn’t as pretty as I had come to believe, and I needed to be prepared for what other catastrophic event was in the future (I hate surprises – it’s genetic).

It was my responsibility to become acquainted with the rest of the world. I began reading – political biographies, essays, and magazines – and watching news broadcasts and documentaries. I also began reading dozens newspapers every day.

Ironically, after all of my preparations and mental lists of our nation’s enemies and frenemies, I don’t believe I will ever be prepared for another attack, and that scares me to death. So after seven years, I continue to wake each morning in Winona, Mississippi, pop open an ice cold Diet Coke, and flip on the news. And every morning, I pray for our country and those who are willing to fight and die for our freedom. My peace of mind relies heavily on them and their sacrifice.

On the seventh anniversary of the September 11 attacks, join me as I pray for those nearly 3,000 Americans that were so tragically lost and the families who grieve for them.

Palin: A refreshing change for Washington

Because I spend so much time dealing with local politics, I usually leave national politics to the pundits; however, I will make an exception in the case of Sarah Palin.

Last Friday, Republican presidential nominee John McCain announced Alaska’s first-term governor, Sarah Palin, as his Vice Presidential running mate. The conservative governor and mother of five is currently serving her second year as Alaska’s governor.

Since the announcement, Palin has been criticized in the media as “McCain’s token,” a gun toting, animal killing, religious fanatic, anti-nepotistic, beauty pageant loser and a bad mother. And all of this has been within the last four days. That is correct, four days.

As a member of the media, most would expect the same type of criticism from me, but no, I will not criticize Palin. I actually applaud her success in a male-dominated field, and unlike many other women in such a high-profile, powerful position, Palin has held on to that endearing quality that gives her an 80 percent approval rating as governor. She is crusader for honest government and has gone to battle with the most powerful political figures in her state – and won. Palin will be a refreshing change in Washington.

McCain only picked Palin because she is a woman to help sway the Hilary voters.”
I am getting sick of the opposition repeating this over and over and over. If this is true, why did McCain not select Senator Kay Bailey Hutchinson of Texas. She is well-respected in political circles, has stronger name recognition, and has 32 years of political experience.

There is no comparing Palin to Hilary Clinton – two different animals. Palin is pro-life, politically conservative, and a detour away from the Washington institution. Clinton is pro-choice, liberal, and in her own right, a Washington institution.

Maybe, just a thought, McCain liked her politics and the way she has conducted herself in her political career.

Palin is an NRA member, is a hunter, and eats caribou.
The Second Amendment of the United States guarantees all Americans the right to own and bear arms. If Palin enjoys the sport of hunting, like most Southerners, more power to her. In fact, she is not a trophy hunter and eats what she kills. As an animal rights proponent, that is the way it should be.

Palin is a religious fanatic.
Sadly, those of us church-going Americans in the Bible belt are probably considered religious fanatics to some. It is called the first amendment, people. Be relieved that she believes in a higher power than herself. Some Washington politicians only believe in giving more power to themselves.

Palin had her ex-brother-in-law fired.
Currently, Palin is under investigation for dismissing the Public Safety Commissioner for not following her order to terminate a highway patrol officer who is her former brother-in-law. According to reports, this brother-in-law also threatened the life of Palin’s father and other members of her family.

The Public Safety Commissioner defied a direct order from the governor. He should have been terminated for insubordination.

In addition, the highway patrolman should have been fired. As an officer of the law, he is charged with protecting and serving the citizens of Alaska. He threatened the lives of members of the governor’s family. For the safety of the first family, it would not be wise to issue this man a fire arm and give him the responsibility of enforcing the law.

Palin came in second in the Miss Alaska pageant.
Believe it or not, the media has been all over this fact -- calling Palin the “Miss Alaska loser.” Well, unless they want to start pointing fingers at their colleagues, the media needs to back off. From one Google search, I discovered Gretchen Carlson, Diane Sawyer, Kathie Lee Gifford, Paula Zahn, and Deborah Norville were all pageant girls – some more successful than others.

The most shocking pageant girl I found: Oprah Winfrey. Beauty and a brain are sometimes available in a set – who knew?

Who is raising Palin’s five children?
Okay, talk about hitting below the belt! If Palin was a Southern momma, she would not have been so forgiving.

Monday, Palin announced that her 17-year-old, unmarried daughter is expecting a child. Some insane internet bloggers immediately began circulating rumors that Palin’s youngest child, an infant with Down’s syndrome, was not her child but her grandchild. They reported that her 17-year-old daughter, supposedly the baby’s real mother, is currently expecting her second child.

What is wrong with these people? This is a 17-year-old child they are attacking. I am immediately taken back to the cruelty dealt to Chelsea Clinton who had the unfortunate luck of going through puberty at the mercy of the American media.

I am sure Palin and her husband were heartbroken over their daughter’s situation. I am sure they wanted their daughter to experience life before becoming a mother and a wife.

The fact of the matter is society should not crucify the parents when a teenager acts like a teenager. I was reared by strict God-fearing parents, and despite their discipline, I still pushed the envelope. It is a part of growing up. Some survive the process without permanent repercussions, and some do not.

Sarah Palin is an average American woman, and as an average American woman, I relate to her personally. I am still discovering if her politics are what I wish for America, but right now, I do not doubt her character.

A weekend in paradise for Southerners

***That was a faun swimming across Lake Hamilton. He wasn't more than 40 pounds and still had white spots on his back. My sister, Stephanie, wanted to catch it and bring it on the boat with us, but Sweetie said it would beat us to death with its hooves. We don't know where the momma was.

*****Ole Miss beat University of Memphis 41-24. Hotty Toddy, Gosh Almightly. Who the hell are we? Flim flam, bim bam. Ole Miss, by damn! (I'm not going to get too cocky. We will probably lose next week!)

******Lots of pictures to show you next week! Tune in.

Throwing your weapons at the burglar is not the best defense

This weekend, I traveled north to my hometown to join the birthday celebrations of my sister, Deana, and my nephew, Hunter. Now, the Sexton family likes to celebrate each and every occasion big. It’s just our way.

However, this weekend was surprisingly low-key. We decided to drive over to the east side of the county for dinner at a popular fish house.

Because there were seven of us, I drove my sisters, my nephew and his friend, Asa. My parents took a separate car (I think they may have planned it that way because they were afraid of too much together time.)

Now, this restaurant is not just around the corner. It took us nearly 40 minutes to get there – down a winding, rolling, country road. My sister, Stephanie, kept repeating for at least 30 minutes, “It’s right around this curve.” One hundred curves later, we arrive.

This restaurant has wonderful fried fish, but it is more famous for its desserts. A display of dozens of homemade desserts met us when we walked through the door. Forget the fish, I thought. Birthdays are all about the cake, and they had a Heath Bar cake that would make you slap your momma! (Hunter kept calling it the Health Bar Cake. Kind of loses it appeal that way, huh?)

There was also some sort of bluegrass hoedown in one of the three main dining rooms. Men were playing banjos and people were dancing about.

“Smoking or non,” the hostess asked.

“Anywhere but in there,” Deana said, nodding to the hoedown.

“Alrighty then,” the hostess said. “Right this way.”

I wonder if we were the only ones who requested that.

The food was wonderful, and most of us were so stuffed, we took our cakes home. Several of my family members ate so much (I won’t name names) they made themselves sick.

It is funny how insignificant trips to the fish house can bring memories flooding back. I remembered the last time I dined at that particular fish house. It was years ago, and my grandparents were with us.

The menu was all-you-can-eat back then, and Daddy and my grandparents were on a mission to get their money’s worth. I have never seen people eat so much! My grandmother ate just as much as the men.

“It’s the Shelton in me,” she would say. Her father was famous for his frugal ways, and his genes were strong. Not only did he pass that trait on to my grandmother, but I believe Daddy got a double dose.

My grandparents loved to go eat fried fish. Their favorite restaurant in Memphis closed, and the two were lost without their regular haute. My father introduced them to that fish house on the east side of the county, and at last, they were content.

In fact, it was during the introduction trip to this restaurant that Stephanie and I were invaded by burglars.

My family had just moved into our newly-built home in Southaven, and my grandparents drove up to go to dinner with my parents. Sixteen-year-old Stephanie was watching me who had just turned 12, and we were instructed to turn the burglar alarm on and not let anyone in the house. (We had just moved to the big city from Eudora, mind you.)

The two of us were watching television upstairs when the alarm started howling. At first we thought, we had just done something wrong when we set it, but we still called our neighbor to check things out. The neighbor checked the inside of the house, confirmed that it was just a false alarm, and went home.

Just as we set the alarm back and got situated on the sofa in front of the television, the alarm sounded again. The two of us ran down stairs, and low and behold, the front door was wide open. Someone had been inside the house with us the entire time.

We called 911 and armed ourselves. Stephanie, who is now a captain in the Sheriff’s Department, donned a shotgun from Momma’s collection, and I grabbed a steak knife. What we intended to do is beyond me.

The two of us paced through the kitchen waiting for the police. Then we saw him. A man was standing on the deck outside the kitchen door watching us. Armed with a shot gun and a steak knife, we screamed and ran. I am not sure, but I think we might have thrown our weapons down as we fled.

Now, I am unsure of how this event became a complete spectacle, but it did. Before the police could arrive, a friend of the family, Emily Sanford, rushed to the house to save us. She barged in the door wearing her satin pajamas and welding an Estee Lauder lipstick. She repeated over and over again while she applied that someone was trying to kill her babies.

Stephanie’s friend from school arrived, and it was nice to finally have a male around in case something else happened. He did let us know that Stephanie (now, Captain Stephanie) had loaded the bullet in the gun wrong.

When the police finally arrived, the house was in chaos. Ms. Sanford was yelling at them for not getting them earlier. Our neighbor had returned in a panic. My parents and grandparents had come home to find the police at the house. Stephanie and I were both talking incessantly about the events of the night.

It was some time before my parents left us alone again.

All this came from a plate of fried fish and a chunk of Heath bar cake.

A few of my favorite things

Today at lunch, my co-workers and I were discussing our favorite things. It was very telling. I thought I would share some of mine, and see what secrets of my personality I reveal.

My family is my world. There is nothing else to say.

My sweetheart, Keith. I am a very lucky girl!

My three sons -- Toulouse, Skipper, and Don Juan. Aren't they the sweetest things?

Diet Coke. I could put it in an IV and not get enough.

I am total Anglophile. British books, movies, television. Love it!

I adore antiques. They have such a history. New stuff is just not the same. No character or great story.

Independent bookstores are so much better than a chain, and the people who work there have more than likely read a book or two.

I love bunnies -- live or glass. My mother started me collecting bunnies when I was little. It kind of stuck.

Feather pens. I might be a professional writer, but I can still have fun. Agree?

I love folk music. The songs are so relaxing and the lyrics are beautiful. I am all about the lyrics. Forget the voice and the melody.

There is nothing like Southern fried chicken fried in a cast iron skillet -- especially Momma's.

Board games are awesome, and I hate to lose.

My favorite scent is honeysuckle. It just smells Southern.

My favorite scent to wear is Michael by Michael Kors. Keith adores this stuff.

I'm a red IPOD girl. I so can't live without my one gadget.

I love my journal even though I don't write in it every day. It is a well for random thoughts.

A relaxing weekend at Lake Hamilton in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Paradise for the Southern girl.

The lost art of letter writing is something I find beautiful in that Jane Austin kind of way-- especially love letters. I never get letters anymore.

I love Mississippi. If you weren't born here, you just won't understand.

The sound of ocean waves is wonderful. I actually sleep with a noise box on making ocean sounds.

Opera. One word: chills.

I love the color pink. It is so cheerful.

I adore setting a beautiful formal table -- especially for tea parties and garden parties. Get out the silver polish, girls.


Okay, I'm a junkie -- especially true crime documentaries and British comedy.

However, television is not television without TIVO. For a while TIVO and I were in a serious relationship until I cheated on him with Keith. TIVO and I have decided to stay friends, though.

Completely honored!

Dana from One for the Books nominated me for the E for Excellence Award. I am speechless (yes, it is possible!). Dana is the sweetest thing, ever!

Anyway, with my new award, I must pass on the excellence award to others. Here are my seven favorite blogs that I read every single day and am SO disappointed if a new post isn't to be found. However, I am giddy with anticipation that a new post will be up in the next day or two.

My seven favorites (in no particular order):

1. Maggie Reads: I love Maggie. Her goal is to make Mississippi read. As a librarian, Maggie is up on all the newest books. Maggie also organizes the most wonderfully creative contests, and the prizes are the best of all -- books!

2. Oh, Happy Day: This blog comes from Jordan in San Francisco. It is all about beautiful things she finds -- fashion, decorating, stationary, or anything else that makes life more beautiful.

3. Conversations with my Hairdryer: Okay, I love Jenni. I believe she and I are kindred spirits (not in that crazy stalking kind of way). I love reading about her family and her successes with Weight Watchers. Her blog always makes my day.

4. Journey to Vegan: Dana is on a quest for absolute veganism. I WISH I HAD THE WILL TO DO THIS! However, living in small town Mississippi the probability to find something to eat that is not cooked in bacon fat and smothered with cheese is dang near impossible.

5. Blissfully Domestic: This is such a guilty pleasure for me. Make-up tips, celebrity news, and tips for women living in a busy world. Love this blog!

6. Mrs. Fussypants Guide to Life: I am a Fussypants addict. Completely hysterical commentary from a girl close to my own heart!

7. Derfwad Manor: Mrs. G is bodacious. Got to love a girl who will tell you like it is. She makes me laugh so hard no sound comes out of my mouth, and I start hyperventilating.

To those I have listed, here are the rules:
1. Put the logo on your blog. (Right-click the logo above and choose Save Picture As… Then upload it.)
2. Add a link to the person who awarded you.
3. Nominate at least seven other blogs.
4. Add links to those blogs on your blog.
5. Leave a message for your nominee on their blog.

Thanks again, Dana, for the nod!

It's a good thing my name isn't Grace!

Last week, I fell flat on my face in front of The Winona Times office. It would not be fair to make excuses – I just got tangled in my own feet and fell. Flop!

I am sure motorists passing on Summit Street and customers at Renasant Bank got an eyeful as I lay on the sidewalk, trying to figure out how to get up. I wasn’t hurt much – just my pride. I did get a good chuckle out of my misfortune. (Got to laugh to keep from crying, I guess).

It’s all in a day’s work for me. Write stories, check. Review e-mail, check. Make a complete and utter fool of myself, check, check.

On average, I fall in a public place at least once a month. I am famous for falling up flights of stairs.

A few years ago (and I will change the names to protect the innocent), I was to meet with a powerful executive at his office to discuss possible sponsorship opportunities for a non-profit. His office was on the second floor, and a long spiral staircase connected the lobby to his office. Mr. Powerful Executive descended the stairs to greet me, and the two of us walked up together.
Nearing the top, the heel of my sandal hung up on a step. I fell backward, twisted in mid-air and landed on my hands and knees on the landing. My shoes flew off my feet, over the banister, and to the first floor. Mr. Powerful Executive was forced to jog down to the bottom floor and fetch them.

After the enormous spectacle I created, I still had to deliver my presentation. He agreed to the sponsorship, but I have a feeling he feared a lawsuit. (For my own stupidity, I will save the court some time!) Thankfully, I have never seen Mr. Powerful Executive again.

I also am quite often the damsel in distress. Once while working at my desk (not in Winona, mind you) my rolling chair rolled right out from under me. I landed under my desk in that hole where your legs go. The chair bounced off the wall and somehow wedged underneath the desk – trapping me. I just kind of sat there for a while hoping to die, but after a few minutes, I realized I needed help to get out of this predicament.

“Excuse me, can someone help me out? I seem to be stuck here,” a small voice called over the patricians of the cubicles. Finally someone came to my aid, but it still took several minutes to get me out after he gathered all of our co-workers to “look what Amanda’s done now.”

I am sure the University of Mississippi is dying for me to come back and head up the school’s ambassador program after my debacle in front of an entire group of in-coming freshmen.

My senior year, I was taking Southern Arts and Antiques during the summer session, and we met in the old Chemistry building on the circle. While walking to class, I managed to fall out on the front steps of the building just as a bus load of orientation kids were passing. The bus stopped. I don’t get up. I just laid there shaking – from laughter. I literally had fallen and couldn’t get up!

So you see, my little accident the other day in front of my office was nothing -- just a little quirk in my every day life.

Graceful is not a word that would describe me. Case in point, in sixth grade, I broke my ankle while walking down a hill. Yep, I lost my balance and ended up rolling down the hill. I was in a cast for six weeks.

In high school, my parents sent me to Charm School to smooth out the edges. They hoped I would eventually out grow my awkwardness, but alas, no. In college, I was as uncoordinated as ever.

During a candlelight ceremony during sorority rush (I was a rusher by this point not a rushee) I accidently set the front of my dress on fire. Polyester crepe. Went up like a torch. I almost stopped, dropped and rolled. Luckily, my roommate put me out before I ended up in the burn unit.

I heard girls talking about “that girl who caught on fire” until I graduated.

So when you see me around town, and I accidently knock over a display at the grocery store or ram you with my basket at Wal-Mart. I mean no harm. I am simply trying to make it through the day without eating pavement.

You see, God has a sense of humor. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.

"I'd be happy to pound the erasers, Ms. Beverly."

This weekend, as I shopped at the Winona Wal-Mart, I became very nostalgic as I watched children pick out new backpacks, lunch boxes, and zipper bags for pencils. There is nothing in the world better than brand new school supplies to make a kid aim for the stars academically.

A week or so before school started, Momma would take my sisters and me to the store to stock up on school supplies. Of course, I always had to adapt the list to my particular style - which I convinced Momma would help me make better grades.

I always opted for the pink lined notebook paper. It was just prettier and so much more interesting. I also had to get those pens with the three different colors of ink. You know the ones I mean - with the red, green, or black levers on the top to change color.

Although I was only required to get the 24 pack of crayons, I would have to have the jumbo, hundred-count box with colors like flesh and turquoise.

"Mo-mmm-a, how will my pictures look realistic if I don't have a flesh crayon," I whined, which is the best way for any child to get exactly what they want.

Many times I convinced her to take me to Happy Names in Memphis to get "personalized" school supplies. I really needed those pencils with my name on them and my name painted on all my notebooks. It was all about theft prevention. If someone stole my pink Hello Kitty trapper keeper, I would immediately know it was mine because of the large "Amanda" emblazoned across the front in calligraphy.

Oh, I loved school; I had to be on my death bed to actually miss a day. All those books and lectures and recess were so my cup of tea, and as you might guess, I was probably considered a big kiss up with my hand in the air every time my name was called. I would volunteer to read aloud or work that math problem on the board. (Really, it just gave me a chance to write on the board. I hated math.)

Trips to the library, book fairs, career day, science fairs - I loved them. I especially liked show and tell. Once, I had a kitten that was born with her tail bent at a 90 degree angle. It just kind of pointed to the left all the time. After a few months, the bent end just fell off. We found it on the carport floor. I put the tail in a Ziploc bag and tada, show and tell. It was a hit.

Of course, I was the teacher's pet most years, but I can't say I never got into trouble. In Kindergarten, I learned really quickly that hauling off and popping someone for ticking you off got your name on the chalk board with three check marks. Three checks meant I had to sit out at recess and Ms. Beverly, my teacher, called my parents. I got punished all over again when I got home.

In second grade, Aunt Jean, Daddy's sister, was my teacher. I was so lucky. Aunt Jean really appreciated my zeal for learning - so much so that I was her favorite student. (Of course, that is what I thought and told everyone in the class).

But even I could make Aunt Jean angry. One afternoon at recess, my friend, Scooter, and I stole Aunt Jean's mercuricomb and painted our knees and elbows with the dark red liquid. The two of us pretended to fall down and hurt ourselves. Panicked that blood was involved, Aunt Jean rushed to help. She wasn't very happy when she discovered our prank. If I remember correctly, she told Daddy, and I am sure the words "she wasted my good mercuricomb" were used. (Well, she was a Sexton, after all.)

I was never a fan of P.E. Recess was okay, but structured athletics has never been my thing. I was not blessed with hand-eye coordination. Organized sports were a nightmare. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I was hit in the face by a ball.

However, I loved the trampoline. My cousins had one, and I could do flips and other tricks. I was so looking forward to showing off my skills in front of the class, but the teacher put a stop to it. He said unless I could do "swivel hips" (seat drop, flip in mid-air, and seat drop in the opposite direction) a flip was out of the question. Only one student could do "swivel hips," and I despised her.

The teacher loved this girl. Most of the class period, the other students and I would stand around the parameter of the trampoline with our arms in the air to catch the "swivel hips" girl if she launched herself across the room. We would stand there forever as she did tricks and flips while the teacher praised her. (Actually, I am beginning to think this experience is what scarred my psyche against athletics. Regardless, it is now my new excuse.)

So as classes commence in the community, know this. I miss school. If the real world would just take a cue from elementary school, the world would be such a better place. I will take the 30-minute nap for $100, Alex.

Don Juan says hi!