Wednesday, January 23, 2013
As we have previously discussed, my Daddy is a very generous person. He would give you his last nickel. And by you, I mean just that. You, me, anybody. Familial connection is not a pre-requisite for this generosity. Of course, unlimited generosity has its downside. Recently, he told me that the button had come of a pair of his jeans. Or whatever you call that metal fastener thing. It doesn't have an interesting name like aglet (the tip of a shoelace).
He told me, by way of instructions for disposal, to donate them to “them poor people at the Goodwill.” My response, “Haven’t they suffered enough?” was met with shock, which I still don’t understand. Did he really think that anyone would want to own a pair of jeans that have been assaulted with malice aforethought and essentially rendered inoperable?
Now, I could tell you that I was simply thinking that Rustler jeans are not a quality garment when they are new, I swear you get a pair free with a Big & Tall underwear purchase at Wal-Mart, but what I was truly thinking was if those pants could talk they would either weep, throw up or beg to be sent to wherever socks hide when they escape from your dryer and disappear. Someone told me they go to be with Jesus and as I don’t really know that it’s not true, we’ll just let it lay there like other statements that make us unsure whether to laugh or pray for the speaker or in this case, the writer.
I know I have discussed the fragrance of my father more than is necessary, or so I’ve been told by my boss, but I just don’t understand why there has been little success in that particular department. I have curbed his natural tendency to judge others aloud and have forced him kicking and screaming into a 60 pound weight loss without any exercise, but I simply cannot make headway in the olfactory department. And although his new recliner is leather, which does not retain smells like his previous velour one did, I find that I am forced to walk throughout my house every other day, with a Febreze bottle continuously spraying over my shoulder like a dragon fruit scented mosquito truck, ever-vigilant in the fight for a house that “smells pretty”.
But, it’s the price you pay, I suppose, for housing the elderly, as I have discovered discussing my Dad with others, like ½ of the set of twins who were my best friends 7-10th grades in Texas (Hi, Juliann!). We were madly in 'like' (also known as 'going together') for somewhere in the neighborhood of 3-4 weeks in 8th grade but as young love does it went out of style right around the time Panama Jack t-shirts came to prominence. For those who don’t know or remember, Panama Jack was an overpriced t-shirt that was never owned by yours truly, he said with only a trace of bitterness. We met for dinner on my recent trip to Dallas and in the midst of our laughter, gossip and story-telling, we somehow found ourselves in the territory of older men’s hygiene habits in the absence of their wives. Old men are simply old men and they have an odd fragrance if you will. I always assumed my father's particular odor was a combination of bologna, grease and onions with a dash of ornery and a smidgen of righteous indignation at my insistence that he "smells...odd".
I assumed that his particular hygiene practices were learned on the turn row, modified in the wilds of Vietnam and subdued throughout my childhood by the sheer force of my mother's will. That explains why she always seemed wore out at the end of the day. That has to be it, right? It couldn't have been her children. I don't speak for my siblings, but I can assure you, based on my recollections, I was quite simply a joy throughout my youth and remain so to this day. What? My Daddy says it's not bragging if it's a fact.
I did, however, assume that people who are a tinch fancier would have habits that are more in line with what you would imagine. And as her father is in a much higher tax bracket, I naively felt he wouldn't be gross, to use 80s parlance. She informed me, over two different kinds of queso, that old men are old men. As an aside, I love Tex-Mex so much I did inquire about the opportunity to marry it. When I asked the waiter if he knew to whom I could talk, I was told we "ain't quite there yet, son. No get on out of here before I commence to shootin'" Aah, the humor of the Texans.
Apparently it is not directly linked to income, education level or any other arbitrary categories and that is a sad statement indeed. I thought the great equalizer was Wal-Mart' apparently, for old men, it's butt and feet. I wonder what age you start to smell? Is it just old men or is it all men? I asked my sister, after the two-queso maxi-meal, and her response was “All men, besides you, are gross.” Well said, sister of mine. Well said indeed.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Having just survived the holidays and trying to decide if MLK is enough of a reason to break out the haystacks once more, I realized that sugar is all around us and is an integral part of what makes a Southerner Southern as opposed to merely from the South. Our tea is sweet, our belles are sweet (at least as far as you know) and our desserts are diabetes-inducingly sweet. We even coat our criticisms with a sugary, ‘Bless their hearts’ when we meant what we said but needed the recipient to still feel as if the Junior League wasn’t suddenly out of reach.
The reason I bring this up is I have been fake sugaring all sorts of things of late and today, I am loath to admit, I sugared my chili. Now, before you get all judgmental, bear with me. I merely added 3 individual Splenda packets to a pot of chili that contained 2.5 pounds of hamburger. It’s not like I was trying to make a red meat soufflé; I was simply trying to recreate this amazing chili I had as an appetizer at dinner last night. It was some of the best I’ve had (Willow Pizza in San Jose, check it out) and had a slight sweetness that was just divine.
So I bought the ingredients for chili and was trying to figure out how to make it sweet. I add grape jelly to my baked beans and they are loved by all and sundry. But I thought that wouldn’t be quite the flavor profile I was seeking.
It is a known fact that Clara Herrington of Tylertown, MS makes the best tuna salad in all the land. And I’m not kidding. As someone who used to weigh 422 pounds, I know great food. As someone who lost 220 of those pounds (yes, I’m bragging) you should trust my tastes. Why, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. I have great taste in clothes; as I write this I am wearing fuchsia chinos and a navy cardigan with navy suede wingtips and a matching belt, and my most recent fortune cookie fortune stated, “You are admired for your impeccable tastes”. So there you go.
Now, I have never been known for violent tendencies other than scathing remarks about tacky people, but I can assure you that if you were to stand betwixt me and Ms. Clara’s tuna salad, fisticuffs would ensue. I am not proud of that reality; I am simply being honest.
A couple of years ago, I was visiting Mississippi on a tiny book tour (buy my book A Gone Pecan online) and had an offering to stay at the Herrington Clan’s house on the Bogue Chitto River. As I was taught to do, I politely declined at first (we are very British) but when they upped the ante to include, not only Ms. Clara’s tuna salad, but Ms. Clara herself, I would have been a fool not to accept. I love me some Herringtons, do you hear me?
Now, I realize that having just admitted to spending the night alone with Ms. Clara is tantamount to a scandal is the not-otherwise-occupied minds of Tylertownians, unless you think about it for, I don’t know, say, 4 or 5 seconds and you realize the players in the story are Ms. Clara and me. I think Andy Griffith’s Aunt Bea was more scandalous than the sainted Ms. Clara. Well, sainted if Baptists had saints, whose designations I assume would be somehow tied to popularity of casserole recipes or number of prayer circles started.
I said all that to say this, her secret ingredient is sugar. I apologize if that was meant to be a secret, but Sharon told me at the river one time so it’s her fault, Miss Clara.
Now I know that sugar is bad for you. We all know that it will one day take my Daddy’s feet. Fear not, however, as I have been using fake sugar for quite some time. Sweet ‘n’ Low (the pink one) is the first I tried and used to be the only one. It reminds me of old ladies and/or Tab. I switched to Equal (the blue one) when Cher started advertising it in the 90s, I think. My Daddy and I had been using that for our morning coffee until recently. A friend, who is a nurse, told me some story about Equal having the same effect on your organs as formaldehyde or somesuch. I don’t know if this is an urban myth but I switched to Splenda (the yellow one) as I was told by this same friend that at least Splenda was real sugar that had been altered to be bereft of, well, sugar. I assume it was some chemical engineering process but I like to think it was magic like in Harry Potter.
And speaking of Harry Potter, my Daddy and I have been enjoying Downton Abbey, which he calls Down Town Abbey, then wonders aloud (each week) why they’re in the country, not the city. He can’t remember who is who so there’s a lot of questioning throughout the show, which requires the use of close captioning. Not so much for him, but for me.
I am adept at understanding English accents, idioms and slang, being an unabashed Anglophile. He, on the other hand, being a citizen of Ala-Miss-La-Tex, doesn’t even understand me half of the time, much less someone British. Watching with him is not unlike sitting beside a child with ADD and no Ritalin. Who’s that? Why’s she wearing that? Boy, that one sure is ugly. She’d make a haint take a thorn thicket! Why’d they pick an ugly girl? Why do you need a house that big? Would you like a house that big? I wouldn’t. I like log cabins. I want a Harley. Why don’t you let me eat candy bars? Did you bring me a Coke Zero from town? You know I lost 2 more pounds. Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?
We were watching TV this past weekend as I do only when he complains I don’t spend time with him as his activities consist of sleeping, eating and crocheting while watching TV. I had found a Harry Potter movie and we were both enjoying it when he suddenly said, “Hey! There’s that old lady from Downtown Abbey!”
I responded that it was, in fact, the Dowager Countess and although she is a two-time Oscar winner (1969 Best Actress for the Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and 1978 Best Supporting Actress for California Suite in which she played an Oscar nominee on her way to the ceremony) she is best known to the Millenials, which apparently includes 71 year-old rednecks, as Professor McGonagall.
This set him off on another tangent: Boy she looks terrible, don’t she? What year was that movie made? Can you look it up on your little computer? I wonder how old she is? How old is Ziva from NCIS? I know Abbie is older than she looks. You know she’s from Loozeeana? You find out the year yet? What’s takin’ you so long? How old is Abbie? Who’s that old man? Can I grow my beard and tie a ribbon in it? Why d’ya always make that face? Is it time to eat yet? I’m hungry. I sure would like a chocolate shake this big. Where you goin’?
I just realized that it is almost 6 pm and time for Downton Abbey out here on the West Coast. I will bid you adieu and head to the TV viewing room. I must prepare myself to read my new favorite TV show because Daddy is wide awake and while over-medicating a crazy old man isn’t actually illegal, it borders on rude and being British, I’d rather someone think I were poor than rude.
Happy New Year, y’all!