Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank (22 page)

As a Southern mommy, Elizabeth Edwards should have felt free to say, “Back off, ketchup queen, this doesn’t concern you.” Perhaps Teresa would have invited her to “shove it,” and then the real fun would begin!

The truth is, it’s strangely refreshing to hear people in
power say what they really think, no matter how crude. It has provided some comic relief from the pious values and virtues pabulum. What’s that? You think civil political discourse that adheres to the rules of living in polite society is all that separates us from the savages? Oh, just go Cheney yourself, I say.

Cussing politicians. Meddling mamas. Gambling-addicted moral authorities. Just when you think politics can’t get any weirder, you find yourself saying three words that you thought you never would: Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Although he’s no longer the darling of his constituents, Ahnold is said to be eyeing the Oval Office if he can just get around that bothersome Constitutional thingy that prevents “furriners” from being president.

I’m envisioning a cabinet that might include Secretary of State Jean-Claude Van Damme or perhaps Attorney General Jackie Chan.

When Arnold was elected governor of his beloved “Cally-fawn-ee-ya,” I thought they had to be kidding. He had so many sexual harassment lawsuits filed against him, it was just too Kobelicious to consider.

I couldn’t believe that Californians elected a guy whose resume listed his greatest political achievement as “marrying famous Kennedy chick.” It didn’t even hurt him when somebody dug up an old interview in which he essentially said Adolf Hitler was as cute as a basket of kittens.

California’s historic switching of gubernatorial horses in
midstream has led other states to wonder if they should follow suit, asking, “Hey, why can’t we have a muscle-bound, knuckleheaded movie star to lead us into the future and shit?”

I live in a state with a decent enough governor. He’s earnest and hardworking, but let’s face it, he’s no George Clooney. I like the man, personally, but, truth be told, what we really need in North Carolina is native son Andy Griffith, who was wise as both Sheriff Andy Taylor
and
Ben Matlock. If he’s too frail, we’ve still got Michael Jordan, who would make damn sure we’d finally get our lottery. (Are you listening, Bennett?)

As crazy as it sounds, Californians clearly confused Arnold’s tough Terminator-speak with the real person. Who better to open up a can of whup-ass on high taxes and a limp economy than an action hero? The worm turned, as it often does in politics, and Arnold’s approval ratings dived when everyone found out that he wasn’t close to superhuman and he’d never be able to save the world.

At least not unless he could get those Charlie’s Angels to help him.

Oh, don’t y’all just love this part of a book? Sometimes I read it first because I want to make sure everything turns out okay. Whether it’s a novel or nonfiction, the epilogue is that fabulous little business at the end that tells you, with great authority and certainty “whatever happened to . . .

Loose ends are tied up, questions are answered, and you can close the book with a satisfying
thwump
and get on with your life feeling as merrily stuffed as if you’d just eaten a dish of warm peach cobbler. Well, almost.

If my life were a novel—and, really, what Southern life isn’t?—I’d want the final epilogue to say something like, “She moved to a big old house on the beautiful Battery in Charleston, where she lives with her adoring husband, devoted
daughter, plumber son-in-law (it’s an old house in the South, remember?), and three excruciatingly attractive and well-mannered grandchildren. She eats Lowcountry Shrimp and Grits at least four days a week and twice’t on Sundays and, as far as regrets, only wishes she could take back that time when she yelled at her six-year-old so loudly that a huge pecan tree limb shattered and landed between them.

The incident, which might have been interpreted by some as a sign from the Almighty to lighten up a bit, merely made her consider a new career path. She considered hiring herself out, making extra money by going to people’s houses and screaming at their unwanted limbs: “Pick up your toys!” “Don’t yank on my clothes while I’m talking on the phone!” “Finish your math homework!” “Stop eating all my Cheez Waffies!”

Southern women are notoriously resourceful, and screaming at foliage is a whole lot better than yelling at your kids. Even if they did eat all your Cheez Waffies.

When you write about your life, you have to be willing to own up to the stuff that isn’t so flattering, especially if it’s funny.

When all my friends made noble-sounding New Year’s resolutions this year, I simply pledged to upgrade my TiVo by year’s end. I should have, instead, resolved to have a stronger work ethic. Okay, any work ethic would do.

Why can’t I be more like Stephen King, famous for finishing
thirty pages every day before a breakfast of, I’m guessing, a monkey-brain-and-bat’s-blood omelet?

Or more like Dave Barry, whose clever use of words like
muskrat, boogers,
and
underpants
earned him a Pulitzer? For years, people have asked me why my newspaper columns aren’t syndicated like Barry’s, and I always tell the truth: Dave Barry is a once-in-a-lifetime talent who has honed his craft over many, many decades and who is also rumored to have an outstanding collection of photographs of newspaper syndicate executives committing unspeakable acts with farm animals.

What? What’d I say?

That’s me, though, a frequent traveler on life’s low roads. When I gave my sweet husband a T-shirt for Christmas that Said
I LIKE MY WOMEN LIKE MY COFFEE, GROUND UP AND IN THE FREEZER
, he looked, well, frightened.

If I’m ever going to get that house on the Battery, y’all are going to have to step up and buy a bunch of these books. Hey, I’m not asking for me; think of the grandchildren.

It’s not like success would ruin me, hons. I would still be the same bitchy chick with a heart as big as a slop jar that y’all have been kind enough to put up with through three—count ‘em, three—collections of Southern strangeness.

I’m not going to be one of those eccentric Southerners who lets a little success go to her head. Never! And rumors that I once showed up for a book signing and demanded a
dressing room stocked with 12 cases of Diet Mountain Dew, 60 cans of squeeze cheese, and 118 boxes of Waverly Wafers are just hateful lies!

With fame should come an entourage, and I positively can’t wait for mine! True story: One time I saw Martin Lawrence in person. He was making a movie on my street and he had a
huge
entourage, including a muscular man whose only duty was to answer Martin’s cell and gently hold it to his ear and two women who allowed him to rest his noggin on their huge chests in between takes like they were a collection of Koosh pillows.

Okay, never mind the entourage. I don’t need a bunch of hangers-on tending to my every need. Just one will do, as long as his name is Mr. Matthew McConaughey.

That’s it. You can
thwump
now. Peace out.

This book wouldn’t exist without two people who continue to have faith in the funny: Jenny Bent, my incomparable agent, and Jennifer Enderlin, my brilliant editor. Their wisdom and support sustain and nurture me, and I thank them from the bottom of my heart.

I’m indebted to the entire team at St. Martin’s Press, including John Karle, my adorable publicist and an excellent listener; talented designer Sarah Delson; Kim Cardascia, who answers all my silly questions; media escorts Pat Speltz (who introduced me to Memphis ribs, the best food on God’s earth), “Kentucky” Barb Ellis (who sniffed out the Talbots outlet for me and I’ve got the eight-dollar sandals to prove it!), Michelle Dunn, and Lenore Markowitz; and the hard-working, dedicated sales and distribution staff. Bless you all.

Special thanks to Mark Kohut, who introduced me to the spectacular folks at Ingram in Nashville, Tennessee. I’ve never had a better audience!

Over the years, so many booksellers have offered encouragement, advice, and, best of all, a nice, tall stack of books right beside the cash register. I’m especially grateful for the enthusiastic support of Nicki Leone of Bristol Books in Wilmington, North Carolina, who has helped me in more ways than I can list and who reminds me that anything’s funny as long as you can insert the word
monkey
somewhere. She’s right, of course. Because of Nicki, I am tinkering with the idea for my first novel,
The Da Vinci Monkey.

I’m deeply grateful for the support of booksellers Cathy Stanley of Two Sisters Bookery as well as Deborah Goodman and the staff of Barnes & Noble in Wilmington, North Carolina, whose awesome wall-of-books display was so amazing, it made me cry.

Other booksellers who have gone above and beyond to promote my work include Nancy Olson and Renee Martin at Quail Ridge Books & Music in Raleigh; Lynn Payne, B & N, Charlotte; Larry Tyler, B & N, Myrtle Beach; Deon Grainger, Waldenbooks, Myrtle Beach; Kathy Patrick, Beauty & the Book, Jefferson, Texas; Katherine Whitfield, Davis-Kidd, Memphis; and Jamie Kornegay and all the fabulous folks at Square Books and Thacker Mountain Radio in beautiful Oxford, Mississippi.

Special thanks also to Wanda Jewell, executive director of the Southeast Booksellers Association, and the many members of SEBA who hand-sold my books to sunburned tourists from Virginia to Florida saying, “This is what we’re about in the South.”

I am deeply indebted to my newspaper, TV, and radio friends especially Colin Burch and the late Mike Morgan at the
Myrtle Beach Sun-News;
Amber Nimocks, Jeff Hidek, Amanda Kingsbury, Ben Steelman, and Allen Parsons at the
Wilmington Morning Star;
Robie Scott at the
Charleston
(SC)
Post & Courier;
Carolyn Gibson of WYPL FM, Memphis; and Betty Ann Sanders and Diane Stokes, TV hostesses extraordinaire.

Hugs and MoonPies to generous and talented authors Lee Smith, Jill McCorkle, Laurie Notaro, Haven Kimmel, and Hay wood Smith, who have been kind enough to support me in front of God and everybody.

Keeping me nourished, body and soul, are my wonderful friends Lawton and Mabel Halterman, who share the bounty of their garden, including the best new potatoes and butter-beans on earth, and Lawrence Shadrach and his daughter, Bess, who keep me in gardenia bouquets every June. Their daylily garden next door is a vision I savor all summer long.

Thanks also to the delightful Ronda Rich for so graciously sharing her knowledge of the speakers’ circuit with a rookie who still feels like throwing up right before.

For making me laugh, or making me think, this year, I give thanks to an assortment of friends, new and old, including Tim Russell, Courtney Grannan, Kara Chiles, Debbi Pratt, Susan Reinhardt, P. D. Midgett, Laura Mitchell, Vance Williams, and Bill Atkinson.

And, finally, especially and most of all, I’m grateful to my wonderful husband, Scott Whisnant, who would be perfect even if he didn’t think that Angelina Jolie with her big ol’ futon lips is overrated, and to our precious daughter, Sophie, who is smarter, funnier, and kinder than I and who is patiently teaching me how to swim and raise crickets. I love you big.