Kudos! (Like Oprah and Gayle, only better!)

It seems like just yesterday, my friend Cortney and I were lost in the Arkansas hills looking for the next Holiday Inn Express on our week-long tour across the Natural State while working for a non-profit organization. Both with little or no sense of direction, it is surprising we didn't end up at the bottom of a ravine somewhere.

Cortney is one of my all-time favorite travel buddies. One fantastic trip -- and I use that term loosely -- two hours after we left, Cortney discovered she had forgotten her purse, and we had to call and express mail it to the hotel. The trip back was just as fun. If I am not mistaken, I believe we listened to the book on tape of Five People You Meet In Heaven by Mitch Albom -- sobbing uncontrollably. Good times.

Cortney and I decorating for a special event. I'm sure it is evident that we couldn't find a ladder.


Cortney is a great sidekick. Always dressed to the nines, she is always game for an "emergency" trip to the salon after I firmly decide to chop six inches off the length of my hair or lunch luxuriously at a tea room in Midtown Memphis. (Ah, high tea. Sigh.) And....she is the only other gal my age who can rival my love of antiques, entertaining, and essentially making the word a more beautiful place.



Well, good news, Cortney has recently started her own blog, Chipper Chickie. Take a gander.....

More kudos goes to my delightful neurotic parents. After years of blood, sweat, and tears working on more than an acre of flowerbeds, sweeping lawns and thousands of stairs, momma and daddy's yard is featured in this month's DeSoto Magazine. Check out the article online.

Of course, they were much more excited that their dog, McKenzie, was pictured twice in the spread. She is SO photogenic!

Growing up, I was expected to weed, mow, water, and plant tiny little bedding plants in their MONSTROUS garden. Luckily, I now have my own home that has minimal flowerbeds and don't have to slave away in the boiling Mississippi sun every weekend.

However, they still do -- like 20 hours a week. Talk about dedication!

Way to go, momma and daddy! I'm so proud.

My annual Kentucky Derby Party was held recently, and it was, as usual, a blazing hit. (I am a bit biased.)

Stormy weather blew through Mississippi Saturday, but the festivities were not dampened.

Thank you to my friend and fellow book club member Keetha Mosley for the photos!

Me and my favorite co-host, Daddy


Everyone knows how much Keith loves getting dressed up to eat finger sandwiches...


Mint juleps on the porch


And for those who don't want to take the enamel off their teeth with the mint juleps, Momma's famous bourbon punch, "The recipe."



The best cheese straws this side of the Mississippi!



A little Southern cuisine....

Valentine's Weekend in the Delta

Sunflower River at Holly Bluff


Murphy Landing near Hollandale


Barn where The Crossroads was filmed


Mission style church near Holly Bluff


House at Murphy (Sweetie's childhood home)

My sweetie and the woods

Sweetie's cousin posted this picture on Facebook, and I love it.



As most of you know, I am way more Southern belle than I am country girl, and so the outdoors are really not my thing. There are the bugs and dirt and splinters and, well, nature.

Sweetie, on the other hand, is all about nature. He even goes into the woods to "window shop" -- that is to look but not shoot.

First of all, my butt would be in the warm bed at 5 a.m. if I wasn't going to shoot anything, not that I ever would. Second, I can go stand on my porch and see all the wildlife I want.

I live in town, but it is a rural community. Deer are nearly tame and don't even run off when I drive up or walk onto the porch. They seriously stand and look at me like I should run. When I get home from the office in the afternoon, I have to stop my car and let the deer stroll out of my driveway.

Oh, and I forgot about the raccoon that sexually assaulted my poor cat, Deadline. In her fright, she climbed the poplar behind my house. On her way down, she missed a branch and fell with a whoosh! She kind of limped up the back steps, but she is fine now.

That racoon just stood over in the side of the yard and glared at me with his glowing yellow eyes.

Sweetie instructed me to grab the shotgun and kill the raccoon.

Seriously, I'm sure my neighbors would be thrilled to see me trotting through the yard, armed with a shotgun, and wearing my satin pajamas and bed jacket.

So, no. I don't think I will be donning camo anytime soon and climbing into a tree stand.

But doesn't sweetie look cute in his camo? So manly.

Some leftovers from the holidays.....

I went all out on holiday decorations this year (well, Dot and Richard Sexton went all out this year), and since I sat alone in the dark staring at my Christmas trees every night, I thought I would share.

****Remember I didn't even put up a wreath last year, so when I say all out, I mean what normal people usually put up at Christmas.
******Reminder #2 -- I am completely domestically challenged, and stood around most of the time like a blob as Momma did her thing.

We tried to keep to the period of the house outside. Real candles. Not the most efficient way to light the walk, but it looked really pretty. They must have had better eyesight back then....



Momma decorated this tree. Daddy and I helped as well. He sat in the chair pointing out holes and I put hooks on ornaments. (Don Juan always manages to get in the picture):



I found these great bird ornaments:



Keith and I decorated this tree ourselves. It was the fun tree with memento ornaments and of course an ornament tribute to SEC football.



It still amazes me what Momma can whip up out of a bag of crap and some ribbon.

The terror of Itty Bitty Kitty

So sorry for the long delay between posts....I have been so busy. Anyway...got something funny to share!

Recently, I agreed to foster a four week old kitten rescued from Highway 82.

As the president of the humane society, I was obligated to take him. With my three dogs, it is impossible for me to take another dog, but a cat -- now, that is the lazy man's pet. Figuring I would find a home for him soon, I christened him Itty Bitty Kitty -- far from the string of literary names I have saddled my poor pets with in the past.

At first, he was shy -- hiding behind the refrigerator or on the shelf of the baker's rack. That lasted about a week.

I saw gradual changes. Attacking me at the door waiting to be fed. Sleeping in the dog bed perched up against Don Juan the Chihuahua. Learning to climb onto the kitchen counter to tear into a ziploc bag and help himself to a blueberry muffin. That last episode got him a trip out in the yard.

He quickly learned to terrorize my dogs. I caught him standing on the coffee table, watching for Skipper to walk past. When Skipper reached a reasonable distance, Itty Bitty Kitty launched himself onto Skipper's back like a cowboy at a rodeo.

Skipper was demented after the event.

Okay, I know I go on and on about my menagerie of pets, but I just had to share his newest scheme to get my attention.



Hanging from my back door screen -- just like one of those suction cup car animals.

Yes, I know. I have no life but to observe my herd, but they do make me smile.

All sorts of randomness

Recently went home to see the family and I came across this:




They served food out of a trailer that read "Chihuahua" on the side. From an advertising standpoint, probably not the best marketing campaign -- unless you're from one of those third world countries and dogs are a delicacy.

Don Juan is currently in a support group, but he tries to put on a brave face.

The Don:



In other news, I worked on my completely neurotic fear of heights recently as I rode to the top of this "Ewok" tower in Hot Springs, Ark.



I am completely petrified of heights. Seriously, I can't even stand on a chair. I even get scared when other people aren't on the ground.

So, my sweetie and I go to this mountain tower, and of course, sweetie wants to go up to the top. Even the girl behind the register is trying to "sell" me on going up there. By the way, her pitch -- "There is an entire history of Bill Clinton on the top level."

Seriously. Bill Clinton is going to get me up that dang tower? One moment while I chuckle. Ha. He. He. He. Ha.

Anyway, sweetie convinces me, and we walk to the elevator. It opens, and the entire back is glass. I mean, it was obviously my day for a nervous breakdown.

After some more coaxing, I get into that glass death chamber and squash my face into the corner next to the buttons. I felt I would be okay getting on and off if I could just stare into that corner and not think about being in a freaking mountain tower.

But, NO! That damn elevator "talked" the entire trip -- "The Hot Springs Mountain tower is 3,452 feet above the city of Hot Springs. See the sweeping views of the valley down below...."

I was obviously being punished for something I had done in the past.

Finally at the top, it was as if I were in a high rise building. I didn't freak out and embarrass sweetie in front of the other tourists. It really wasn't so bad -- except all the Bill Clinton crap.



Until, we had to come down again in Willie Wonka's talking elevator.

Metaphor of my day

A couple tidbits.....

Recently, I was diagnosed with sleep apnea -- you know where you literally stop breathing on an off throughout the night.

Well, it turns out I stop breathing about 24 times and hour, and when I do stop, I must wake up in order to start breathing again. Since I am not dead, that means I wake up a lot. A whole lot.

To sum it all up, I haven't had a good night sleep in 10 years. Seriously.

Well, that will soon change. I have been fitted this this contraption:


My significant other calls it my "snorkel." I kind of like that better than C-pap -- which is just way to close to "pap smear."

The problem is: I can't get it to stay on my head during the night. Last night, I ended up with it tangled up around my neck.

I will try again tonight, but I might have to maneuver some sort of chin strap or something of that nature.

Tips are much appreciated.

On a happier note, I have joined the Winona Adult Tennis League. Yep, I sure did.

Actually, I really said yes because I was so excited that someone wanted me on their team! I mean all of my insecurities that stemmed from all those years of gym class was instantly squashed as soon as I was asked.

I guess I was so thrilled, I completely forgot that I had no idea how to play tennis, and I hate exercise.

After my first couple of practices, I discovered a couple things.

1. I should probably invest in one of those portable defibrillator machines -- just in case.

2. There are some seriously cute tennis accessories out there.

3. I have little to no hand-eye coordination.

4. You really can throw your back out by missing the ball.

5. I probably won't be asked to join the team after they see how utterly sad I am on the court.

6. Those can't-you-get-a-better-job-for-yourselves-? net boys are completely underrated. After chasing tennis balls around for hours, I was pooped. Okay, honestly, I wanted to fall out in the middle of the parking lot. I mean, it hurt to break on the way home.

I will keep you informed of my progress, but don't expect miracles. I am not expecting to win much of anything on the court.

I'm still here just....

I know I haven't posted in a while, but I have been a very busy girl! I will have a new post by the end of the week.

If Mother isn't happy, nobody's happy!

Every year on Christmas Eve, my family gathers at my Aunt Jean’s house for a Christmas feast, scripture reading, and gift exchange. The more than 50 members of my extended family cram into the house for the Sexton family’s most cherished tradition.

Before my grandparents passed away, the dinner was held at their house. Daddy lined tables up in the den and kitchen for the adults, and we kids were banished to the laundry room. The formal living room held the Christmas tree and a mountain of presents that took nearly 20 minutes to pass out.

My grandmother hated Christmas. It made her nervous to have that many people for dinner, but she fixed a smile on her face and acted gracious to her guests. Most didn’t even realize she was counting the minutes for them to leave.

My sisters and I knew. Every year, we were in charge of decorating her Christmas tree, and without fail, it was a struggle. Her arguments were the same.

“You are getting those needles all over my floor.”

“Look at the dust on that thing. It’s going to mess up my clean house.”

“I can’t believe, y’all want to drag all of that old junk out of the attic.”

However, when we finished and the mess was cleaned up, she and Granddaddy sat for hours on the sofa in the dark watching the lights.

“I think this is the prettiest one we have ever had,” she said. Of course, every year’s tree was the prettiest tree.

Mother, as everyone called my grandmother, was very stuck in her ways. Loveable and endearing, she was also bossy and the ultimate Type-A. She was where the phrase “If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy” originated.

During the afternoon on Christmas Eve, Momma sent Rotel dip over to my grandparents for those setting up something to snack on. This began the real Christmas drama.
“You people are going to ruin your appetites and not want to eat any dinner. I have been cooking for a week, and you won’t eat a thing.”

She even called Momma to bless her out for sending over unapproved food.

The real breakdown happened after dinner when Granddaddy and all the grandchildren set off fireworks in the front yard. Bottle rockets, Roman candles, firecrackers, flowers, and other stuff that went boom – my grandfather always stocked up for Christmas Eve.

Of course, my kamikaze cousins used the explosives as weapons – throwing bottle rockets at each other and setting off entire packs of firecrackers at one time.
One year, Momma stepped out on the porch just as my cousin, Lesa, threw a pack of fireworks at her. She tried to swat them away, but they detonated just as they reached her hand. Her thumbnail was blown right off the bed.

Another year, someone put a firecracker in Granddaddy’s back pocket. The old man did a jig across the front yard and walked around all night with a burned place on the back of his pants.

Mother hated the fireworks, and so did I. I hid in the corner of the porch away from the line of fire, but Mother got right out there in the middle of them – hollering and pointing for them to clean the mess up.

After the scripture reading, gifts were handed out, and Mother and Granddaddy retired to their bedroom. Hundreds of gifts were brought to them and laid on their bed. They just sat in chairs by the window and waited for the ceremony to end.
Daddy and my aunts made sure Mother’s house was returned to its original state before they left for the evening, but I will guarantee you Mother spent a week scrubbing and fussing and tidying up. As for the mess in her front yard, my sisters and I were instructed to clean up the firework remains Christmas Day.

For me, Christmas is about tradition. Meals of turkey and dressing. Pecan pies and lime Jello molds. Breakfast with my family on Christmas Day.

However, Christmas Eve will never be the same without Mother’s temper tantrums and Granddaddy’s instigation. The older I get, the more I realize that Mother stressed over the meal and the house and even the Christmas tree because she wanted everything to be perfect for her family.

It’s kind of like that “prettiest tree.” It’s a pain getting it up, and it usually makes a huge mess. But there is nothing like sitting in the dark watching the lights to know it was worth every minute of it.

'Go get your shawl' and other Christmas tales

During the Depression, my great aunt, Tura, taught at a country school in Eudora. Poverty was a way of life in rural Mississippi, and with the Depression lingering for many years, her students never experienced Christmas morning with a mountain of presents under a festive tree. In a time of bread lines to feed those who were hungry, even a traditional holiday meal was rare.

Needless to say, Santa Claus was an image never conjured in the mind of Aunt Tura’s students, and she hoped to change that during the annual Christmas pageant at the school.

With Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, and three wise men, the pageant illustrated the first Christmas, complete with singing spiritual carols. Aunt Tura planned to surprise the children after the play with a special appearance from Santa Claus, and boy, did she.

As the audience applauded the young actors for their performance, Santa Claus burst into the school house and shouted, “Ho, ho, ho.”

With his red felt suit and curly white beard, Santa lumbered through the door with his bag full of goodies. The kids went berserk, and not in the I-just-won-a-date-with-Elvis kind of way.

Screaming from fear, they launched themselves out the windows – the manger overturning and a plastic baby

Jesus falling to the floor. Like pirates bailing out of a sinking ship, all of Bethlehem flew out the building and hit the ground at a sprint – running through neighboring cotton fields to safety.

Still inside the school, parents sat open-mouthed in shock at the chaos around them, and poor Santa was left in the middle of the room with no children to deliver his goods.

I can’t imagine never knowing Santa Claus. On Christmas Eve, we would have dinner at my grandparents, complete with a gift exchange and scripture readings (and not in that order much to the disgust of the Sexton children). With our bellies full and a new toy, my sisters and I would return home, wash our faces, and climb into bed for the longest night of the year.

At approximately 4 a.m. we would wake and perch ourselves on the top step of the stairs – forbidden from going down until a “reasonable” hour. That was usually 6 a.m. when my parents wobbled down the hallway with bed hair and red eyes from “waiting up to greet Santa” the night before.

Again, we were forced to wait on the stairs for Momma to make coffee and Daddy to get the camera. With a simple “okay” called up the stairs, my sisters and I thundered down the stairs, swinging around the banister, and trying to gain traction on wood floors in footy pajamas.

Bulging stockings hanging from the mantel were the first to catch our eye. Inside were plastic candy canes filled with chocolate, decks of cards, silly putty, and Lifesaver Storybooks.

Then as if the heavens opened up, the gift display left from Santa shone in the early morning light. I always wondered why Santa never left toys inside the boxes, and there was never any assembly required. Every gift had the necessary batteries, and bicycles were always ready to ride. Santa was so thoughtful!

Santa was always tested at the Sexton house because most times he was required to buy three of everything – matching dresses, different colored pastel bikes, and three Barbies in different outfits.

Santa once delivered three matching macramé shawls for my sisters and me to wear to church on Sunday. I will confess Santa must have gotten our house confused with another because the last thing any of us wanted was a macramé shawl.

White yarn, these shawls had a single button at the neck and two slits at the pocket to stick your hands through. Fringe dangled from the hem. They were the most unattractive garments we had ever seen.

Every Sunday after, Daddy would insist for us to “go get your shawls,” and we would stomp back upstairs in protest. Apparently even in the warm weather, a shawl was needed. There was something about the “night air” that was harmful. (Now thirty-something, I still haven’t figured out what.)

Oh, but I was the lucky one. As the youngest, I got hand-me-downed Stephanie’s shawl and Deana’s shawl. I was still getting my shawl in junior high.

But not all of my gifts were unwanted. In fact, many of the same things Santa left for me, he will be leaving for children this year. Hello Kitty, Care Bears, Cabbage Patch Kids, Barbie, Smurfs, and others are still being longed for today by children across the United States.

We even had video games, but we did not ask for a Nintendo or Xbox. We asked for Atari. A family gift from Santa, my sisters and I ripped open the package and found our new Atari – shiny black plastic adorned with wood-grained stickers. It came with three games, Frogger, Miss PacMan, and Donkey Kong.

There were three games, but only two joysticks. Many fights ensured over which one would be left out, and again as the youngest, it was usually me.

Momma also enjoyed the Atari – maybe a little much. She would stay up all night playing Frogger, her game of choice. She was truly addicted to it at one time and had nearly beaten the machine before the intervention.

Christmas is definitely the holiday for children. Now that I am grown and asking for bath towels from Santa, the thrill is gone. I even secretly wish I could sleep in on Christmas morning, and I am sure Momma and Daddy wished for that as well.

Bu t I miss the excitement. I miss the anticipation. I miss the frenzy. I miss a time when a Lifesaver Storybook could make everything in the world seem good again.

Lessons from the gridiron

Last Friday, I watched the 2008 Egg Bowl at my significant other’s deer camp. Not only was I the only female in attendance, I was the only Rebel in the house.

My heart broke for all those men who were so devastated by the loss of their team. I hope they will recover and not need intense psychotherapy. (Note: Prior two sentences are dripping in sarcasm.)

I watched the game calmly in my chair – conducting myself with dignity. I did not chant one “Hotty Toddy.” I did not mock them for having more than 50 negative total yards rushing. I did not snicker at one interception for a touchdown.

I am certain my face clearly illustrated my smugness, and my air of superiority was definitely thick. But I did not gloat. I didn’t have too. Those Bulldog fans decompressed before my very eyes.

It was kind of sad, but I’m not complaining. I didn’t have to hear one, “How ‘bout them Dawgs?” Everyone already knew how the Dawgs were.

Being a lifelong Ole Miss fan, I understand disappointment. All four years I attended Ole Miss, our team was on athletic probation. No bowl games. No televised games. Tough recruiting.
However, I survived, and I learned a little bit in the process. I learned a little about winning, and I learned a lot about losing.

At a young age, we are forced to choose between the Rebels and the Bulldogs. I chose the Rebels, but I could just as easily have been ringing a cowbell right now. Personally, I’m happy if either team is victorious – with the exception of the Egg Bowl. I’ve been waiting to talk smack for an entire year!

Competitive by nature, I enjoy sparing with the Bulldog fan about this and that – neither of us have reason for puffed up egos. However, it’s all in good fun. Football is football, and all football is good.

In fact, my appreciation of football has spilled over into my everyday life. If life is the ultimate game, why not use a few lessons from the gridiron to help muddle through.

1. Who is calling the plays in your life? Just like in football, I have someone upstairs calling the plays. It is up to me to listen and have faith in the play that is called.

2. Everyone deserves a team, and I’m not referring to people in numbered jerseys. Disappointments are easier to swallow when others are there to pick you up when life tackles you to the ground. In turn, success is so much sweeter when someone is there to dance with you in the end zone.

3. Luckily, I have had many coaches and trainers directing me throughout my life. In high school, my English teacher, Denise Purvis, steered me to a career in writing. As a green reporter in my early 20s, I was taught advanced civics and all the bells and whistles of municipal government from a city administrator who took the time to make sure I knew enough to get the story right. Even now, as an editor and publisher, I depend on the wisdom of two veteran newspaper men to help me weigh the tough decisions.

4. Everyone needs cheers and applause for a job well done. What motivation! I learned long ago to surround myself with people who bring out the best in me. Mark Twain said, “Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.”

5. During a particularly stressful time, a simple timeout allows me to gather my thoughts and refocus. Most days, I make an effort to leave my office for 30 minutes to an hour for a little nourishment – the dietary kind as well as the psychological kind. I might read a couple of chapters of a book, stop by for some time with my dogs, or relax for a few minutes with my thoughts. Returning to the office, I am ready to begin again.

In Mississippi, our lives are saturated with football – dinnertime discussions, water cooler replays, life-long affiliations. American’s sport is great to watch, but I have found it a better way to live.

So much to be thankful

With chaos brewing in the world around us, one might not think there is much to be thankful. Well, I disagree. I have much to be thankful.

I am thankful for the Ole Miss Rebels being ranked (if only by the AP) just in time for Thanksgiving.

I am thankful for TIVO, Diet Coke, my Blackberry, and my digital camera. I am thankful for book club, Momma’s homemade dressing, and hour-long telephone conversations with my best friend, Heather.

I am thankful for a comfortable home to gather with friends, relax with a good book, or leave the busy world behind if just for a moment.

I am thankful for living in a community of helpful neighbors and God-fearing individuals.

I am thankful for going to work every day, and I am thankful my profession is one I love. A good friend once told me that if you love your job, you will never work a day in your life. He was right.

I am thankful of having plenty of food to eat, clothes to wear, and the little luxuries that make life sweet.

I am thankful for happy childhood memories. I am not in therapy, and I do not blame my parents for all of my failures and short comings. My childhood might not have been perfect, but I wouldn’t change one moment.

I am thankful to all those who are gone but not forgotten. It is they who have shaped my life in every way.

I am thankful for my healthy, highly involved parents. Regardless of my age, I will always be their baby girl, and despite my independent streak, it is reassuring to have their guidance.

I am thankful for my sisters. Growing up, we bickered and sparred and fought, but no matter what, we have always been there for each other. They were my first friends, and as an adult, they are my best friends.

I am thankful for my significant other, Keith. He has always been supportive of my ambitions and my dreams. He allows me to be everything I dreamed.

I am thankful for friends. They have shared my tears, my joys, and my triumphs. They have also shared the blame.

I am thankful for the joy my four critters display when I return home each night.
In other words, I am thankful to be loved.

I am thankful for being an American and enjoying the liberties this country guarantees. And to those men and women in uniform who protect that freedom every day, my appreciation cannot be measured.

I am thankful for those who gave the ultimate sacrifice on the battlefield, and to the vision of our forefathers that built this great country.

I am thankful for prayer and faith and hope for the future.

Cicero said, “Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others.”

This Thanksgiving, reflect and give thanks for what is important to you– no matter how small. Count them, and you will realize just how blessed you really are.

Daddy, may I take the wheel?

Sunday afternoon, my parents and sister visited me in Winona. Like the Beverly Hillbillies, they pulled into town with a pickup truck full of furniture and other odds and ends to finish furnishing my home. I miss seeing my family every day, so a visit for any reason is perfectly fine with me.

According to my sister, Deana, the trip was long. Traveling in Daddy’s truck is only comfortable if you ride in the front seat, but Deana did convince Momma to ride in the backseat. She also managed to convince Daddy to take us to dinner.

We decided to take a little tour of the area – especially the antebellum homes in Winona and Carrollton, and then head over to Greenwood to eat. I drove. Daddy sat in the passenger seat – gripping the legs of his pants with white-knuckled fists.

“Watch the road,” he shouted. “Watch the road.”

He complained about me getting to close to the ditch (I was simply driving the left lane). He complained about me handing Deana my cell phone (most people can do more than one thing at a time). He complained about my speed.

“Watch those people on the bikes.” I thought I needed to watch the road.

Funny thing, Daddy taught me to drive. At 15, I got my driver’s permit but still had never been behind the wheel of a car. I had 30 days to learn to drive before I got my license.

One Saturday, Daddy informed me that he would give me a driving lesson. I climbed into the driver’s seat of his 1985 Lincoln Town Car – all 25 feet of it. The car was so big, eight adults could ride comfortably on two seats and four others could sit in the truck.

My lesson lasted about three minutes. While backing out of the driveway, I ran off the pavement and into the drainage culvert at the street. Defeated, I trudged back into the house – leaving Daddy screaming and hollering in the front yard.

Two weeks later, we started out again – from the street this time. Daddy directed me down winding, country roads. I managed to keep it on the pavement, but I did have issues with a one lane railroad trestle. We switched seats while Daddy passed under it.

I practiced for about an hour before we headed home. Daddy didn’t holler at me during the lesson, but he did make a smart comment about me scaring him to death as he went into the house.

A week later, I managed to pass my driving test. Personally, I think the nice lady with the DMV felt sorry for me.

At 15 and one month, I was a licensed driver who still did not know how to drive. I could keep the car in the right lane, but I had issues with turning, parking, and reversing. Despite all of this, I convinced my parents to let me “cruise” Stateline Road in Southaven that Friday night. My sister, Stephanie, even let me use her new car.

Mind you, I have never driven anywhere but country roads, but I was certain I could make it on Stateline Road on the busiest night of the week. I was wrong.

I had not been out for more than an hour before I ran Stephanie’s new car under the rear end of a Dooley truck. When my parents arrived on the scene, they were eerily calm.

“She’s the youngest of my three girls,” Daddy told the police officer.

The officer nodded with a smile that said, “Oh, okay. You must be a pro at this.”

In fact, Daddy was a pro at this. By that time, I had already been in three fender-benders with my two older sisters, and each had been in separate accidents without me in the car. Daddy had even suggested he replace the passenger door to the car with something Velcro so it would be less expensive to replace. Stephanie and Deana always managed to take out that same door.

I wish I could say that was my one and only accident. Well, involving another car, it was. I managed to hit the big green dumpster behind my school, run through the garage wall, take out more mail boxes than I can count, hit a light pole, and run through a neighbors retaining wall.

Once in college, while on a 2 a.m. frozen yogurt run to Chevron in Oxford, a monster truck ran over my car in the parking lot. When I say ran over, I mean ran over my car while I watched in horror from inside the store. (I was in a marked parking space). As he bounced over the hood of my car, his trailer hitch wedged into my car’s engine. Two tow trucks were dispatched to rip our cars apart.

In my own defense, not all of these mishaps were my fault. In fact, I blame Daddy for the garage wall because his car was not entirely on its side of the garage. And the light pole – my car went completely out of control by itself like it was possessed.

Because of my spotty driving record, my first car was our 1984 Ford F150 farm truck. It was brown, and it always had grass clippings, mulch, or dead leaves in the back. I named the truck Loretta.

Loretta had seen better days when I got her. Both sisters broke her in, and she was just a fraction of her original self when I got her. She had no tape deck, and the radio would switch from FM to AM on its own. It required a forceful bang on the dashboard with my fist to flip it back to FM.

Remarkably, I was the only one of the three girls that did not get Loretta into an accident – every other car we owned, but not Loretta.

Over the past decade, my driving record has remarkably improved. I haven’t hit one inanimate object since college, and I can’t even recall my last fender bender – knock wood.

Looking for a lesson in my tale, I have thought long and hard. First, I don’t think it is I that needs to learn the lesson. Daddy taught me to drive, so therefore, his instruction is somehow flawed. If the driving instructor is screaming with fright every time you round a curve, it tends to do something to your psyche.

Second, in examining the driving histories of my grandfather, Daddy, and two sisters, I am beginning to believe our difficulties behind the wheel run in the family.

Third, when as an adult, you are required to fork out money for car insurance, to repair the car, and to settle up any tickets collected from your fender-bender, one tends to be much more careful. Ten and two, people. Times are tough.

For Lulu

High up in the courts of heaven today a little dog angel waits;

With the other angels she will not play, but she sits alone at the gates.

"For I know my master will come" says she, "and when she comes she will call for me."

The other angels pass her by as they hurry toward the throne,

And she watches them with a wistful eye as she sits at the gates alone.

"But I know if I just wait patiently that someday my master will call for me."

And her master, down on earth below, as she sits in her easy chair,

Forgets sometimes, and whispers low to the dog who is not there.

And the little dog angel cocks her ears and dreams that her master's voice she hears.

And when at last her master waits outside in the dark and cold,

For the hand of death to open the door that leads to those courts of gold,

She will hear a sound through the gathering dark,

A little dog angel's bark.

~ Author unknown

Oriental Catfish? Say it ain't so!

Yesterday at my weekly Winona Rotary Club meeting, a gentleman from the Catfish Institute spoke to us about the Chinese and the Vietnamese trying to take over the South's catfish industry. What is this all about?

First, they are successfully making cotton obsolete in the Mississippi Delta, and now they are going to take our catfish ponds. This has to stop.

U.S. raised catfish are grain fed and raised in clean fresh water ponds like these.

The oriental alternative:

An Australian news program did an investigative piece on Chinese catfish being imported into Australia. They showed how the fish could be poisoning those who eat it.

Which one would you want to eat from?

Yeah, I thought so. Make sure you buy catfish raised with care in the American South.

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.