The Last of the Winter Weekends

Say what you will about winter (and I snarl many a contemptuous remark about the chilly days spanning from January to March-ish), but it does perform sunsets with flourish, tantalizing us to see so much more of its glorious colors with its trees standing strong but bare, a game of peek-a-boo with nature. Winter ... you naughty minx.

This weekend I'm:

~reading this book.
~planning for spring.
~cooking this, though I think I'll grill chicken breasts in lieu of what they've got going on here.
~procrastinating this.
~watching this on this (which we love, by the way. Love, love, and fight over it enough we may get another.)
~contemplating this. Join me, Southerners and non-Southerners alike ...

How about you? Anything fantastic for one of these last (please) winter weekends?

XO-



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Even My Dogs Smell Like Christmas (but for all the wrong reasons)

I've compiled a list I've found vaguely interesting and very personally informative as I've been preparing for the holiday season. Perhaps you, too, will be intrigued. (Perhaps instead you will be alarmed. I understand completely. If you find you are more disturbed than amused, you should totally find a more relaxing blog with a more sensible writer.)

• We have 8 bins for Halloween decorations, but only 3 for Christmas decorations.
• One of those Halloween bins is labeled "GRAVEYARD" and is an enormous bin on a high shelf so I can't really access it. I'm just saying there may be an actual graveyard in my storage room and I have no way of knowing for sure. Ce la vie.
• One of those Christmas bins is so ridiculously enormous that I usually just grab the items I need and carry those upstairs individually. Did not get that memo to my husband, who hauled the giant bin upstairs and said "whatever is in that bin needs to be separated into two smaller, lighter bins" as he huffed and puffed and grabbed his back. His look of incredulity when I announced there are actual bricks in that bin (cute preschool-painted Christmas bricks) was totally worth the price of admission.
• At least one of our dogs has upgraded from treating the Christmas tree water as vitamin water and gulping it down with wild abandon to actually nibbling on the tree. We assume to freshen his breath. Or maybe for extra protein. We will be keeping the candy canes high up on the tree per the usual this year. Because what the world does not need this holiday season is two naughty Corgis jacked up on sugar.
• Speaking of naughty Corgis, remember that cute frame my niece procured as a cute little hostess gift (actually a "thanks for getting us a place at the beach" gift) back in the summer? She visited again in October and brought the above photographed fabulously-pine-scented soy candle, which if memory serves she procured at the Memphis Farmer's Market. She totally gets MVP in the gift-giving category, because it smells divine.
• I once bumped into Morris Day of Morris Day and the Time at a church. I was reminded of this when thumbing through old preschool Christmas program pictures of the girls. Yep, they went to preschool with Morris's child. And no, I did not go up to him and sing "Ohweeohweeoh!"  while performing the accompanying dance moves, though it was encouraged by one of my dearest friends from college. We were in church, people. It didn't seem appropriate, though it was wildly tempting. (Watch a video of Morris performing Jungle Love here, but serious dancing does not commence until the 3:30 mark.)
• When in need of a tacky Christmas sweater, I would totally rather sew lights onto an old sweater than go to Goodwill to purchase a tacky Christmas sweater. And did so. Evidence below.

XO --


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In Lieu of Orange Daisies

Even though we've lived in Georgia for nearly 12 years now, long enough to collect a basket full of tschotskes bearing various emblems of the state (I mean, have y'all ever seen the Big Chicken? It is, in fact, a sight to behold), and nearly 20 years since I last claimed Tennessee as my official residence ...


I just love the juxtaposition of the Georgia glass with the floral reminder that our blood still bleeds Orange.

Hope y'all are having a splendid summer!

XOXO ---


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I Think I May Be Related to Justin Timberlake

We southerners love us some Mason jars. We pickle things in them, create delightful gelatinous sugary substances in them, and my grandmother used to "put up" fresh vegetables from her garden in them. Lots of us will drink iced tea in them, though I've never been a fan. Mostly because the ridged surface is an irritant to my lower lip, and no matter how many packages of straws I buy I can never locate one when I need it.

So I was already feeling all super-southern with my Mason jar sippy cup full of iced water enhanced with some fresh fruit, when my sister starts firing off texts about how we are related to our people. We come from a mighty big clan of folks from West Tennessee (The Williams' -- maybe y'all're related to us?!), so this situation gets confusing real quick.

Mim: Is Linsey Dean our first cousin once removed?
Me: Second cousin. Granny was dad and Kim's grandmother, and is ours and Lins' great-grandmother. 
Mim: What is Kim?
Me: Our first cousin once removed. 
Mim: Then why isn't Lins twice removed?
Me: Because we are the same generation. We can't be removed. 
Mim: So second gen = 2nd cuz? 
Me: Yes. And our kids and Linsey's will be third cousins, but Linsey and Mallory are second cousins once removed.
Mim: I'm trying to figure out Brent. His grandfather is the brother of our great-grandfather.

At this point I just called her. Because I know Brent and I are related, cousins of some nature (I mean I have known him since I was born, see him at least once a year at the family reunion), but beyond that precisely how it all works out is beyond my scope. Which means it's time to whip out a piece of paper.

(Also, I was starting to feel like I was reading the begats section in the Bible. You know, "Abraham begat Issac, and Issac begat Jacob ..." which is obviously important, yet confusing and perhaps not the most captivating reading. I hope I don't get struck by lightning later today.)

So we straightened out Brent's relationship to us (he's our second cousin, once removed. Because Tommy begat Linda Faye, and she begat Brent ....) and my sister said "you should totally teach a workshop on how to do this!"

Then we decided that sometimes, in the south, it's better to just stick with "yeah, I think we're fourth cousins or something." Because heaven only knows who you might have to claim as your people if you really start scrutinizing your family tree.

Just a guess, but I wonder if the term "ignorance is bliss" was coined around a situation where some Hilly Holbrook-type started poking around her family tree, only to discover General William Tecumseh Sherman was her third cousin twice removed.

On the other hand, Justin Timberlake is from Millington, which is really just a short drive from ... I'm just saying, it's not out of the realm of possibilities.

And yes, I promise that's just water in my sippy cup.

XO---

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A Letter to the Tennessee Volunteer Football Team

Photo courtesy of UTSports.com

Dear Coach Butch Jones & the Tennessee Volunteers Football Team:

Congratulations on your win Saturday!

Yeah, I know ... the score makes it look the Vols lost. But as a Tennessee alum, long-time Vols fan, and having resided amongst a mess of Dawg fans in Atlanta for the last 11 years ... I can say with absolute certainty you came out a winning team on Saturday.

How so?

You executed play after play with precision we haven't seen in years. You never backed down, never lost hope that you had the talent and fight to pull this off. You laughed off the underdog label. You were solid and steady under the enormous pressure of the well-oiled Georgia machine, not to mention the sold-out stadium full of 102,455 spectators. Because your faith didn't waiver, ours started to grow.

"Watch this," you said, and watch we did.

And what a show.

I wasn't in Neyland Stadium Saturday, but I heard it was the loudest it has ever been. Your fans were screaming in jubilation at this team that had in the course of a few hours righted a ship that has been sinking for years and was suddenly rowing it to shore with speed, agility and assurance.

I called my 12-year-old daughter to come watch the last quarter of the game. "If this happens, if we upset Georgia, it will be huge. No self-respecting Vols fan will want to admit to missing it."

And we cheered, and screamed, while my 14-year-old daughter, surrounded by Georgia fans at a party, was screaming and texting me because our Volunteers were ON FIRE. I was getting calls and texts from Georgia fans and Auburn fans and Alabama fans all saying one thing ... "are you watching your boys play this GAME??" Even the fans of our SEC rivals ... even the ones with everything on the line ... were excited to see Tennessee sending out the warning shot to not count us out just yet.

So did I hate it for the team when we lost by a measly field goal in overtime? Of course I did. You boys deserved to land in the win column this week. But if I had to choose whether to win that game but still feel like we were a football program going nowhere fast, or to lose after laying it all on the field, with the confidence that really big things are coming our way ... I'd pick the latter every time. Therefore, in your fans' hearts, you won that game.

So again, congratulations. And thank you for your hard work, your grit, for getting back up week after week, dusting yourself off and knowing you had it in you to do this thing. Thank you for being champions. And if, through all the negative commentary, the naysayers, the tough practice days and even tougher games ahead you need someone to remind you "hey, you got this ..."

I know where you can find some Volunteers.

Kindest regards,


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That's Why You Shouldn't Believe Everything You See on Facebook

This morning at breakfast, my husband countered my announcement that Olympian Oscar Pistorius is in trouble with the law with an announcement that Waylon Jennings had died.

"That's weird. There was nothing on my news feed this morning. You'd think that would be there," I said.

"Well, it said 'RIP Waylon Jennings' and had a birth date and yesterday's date, so ..." he said.

"Don't people have any respect for old-school country music?" (I should point out that neither of us even listen to country music, but it's the principle.)

Then he started singing the theme song from the Dukes of Hazzard and we were all distracted by telling him to PLEASE STOP SINGING. Later I did an internet search and discovered Waylon Jennings DID die ... in 2002.

This shows how much we are paying attention. AND, it proves there are people out there so dedicated to Waylon they remember for ELEVEN YEARS the day he died. Which it's too bad Waylon's not still here, because I bet he would have totally loved Duck Dynasty.

RIP, Waylon.

Southern Storytellers

Southerners are hardwired to tell a good story. Sometimes they're funny, sometimes they are sad, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes cautionary ... but be forewarned, you can ask a Southerner about something as simple as the weather and you will get a full-blown novella in return.

Some of my favorite times are when Jake tells a story at dinner and the girls are literally breathless with laughter, tears rolling down their faces, sides stitching from the sheer exertion of happiness.

Let the record state, that in late January, 2013, the two girls pictured above, the ones who have placed all manner of restrictions on his behavior to reduce their chances of being embarrassed by said behavior, were absolutely begging the man to keep telling funny stories.

They stalled at the dinner table, content to be with one another, and with us, well past when the dishes were were washed and put away.

That, my friends, is the happiest story of all.

Happy Weekend!

Spooky Southern Cemetery

Our friends to the North may think they have the edge on spooky Halloween fun, what with their headless horsemen and witches and whatnot.

I respectfully disagree. Down South we have bloody Civil War battlegrounds, creepy swamp lands and more haunted houses than you can swing a dead, black cat at. Plus we have more crazy people down here, and crazy people bring the Halloween EVERY SINGLE DAY.

You know what I think is the creepiest? Cemeteries. And when we visited St. Augustine, Florida earlier this year we saw a doozy of a cemetery. Tolomato Cemetery, circa 1565, has more than 1,000 burial sites and is built on top of an abandoned INDIAN VILLAGE, y'all.


When we stumbled upon it one sunny afternoon, it was closed. Jake suggested he could give me a boost over the fence so I could get better photos. I said I wasn't interested in displeasing the dead Indians, since they were probably still irate with the British for displacing them (and my uncle has discovered we are direct descendants of Anne Boleyn or some such, so I am a relative of a beheaded wife of Henry VIII. Take that, Spooky Hollow) and my zoom lens was working JUST FINE. So every time Jake got within two feet of me the rest of the day I scuttled away like a June bug from a stomping shoe.

Because some of those graves were above-ground looking. And also because Jake is the kind of guy who will hang this up by our guest bed just to scare a bunch of young girls half out of their minds:


The man loves Halloween.

Boo!

Incidentally, both my girls slept in the guest room last night because the remnant winds from Sandy scared them. Not the giant, faceless ghoul in the window. The wind. Could you have slept with this thing hanging over you all night? Me either.