Cruising With Willadean - Part I

Creamy walls shine pink with soft flattering light, lending to a refined hush in the spacious dressing room.  A tall woman almost hidden by the voluminous white wedding gown she carries crosses the dense carpet soundlessly and disappears behind one of several heavy draperies. At the far end, a man and woman in business attire relax in plush arm chairs, she reading a magazine and he tapping muffled messages into his netbook.  Barely perceptible strains of a familiar Bach melody waft through the room.

Suddenly, a high-pitched, agitated voice behind the drapes cuts through the serenity:  "Dante!  Git your silly ole tail in here, I cain't git this zipped up!"

No, she's not getting married, but Willadean is back.

When she announced a few months ago that she and some of the ladies from church would be going on a winter cruise, Dante immediately took charge.  He was the most traveled among us, he had been to the Caribbean twice, he knew cruise lines inside out.  Atlanta, he stated emphatically, was where we would go for her wardrobe; he had connections and with his help, Willadean would be the belle of the seafaring ball.

To this day, I'm not quite sure how he managed to bamboozle me into joining them, but early one Saturday morning, I found myself throwing an overnight bag into Monica's SUV and climbing aboard next to Miss Scarlett for The Big Atlanta Shopping Excursion.

The first thing Willa had to get, Dante insisted, was new foundation garments.  No, she could not go to Walmart, she needed "quality."  "You got some good stuff, Willadean Jean," he said, "but you ain't showin' it to its full potential."

"Don't you go talkin' 'bout my stuff, you devil," she reacted instinctively.  "You still a man an' it ain't fittin' for a man t' talk 'bout no women's stuff, silly-tail-lazy-tail-no-good-tail-ol'-heathen..." 

"You might want to try a thong," the lingerie salesclerk recommended, and when we all expressed our contempt for such garments, she hiked up her skirt right there in the ladies' dressing room and showed us how comfortable she was in her own.  "It just gives you such a sense of freedom," she insisted, completely ignoring the look of horror on our faces. We found it impossible to avert our eyes when she bounced away a few minutes later, her freedom most obvious under a clingy pleated skirt. 

Now that Willa had the proper foundation on which to build, Dante took us to one store after another.  "You'll need two formals and two semi-formals," he had begun before she had interrupted.  "I got plenty o' nice Sunday dresses."

"You plannin' on goin' to church on this ship?"

"No..."

"Then the church dresses are stayin' home."

We went in and out of so many shops over the next two days I lost count.  True to his word, Dante did know someone at most places.  Sometimes it would be a clerk, sometimes a manager.  Sometimes he'd tell the floor manager that he was good friends with Miss So-and-So in accounting or Mr. So-and-So at "the main office."  I didn't question him and neither did any of the store personnel.   In one store, Willadean found several gorgeous dresses, but they were miles out of our budget, and Dante wasn't familiar with anyone on staff.  "Come on, we gotta go somewhere else...where's Miss Scarlett?"  Dante looked around and spied our little Southern Belle batting her eyelashes at a handsome young clerk in Better Suits.  Taking her aside, he whispered loudly, "Miss Scarlett, you know that man?"

"No," she began.

"You workin' on gittin' us a discount?"

"No..."

"Then tuck them boobs back where they belong and git in th' car!"

With Christmas and New Years' just behind us and new stock not yet in, slim pickings were to be had at most larger stores.  We found the best selection and prices at an incredible little consignment shop.  Willadean bought several pairs of shorts and t shirts, a couple of cute pairs of capris, and a new-with-tags knee-length black cocktail dress; Monica bought at least a dozen outfits; Dante found scads of dress slacks in his size; Miss Scarlett spent over $300; I bought a pink tutu for Zoey.

Willa bought shoes.  ("I ain't wearing them snake skin shoes, them's hootchie-mama shoes, gimme those with the gold heels and diamonds.")  She bought jewelry and hats and sunglasses.  She tried on several evening gowns, but nothing was quite right.  Monica and Dante were kept busy running back and forth between dressing room and floor fetching various styles and sizes.  In the dressing room of one large mall store, my heart went out to a woman in the next stall as she pitifully insisted that she did NOT need a bigger size.  "Oh, alright," she finally conceded, "bring me a 6."

A 6.  A 6 is bigger.  My heart jumped right back in place.

In the hotel room that night, Dante had Willadean do a fashion show for us all.  "You need some help in there?" he called into the bathroom.

"You stay outta here, you devil!" she called back.  She strutted out in one outfit after another.  Dante would make little suggestions here and there; he was amazing with his advice.  "This scarf," he said, throwing a paisley fringed number over his arm, "will be divine wrapped...like...this..."  He stood back to critique, adjusted it slightly to one side, and...it was perfect.  When she stepped out in her black cocktail dress, he said wearily, "Willadean Jean, where's your new black bra?"

"It ain't no never mind o' yours where it is..."

"You need it with this dress; it just don't hang right with the white one."  He insisted she change, and when she did, yes, there was a noticeable difference.  "See?"  he said, steering her toward the full length mirror on the door.  "Slump your shoulders down a little...there...now that's how the other bra looked...straighten up...see how much better?"

"Silly tail, lazy tail..." she mumbled her way back into the bathroom.

After exhausting all other possibilities the following day, we took a tip from one of Dante's store clerk friends and found ourselves at an intimate bridal shop.  He would call the owner himself and arrange a discount.

This place was LUXE.  It simply exuded elegance and charm, and the selection of formal gowns did not disappoint.  Dante charmed the clerk and when he returned with the news that the discount would apply to anything except shoes and jewelry, Miss Scarlett was already in one of the pink dressing rooms trying on a wedding dress.

"What's she trying on wedding dresses for?" he asked indignantly.  "She fixin' to marry husband number 5?"  And spying Monica with a white gown over her arm, too, he cried out.  "Mabel Corrine!  What are you DOIN?!  YOU'RE MARRIED!"

"Shhhhh!" she admonished.  "This ain't for me, it's for Scarlett.  Y'all go help Willa."  And off she flew into the pink recesses.

Willadean was holding a white tulle number in front of her body.  Dante glared down at me.  "Y'all are outa control."  

In my defense, all I was holding was my purse.  

But I did have a glance at the Alfred Angelo Collection.

We got Willadean steered in the right direction.  She liked this color, didn't like that style, liked the fabric on this one, couldn't stand the texture on that one.  She took three gowns into the dressing room. She called on Monica, on me, on the attendant.  Miss Scarlett stepped out three times in fuller-than-full white skirts, and I had to admit, she was gorgeous.  Mr. Businessman's tapping on his netbook slowed and finally stopped each time she emerged.  Willadean grew more and more irritated; she wailed that she'd never find anything.  "Do you HAVE to do the formal dinners on the cruise?" I ventured.

That remark was not well received at all.

After roughly an hour, Dante slipped away and returned with two more gowns.  "But she already said no to this one," I began, and he said yes, he knew that, but it was going to be the best one on her, she just didn't know til she could see for herself, and that we would tell her it wasn't the same one, see this little broach?  And he pinned a small rhinestone-embellished cross to the bodice.

It did the trick.  As soon as she saw that cross, she fell in love with that dress.  "It's just like Jesus sent me a sign, ain't it?"   And the next thing we knew, she was calling for Dante's assistance in the confines of the pink dressing room.

"Now don't you be lookin'..."  "I ain't lookin'...suck in, Willadean Jean..."  "I AM suckin' in, you ol' silly tail..." "You're gonna need a bigger size..."  "NO!  This is the one The-Lord-Our-Savior-Jesus-Christ wants me to have!..."  "The-Lord-Your-Savior-Jesus-Christ don't want your big ol' butt hanging out on the ship when these seams split, now lemme get a bigger size!"

Well, let me tell you, when the bigger size was fetched, and Dante successfully got Willadean into it, she just blew us all away.  That gown really was made for her.  The sweetheart neckline was deep, but not so deep that she felt she'd go to Hell for wearing it; gathers cinched with a large rhinestone buckle on the right side disguised the waist, falling gently to the floor to add fullness to the skirt.  The fabric swished pleasingly, and a ruffled jacket made it appropriate for cool evenings on deck.  The dress was magical; she was beautiful.  My hand was at my throat, as she swished and turned and admired herself from all angles in the tall mirrors.  

"My butt's as big as Jennifer Lopez," she said.  "Bigger," Dante mouthed.

Spell broken. Back to reality.

"Wait'll I tell Hoyt I helped Willadean Jean get dressed," Dante said on the way back to Nashville.

"Wait'll Hoyt sees her in that dress," Miss Scarlett said.

"Ya'll ain't right," Willadean smirked, "y'all silly-tail-lazy-tail-..."

________________________

Part II of Willadean's Cruise coming soon!

Women's Day - Just a Bit of a Rant

You may have seen this today when you opened your browser.  Did you hover over it long enough to discover its meaning?  I did, and I couldn't believe it, so I hovered again: today is International Women's Day.

Yep, Women's Day.  Am I the only one out here who thinks this is ridiculous?

After a bit of research, I found that Women's Day has been observed, incredibly, since 1909.  1909?!  You're kidding me, right Wikipedia?

But no, it's right.  And not only is March 8 International Women's DAY, March is Women's History Month.

No, I'm not kidding.  Folks, you can't MAKE this kind of stuff up.

Now, I'm probably gonna take a bit of flack for this, but I'm already halfway there, so I'm just gonna bite the bullet and go on with it...

I have long held a silent opinion that Black History Month is...well...not necessary.  Why silent?  Because it's not a politically correct opinion.  Because my father, who has fought for civil rights most of his life, would be appalled.  Because it's disrespectful to an entire race.  Because many of my best friends are black and would be insulted.  Because I, as a lover of all peoples, should be ashamed to feel that way.

But today my opinion is no longer silent.  And the reason?  International Women's Day.  Women's History Month.  WHY IN THE WORLD do we, WOMEN, need a day for celebration or awareness or whatever?  WHY IN THE WORLD do we, WOMEN, need a month to make us aware of our contributions in history?

My opinion is that we don't.  We don't deserve recognition for the gender we were born into.  That was something completely out of our control.  I haven't done anything in my life that makes me worthy of celebration; some women have, for sure, just as some men have, and some Blacks have.  Celebrate them...have a Susan B. Anthony Day.  Oh wait, we already have that!  Then have a Sojourner Truth statue.  Oh wait, we already have that!  Then make a movie about Amelia Earhart.  Oh wait, they've already done that, too!

I almost think that whoever promotes this kind of "day" and "month" just doesn't really want word of to get out.  After all, Women's Day is over 100 years old, and I just discovered it today...a little Google doodle leaked the word.

So today I will be going about my usual business...I'll be at physical therapy in less than hour.  My new wheelchair should be delivered shortly after I return home.  Fred and I will bake a chicken pot pie for supper, and I have some cleaning up and organizing to do in my "office/craft room."  No celebrating.  No pat on the back for being a woman.

Or maybe I'll just let the clean-up go by the wayside and celebrate Be Nasty Day, which is also today.  True again, folks, I'm not making this up.

Oooh, I can't wait til March 10...that's Middle Name Pride Day!

Good grief.

First Love, True Love

"I love you."  The depths of those big brown eyes drew me in and I closed my own eyes, feeling his hands on my cheek, in my hair, his breath hot on my face, full lips gently grazing my eyelids.  And in that adorable English accent, the words came back.  "I love you, too."   Heart aflutter, I pursed my lips in anticipation, reeling when I felt his kiss, slow, lingering, over, and over, and over...

It was 1967, and the goose down lips touching mine may have been a poor substitute...nevertheless, they sent a tingle up my spine.  For that pillow represented more than a nameless, faceless concoction; that pillow was Davy Jones.

I thought about those kisses yesterday when the shocking news of Davy's death began circulating.  About how innocent they were, how simple was our clandestine love.  For our affair never went beyond a kiss.  "Free love" may have been the hallmark of the 60's, but this pre-teen knew nothing of the desires of true love. That kiss was IT.

I opened my eyes again and stared into his.  Willing his lips to part, he whispered, "Will you marry me?"

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!  We kissed again, a quick, joyful kiss, then more of the long slow ones. Cut to a series of vignettes...we're running hand in hand through a field of hay, touched golden by the sun...strolling along the beach at twilight...tumbling in the surf. Sitting cross legged on a blanket spread in a meadow, Davy fastens a strand of daisies into a crown and places it on my head.  His head in my lap, eyes closed against the sun, I feed him plump red strawberries, and he pulls my face down to his.  Clad in only cowboy hat and blue jeans, he's riding bareback along the beach.  He stops, pulls me up onto the tall white horse, and we're off, the wind blowing my hair, those luscious lips caressing my neck with gentle kisses.  And all the while,I hear a faint tune.  ♫...oh what can it mean to a daydream believer and a homecoming queen...♫

Those scenes were played out to perfection in my mind over the course of the two years I devoted myself to Davy Jones.  Those scenes and one other...

Was the memory always gauzy, or has it faded with time?  Davy, in white tails, is standing at an altar, pink roses scattered on the path to his side.  I'm nervous, but he slowly turns, fixing those loving brown eyes on me, amazed to be marrying such a spectacle of loveliness. The feeling is mutual, and I gain confidence with each tiny step, until I am standing beside him, and he takes my hand, and a distant voice says, "I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Davy Jones," and he bends me back slightly and kisses me with such depth and emotion as never been felt before...

The dream was shattered when Tiger Beat and 16 magazines leaked the BIG STORY:  Davy had been secretly married to Linda Haines for a year and now had a baby.  Betrayal!  How could he have done that to me?!  That he had a baby was of no concern; indeed, it only added to his charm.  But a wife?!  SHE must have been the instigator, I decided. SHE must have forced the marriage, SHE had him under some kind of spell.  Davy, oh Davy, why didn't you pay attention to the Monkees' own song and "Don't Listen to Linda"?

By that time, though, Bobby Sherman had entered the scene as Jeremy Bolt on ABC's Here Come the Brides, and I, as the scorned lover, took him on the rebound.  Bobby's poster joined Davy's on the wall across from my bed, and the dreams began anew.

No, my daydreams never went beyond the kiss, beyond the altar, though Fred insists otherwise.  "I KNOW you had to have dreamed about the wedding night," he says.  "Don't tell me you didn't imagine having sex with him."

"I was twelve," I've told him.  "It's all about the fairy tale at that age.  There's no sex in fairy tales."

He still doesn't believe me.  HE would have had sex with a female counterpart, he maintains, therefore he's sure I would have.  "Girls have desires, too," I've heard time after time.

"When were you ever a twelve year old girl?" I counter.

Life happens, and somewhere along the way, daydreams gave way to the real thing; lips replaced pillows, and Davy's and Bobby's pictures were tossed into the trash.

But daydreams are sometimes infinitely preferable to real life, I have determined.  My romping-in-the-surf days are long gone, and my fair skin is far too delicate for picnicking in the sun.  Horses?  Never ridden in my life.  And if Fred plopped his head down in my lap and requested that I feed him strawberries, he'd quickly find said head flat on the ground with a whole retched bowl of the things smothering his face.

I've had twenty four hours to reflect upon Davy's death, and I've come to realize that I am not mourning just the singer, just the actor, just the idol, just a genuinely nice "good guy," not even just my first love. No, I'm mourning a part of ME, a part that was pure, wide eyed and innocent, a part that knew nothing of the harsh realities of life.  A part of my youth has died, and I cannot stop the flow of tears down my cheeks.

Davy reportedly said in a recent interview that he felt blessed to have lived exactly the kind of life he'd always wanted.  And one of his four daughters told Access Hollywood yesterday that her father died tending his horses, which was exactly the way he would have wanted to go.  That's good, I tell myself.  May we all be that blessed.

And still I fight the tears.

And still I believe in daydreams.

Sharing Our Stories

When I was seven, my father left us to go to Vietnam. To do an extensive photo journalism project on the war. It would probably be an award winning story and would most likely be picked up by large publications, maybe even the New York Times or Life Magazine.

When I was ten, I found out it was all a lie.

____________________________

These are the opening lines of the novel I'm writing, my first foray into that world.  I began last spring, worked diligently for several weeks, and didn't look at it again until a few weeks ago.

Slim to none are probably the chances of publication, but I'll never know until I try.  And writing is only one tiny notch below chocolate in terms of comfort and therapy, which is why I have decided to devote all my writing time for a while to my book.

Yes, this means I'll be taking a break of indeterminate time from blogging.  I'll most likely visit from time to time, when I go brain-dead from writing and research, or when I need a bit of inspiration from some of my favorite bloggers.  I may even post something every once in a while if I need a break.

Don't give up on me - I'll be back.  In the meantime, we all have a story to tell about that tragic day ten years ago.  Please share yours...

_________________________________________________

Where Were You?
(edited from a post of the same title two tears ago)

September 11, 2001. My generation's "Day That Will Live In Infamy." The day we Americans realized that we were vulnerable, that we could be attacked and killed with no warning; that a clear warm Tuesday morning could be turned into a bloody nightmare in the blink of an unsuspecting eye.

Some moments in history are forever frozen in our minds, and we remember exactly where we were, exactly what we were doing when we heard the news. Those moments for me include the shooting of President Kennedy, the death of Elvis, Princess Diana's car wreck, the explosion of the Challenger, and, of course the terrorist attacks of 9/11.  I remember far too clearly the images of the planes hitting the towers, the towers crumbling, the Pentagon in smoke, the bravery of the passengers in Pennsylvania, the firefighters entering the burning buildings.

It was my day off. Mama and Daddy had asked me to ride with them in search of a special type of sausage which apparently could be found only in Dickson, Tennessee. The TV was on for company as I cleaned the house - TV Land - all my old favorite shows - Andy Griffith, I Love Lucy, Leave it to Beaver, Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, Gilligan's Island.  No need to actually sit and watch them, for I know them all by heart.  Oh, there were occasional moments when I would perch on the end of a bed or the arm of the couch, cleaning supplies in hand, realizing that a favorite scene was coming up.  But for the most part, all my old fictional pals were playing to an empty audience.

Satisfied that the house would pass the white glove test, I was ready to relax before my parents arrived. Little House on the Prairie came on, and I positioned myself on the couch, tucking my legs comfortably underneath. But as soon as I saw the title, May We Make Them Proud, I knew I couldn't watch. This was the episode in which the blind school catches fire, and Alice Garvey and Mary's baby are trapped upstairs and burned to death. Unlike most episodes, I had seen this one only once. Because of that scene, the one showing the old school engulfed in flames, and Mrs. Garvey, the swaddled baby in her arms, screaming from an upstairs window. No, I couldn't watch this. After Lucy's and Gilligan's hilarious lighthearted shenanigans? When my house was all shiny and clean and smelling of Scrubbing Bubbles and Lemon Pledge? No way. I turned the tv off and waited for my parents on the front porch.

Blue skies, white fluffy clouds; September warm; it was a picture perfect day. The porch swing creaked as I savored the relaxing moments. As Daddy's car pulled into the driveway, I rose to go inside and get my purse and keys.  But they surprised me by quickly stepping out of the car. "Have you got your tv on?" Mama cried across the yard. "No..." I began, but she cut me off. "Turn it on, turn your tv on CNN!"

What in the world... I obeyed, and had the tv tuned to CNN as they entered the front door. And that's when the world changed. The second tower had just been hit, and every American citizen knew we were under attack. We sat horrified for hours, as we watched the story play out on our 19 inch Emerson. I forgot my manners and offered my parents something to eat and drink only after they'd been there well over an hour.

The irony didn't hit me until later: I couldn't watch two fictional characters die in a fire, but I watched thousands of real people lose their lives the same way.

I imagine the remainder of my day and the days that followed were pretty much like yours: glued to the tv, images of the towers in flames, that choking cloud of dust and ash as the towers fell...over and over and over...

Even now, ten years later, we look at those pictures with a mixture of horror and fascination. And perhaps still a sense of wonder that it actually happened, right here, right here at our back door. I see those pictures of the buildings on fire, of people who chose to leap to their deaths, but I still can't watch that episode of Little House.

So share your stories, please: what were you doing on September 11, 2001?

Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant

She'll never take a prize for her beauty, but that's okay with me - neither will I.  We're both past our prime, but grateful we've gotten this far.  Yes, we've acquired our fair share of dents and dings along the way, but we live with them and keep a'goin'.

She's a '96 Nissan Altima, and I love her. Plain and simple.

We met when she was only two years old and still looked brand spanking new.  Oh, she was a pretty thing then, yes indeed, deep glossy black with a plush gray velour interior and polished walnut veneer on the dash.  So roomy, front and back; plenty of leg space.  Mirrors on the sun visors and entry to the trunk from the back seat.  Even the dashboard clock worked.  I knew from the moment I slid into that soft seat that we were meant to be.

How many times has she taken us to Florida?  How many miles has she logged on weekend excursions; ferrying me to work and back?  She's endured the hot sun, sleet, and snow, and been pelted with hail more than once.  She delivered me safely home during a tornado, even though her roof was bumped by a trampoline as it flew across the road.

Yes, she's served me well, and it shows.  Her coat has lost its luster, and there's a small rusty fissure on the passenger side. The large dent in the back still reminds me to make sure the garage door is up before I back out.  Inside, the seats are worn, but perhaps even more comfortable than ever.  The clock loses a minute or so every month, and my Tchaikovsky tape has been stuck inside the cassette player for going on five years now.

Every time she turns over another thousand miles, I give her an encouraging pat on the dash.  She earns her praise.  Every time she reaches another milestone, I snap a picture.

So she's no longer shiny and new.  She doesn't have individual climate control, an in dash navigation system, or voice recognition anything.  Shoot, she doesn't even have a cd player.

But she has my heart.  And appreciation.  For now and many miles yet to come.

August Seventeenth

(This post was copied from last year's August 17 post.  All photographs are mine, but some have been previously published.)

Happy August 17th.

We all have our little quirks, our little oddities that mark us as individuals and distinguish our personalities. I have perhaps a few more little quirks than the average bear.  I never step on cracks.  I will not pump gas from even numbered pumps, and I prefer to pump from number 7 or 3.  I automatically play Scrabble with license plates - I get excited with a tag that reads, for instance, 111QXZ - "That's a 28-pointer!" I'll exclaim, whereupon Fred either ignores me or rolls his eyes.

I remember the oddest, most useless facts, like the name of the unseen and once-mentioned Mayberry resident who was said to have carved his name on the old cannon in the town square (Tracy Rupert) and obscure lines from Gilligan's Island and I Love Lucy, yet I have trouble remembering what I had for dinner last night. I hate talking on the phone and I eat sandwiches in a circle, clockwise. I also separate my potato chips, Cheetos, and popcorn by size and shape, and eat them from least perfect to most perfect, and I separate my M&Ms by color, Ms DOWN.

And I always celebrate August 17th.

Why August 17th, you ask? Is it my birthday, or anniversary? No. First kiss? No. First date? No. Birthdate of a long lost love? A beloved aunt? The day I got my first car? No, no, no.

No, August 17th is special to me simply because it sounds so beautiful. Now, I usually get some strange glances here, and if right about now you find that your eyebrows are raised a bit, that's alright. I'm used to such curious looks.

But say it. Go ahead, say it out loud. August 17th. See how pretty that sounds? August 17th. It's beautiful. It sounds like blue skies and fluffy white clouds, sailboats on crystalline lakes, fields of wildflowers waving with a gentle breeze, children romping happily in bare feet, and groups of pastel clad ladies in wide brimmed hats, sitting in the cooling shade of white columned front porches, sipping lemonade from chilled glasses.

 
Baskets of fresh peaches and roses in creamy white milk pitchers. 

Butterflies with stained glass wings, fragile dandelions catching the breeze, lightning bugs in mason jars.

 
Today is a work day for me, but before I leave for the post office this afternoon, I'll sleep late, watch I Love Lucy, take the dogs out and laugh at their playful antics, snuggle with Spooky, water the flowers, and enjoy the cooler air that is promised this week.  I may order Chinese and take it for dinner for Mamacilla and myself.  Or bake some shortcakes and top them with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

So it's a low-key celebration.  No fireworks, no back yard barbecue, no gifts to open.

August 17th.  It's all about simple pleasures.

Happy August 17th to you all, my friends.

Miss Scarlett

There was a time when a meal wasn't a meal unless it included a meat, a starch, at least one green vegetable, bread, and dessert.  At least, that's what I was taught as a child of the female persuasion in the South.  My tutelage included not only the three R's: reading, 'riting, and 'rithmatic, but also the three F's: feeding, feasting, and frying.

At my mother's elbow, I cultivated the fine arts of frying chicken, of baking brownies and cookies from scratch.  I perfected those culinary necessities of life: fudgey chocolate frosting, pound cake, fried okra. Oh yes, Mama's willing apprentice was well-versed in creaming corn straight from the field, snapping beans on the front porch, dropping buttermilk cornbread batter into a sizzling cast iron skillet.

I graduated from the Southern School of the Fried Arts at the top of my class.  Yes, I was the consummate Southern cook.

Until I met Miss Scarlett.

"Miss Scarlett?"  Dante said with obvious disdain.  "That's so...cliche.  I thank she looks like...maybe a Cherileen Grace."

"I wouldn't even know how to SPELL Cherileen," I shot back.  It's MY blog, and she's gone be called Miss Scarlett."

So there.

No, she bears no resemblance to Margaret Mitchell's heroine of the Old South, but Miss Scarlett is the Southern Belle personified.  She's blonde and blue-eyed, petite, but curvaceous.  The extra 20 or so pounds she carries is well distributed.  She looks 28, admits to 38, but has twin 15 year old grandsons. 

Clearly, math is not her best subject.

In high school, she was head cheerleader.  She had won seven beauty pageants before she was 17.  It goes without saying that she was homecoming queen and dated the entire football team.

Actually, Dante threw that last bit in.  Miss Scarlett says, "a few of the boys on the team," but Willadean raised her eyebrows and Dante voiced Willa's opinion.

Like many of the women at the Post Office, Willadean has...mixed feelings...about Miss Scarlett.  "That ole flirt," she's said time and again, as Miss Scarlett bats her long eyelashes and sashays toward a man to do her bidding.

Dante: "Willadean Jean, you wouldn't thank Miss Scarlett's that big 'a flirt if YOU could butter them men up like that."

Willadean:  "You ole fool - I c'n butter 'em up good as she can!"

Dante:  "Yeah, but Miss Scarlett's usin' real butter; you're usin' Blue Bonnet in a tub."

Somehow, Miss Scarlett wears clothes that are at once demure and provocative, and she rarely wears the same outfit twice.  Most of us wear our absolute rags, then protect said rags with a Union supplied heavy denim apron; not Miss Scarlett.  She wears pastels, she wears white, she wears silk.  No apron. She can pull her long blonde curls up into a hair clamp in three seconds flat and look like she just stepped out of a salon.  And she goes home looking as fresh as she did when she walked in the door.

"Well, you'd look fresh as a daisy, too, if you didn't do no work, Ethelmae," Dante remarked.

"Oh, she works," Monica stated emphatically.  "She works reaaaal hard...at gettin' other people to do her work."

She's charming, she's bubbly, she's cute as the proverbial button.  Her accent becomes more delightfully Southern when men are around, almost to the point of being a Hollywood mockery of our treasured native tongue.  She can cry on cue and somehow, when she gets mad, it's almost as if she's PRETENDING to be mad...which makes it all the more endearing and boosts a man's ego even higher.  I've seen her pout when old Grumpy wouldn't give her the time of day, then stomp her foot in his direction and give him the tearing-up-you're-gonna-make-me-cry-I'm-so-mad-at-you face.  And, lo and behold, that made old Grumpy stop in his tracks, turn around and APOLOGIZE (you have to know Grumpy to understand the emphasis,) and then not only do what she had wanted, but ask if there were anything else while he was there.

Sometimes when we have a parcel too heavy for any of us, I'll say, "Miss Scarlett, get out there and do your stuff," and she'll have a man-in-a-trance in no time flat.

According to Dante, "those boobs o' hers sure have saved us a lot o' heavy work."  Willadean puffed up at this statement and declared that the boobs The-Lord-Our-Savior-Jesus-Christ had given HER were every bit as big as Miss Scarlett's.

Monica's eyes widened and the corners of her mouth twitched as she pointedly stared at Willadean's considerable sagging upper half.  That's when I said loudly, "NOBODY SAYS A WORD!"  and we froze like statues.

In spite of her flirtatious ways and avoidance of work, I find it impossible not to love Miss Scarlett.  Sure, it's all a show for the men, but she opens up with the ladies at times, and she's just plain fun, if still a bit superficial.  And we know we can count on her for any celebration.

"Party?  Birthday?  What kind of cake do we want?"  Miss Scarlett volunteers in a flash.  "Hmmm...he loves fishing and camping...I could do a full sheet cake with a raised tent and some shrubs made of fondant, and I can do him standing on the shore with a fishing pole in a lake...marzipan...and I can use brown sugar for the sand and...oooh!  How 'bout a little candy rock firepit and we can put some real short candles inside it for the campfire?!"

Her homemade brownies are nothing short of Heaven, and she makes the most divine zucchini bread.  Cupcakes?  They look like they came from a gourmet sweet shoppe.  She even makes her own doughnuts.

"My Mama always said the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," she's told us. 

Miss Scarlett has been divorced four times.

So she's got me beaten in the kitchen.  And I can't hold a candle to her charm and beauty.  But as Willadean pointed out, "She sho cain't hold on to a man."

And Dante's conclusion?  "Blessed are they that have held on to Fred for 30 years."

Amen?