A Shorty Short!
I’m taking an online writing class through the lit mag American Short Fiction + loving it. The first few weeks were reading + exercises, and the last few will be workshopping pieces from each member – mine’s on the chopping block this week! This shorty short is from one of our exercises. **WARNING – yucky...
Another Short Story: The Tender Parts
I'm feeling cheery today, partly because of the darling feature in Southern Living, but mostly because so many of my hometown peeps have responded so positively to it. Makes a girl feel loved. In honor of this buoyant feeling.... here's another short. {It's a long short} The Tender Parts...
I was Featured in Southern Living!
Look out for the February issue of Southern Living, friends – I’m in it! {It’s in the Georgia section, so it’s only in the GA market.} They found me through a friend, Ellie, who told them about the Thomasville Townie…. and although they don’t mention it anywhere in the article, they do mention my friend...
A Shorty Short!
I’m taking an online writing class through the lit mag American Short Fiction + loving it. The first few weeks were reading + exercises, and the last few will be workshopping pieces from each member – mine’s on the chopping block this week!
This shorty short is from one of our exercises.
**WARNING – yucky language!**
————————————–
The first time I heard “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” by Nina Simone, I was with Gal-Baby Martin (Frances Tilden Martin) down at the creek behind her parents house.
“Hand it back now, you. Don’t be bogarting that thing,” she said at me with squinted eyes and a little sly smile. We’d stolen one of her mother’s Virginia Slims and toted her colossal CD player down to the creek bank with us. Her parents were getting ready for a dinner party and would inevitably neglect to say goodbye to us. I passed the gently smoking cigarette toward her: we were inhaling our future and slowly practicing an exhale of youth.
Gal-Baby’s honey hair was frizzing in the humid late afternoon. We probably had enough battery to hear the whole CD through once. I know she told me, but I can’t remember where she’d gotten it from or how she knew it would be so perfect for teenage rebellion. Nina’s throaty voice poured over us as the early evening gnats started to arrive. I pursed my lips and blew one off my arm.
“Where are your parents going tonight?” I asked. Gal-Baby flicked the ash into a cupped leaf and stared at it.
“The Mixon’s, for Rums and Rummies. More like Rums and Dummies.” She got quiet and passed the cigarette back to me. Her lip gloss had left a faint pink ring around the filter and I tried to match my mouth to the shape.
“Ginger Mixon is a cunt.” She stated it as fact and threw a pebble into the water as if to punctuate. I’d never heard a woman say that word before, only my daddy and only when he was exquisitely wasted. My mom slapped him for it once.
“What’s Mrs. Mixon got to do with you? I thought you and Belinda were friends.”
“Yeah, well, Belinda’s fine, but her momma’s a cunt.” I pressed the back button on the CD player. Nina was was telling us again how no one can always be an angel. Gal-Baby stared at the water in a trance and I looked down at the wisp of white left in my hand. I lay back on the leaves and let my eyes wander around the treetops. When I squinted they became a lace doily of fading light.
“You ever thought about what it would be like to be gay?” I asked her.
“You mean like two girls being gay?”
“Yeah, like what does that even mean?”
“Hell if I know. My mom’s cousin Frankie is gay.”
“You want the last drag,” I asked, raising up on my elbows, holding it over to her and turning the lips her way. She resigned herself to take it and haul it all the way up to her mouth, like it was a heavy load. She sucked hard, a hungry baby begging to be fed. I saw a tear spill down her cheek but a gnat flew close to my eye and I blinked. She’d wiped it away.
“Gal-Baby, what’s wrong? What could ever be wrong with you? You’re the happiest person I know. And you live in the nicest house and your parents let you do almost anything at all that you want.” I pleaded at her with my eyes but she wouldn’t meet them. She used the last smoking part of the Slim to smolder a hole through the ash tray leaf.
“You just don’t understand,” she whispered. “There’s nothing to understand because it doesn’t make sense.” She mashed the butt into the dirt.
“What doesn’t?” I asked.
“My mom is pretty, right?” She looked up at me. “Don’t you think so?”
“Yeah, of course I do,” I said. “And she always does her hair really nice and wears jewelry.”
She looked back at the leaf and traced the blackened edges of the hole. She lay back and held it up with both hands, looking at the vast expanse of trees through the frame of the burned hole.
“Trees don’t make sense when you look at just one part,” she said dreamily, almost to herself. “Do you think Mrs. Mixon wears jewelry?” she asked.
“Where? On her cunt?” I said, feeling the hard, salty word spit out of my mouth.
Gal-Baby dropped the leaf on her face and laughed. I laughed, too. It felt so strange to say that word and Gal-Baby laughed so hard she started grabbing the dirt with her hands. I could smell earth as she clung to it, sending me coded messages like pheromones in wild things. The CD player had died and so had the light. We giggled as we walked up to the empty house.
I would leave my husband on a hot day, the middle of August two decades after. I would tear my screaming children from their father and drive back to my parents’ house three states away, that song stinging me like a need. The kids had cried themselves to sleep and it smoldered in my brain until I finally pulled over, searching for it on my phone. I hadn’t talked to Gal-Baby in probably ten years. As Nina’s golden balm smoothed my surface, I could smell smoke, dirt. The song was a plea and I sent it up on tiny tin wings hoping it would find dry ground.
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On Being Nice
Whether you live far away from your family or just aren’t that close, there are many reasons to resort to good old fashioned friendship to fill the void. We want to connect with people, share experiences, triumphs and hardships and feel as though someone cares, and that we care for someone. I’m one of those souls whose friends are like family.
Perhaps because I live in a small town, I’ve come to some conclusions earlier than I would have otherwise. I do think small towns make you nicer, more concerned with the welfare and feelings of others. It also makes you acutely aware of your shortcomings. Most people don’t assume they’re ever a topic of conversation, but, rest assured, someone is talking about all of us.
And I think mostly it doesn’t matter. Yes, it’s better to be honest and upfront when you have an issue with someone. But just your opinion of someone in general? Maybe it’s not so important. So what if someone says you’re always late, you talk too much, or worse. Perhaps your friends are too kind to mention your imperfections to you, though in some cases it might be kinder to do so. That’s particularly of importance if the non-mentioning party changes their behavior toward you – then you need to talk. But if they still love you? Just as you are? Maybe it’s really ok if they call you a bitch behind your back. I have some bitchy friends and I love them that way. Insensitive is different. Narcissistic is different. Rage-aholic is different. Bitchy is kinda fun. I also have some flaky friends – you just have to manage your expectations and love them as they are. They’re some of my most cherished relationships and they tend to brighten my life when I need it most. I’m just not going to call them when I’m counting on a lunch date.
I also think you shouldn’t judge people by what they say when you’re not around. If you’re not in the room, you can’t know what they said, what they meant, the inflection they used, the context in which it was said. If you’re getting it second hand, the information is filtered through perception and prejudice, not to mention the possibility of outright misunderstanding.
I’m deciding to let all of that go and to focus on how the person makes me feel when I’m with them. Are they uplifting, interesting or entertaining? Or maybe caring, supportive or exciting? Do you learn from them, or teach them? There are lots of great relationships to be had out there, people are all just so different.
I like to collect friends. Old, young, white, Hispanic, former lesbian, professional, shrink, artist, housewife, entrepreneur, construction worker – just any ol’ body with a story.
Here are some of my thoughts on friendships:
–It’s easier to forgive than to hold a grudge. How many people rearrange their whole lives to enforce a grudge? Silly.
–Don’t believe everything you hear. Unless you hear it from the source, don’t hold it against them.
–If things are getting sticky, take a step back. Just give a little space, you can rekindle the relationship if it’s a good one.
–No one’s perfect, least of all me! My friends put up with my quirks, so I can put up with theirs. {Ever try to get me to go out last minute? Futile. Ever try to call me on the phone? Equally futile.}
–Be the best version of yourself – and that includes being gracious to everyone. If they still don’t like you that might just be okay. You’re the best you there is.
Cheese Grits, Fast Women and Paula Deen
Mmm…. cheese grits for dinner. So warm, so comforting and they stick to the spoon just like my Grammie’s. Rest assured I did not try to pass those off as dinner for RJ. He was at a work dinner. He doesn’t love them like I do, and I tease him that it’s because he’s a “genetic yankee”. {His people are from Illinois.} But he’s a Southern boy, for sure – a bass fishing, pork loving, UGA cheering, bow-tie wearing, farm visiting, slightly accented good ol’ boy. He was also born in Louisiana, so I also tease him about being a Cajun, he does mumble quite a bit, making him hard to understand. My teasing hits both ends of the spectrum.
I’m not much of a media consumer as far as news and pseudo-news. I’m not too into TV or radio and I more or less choose most of the media interactions I have. However, I’ve heard about this thing with Paula Deen, about her diabetes! And the commentary {why are we even talking about this?} is at both ends of the spectrum, too. I agree that we all saw it coming and that she doesn’t make anyone eat her food. I also agree that Southern food is so much more than just what she chooses to cook. Here’s a good article from one of my favorite chefs about PD’s diagnosis and what it says, or doesn’t say, about Southern food.
I like Hugh just fine and I’m more than happy to claim him as an honorary Southerner. He’s done a lot for bringing the fresh back to Southern cooking and his recipes are spot on. But babydoll, if I want cheese grits, fried okra and a cathead biscuit, it’s going to happen. It just doesn’t happen every day. And um, no fried butter for me. Like ever.
So, I don’t think PD’s the devil, or the harbinger of the demise of Western Civilization. I like her alright, too, and one of my absolute favorite recipes is one of hers. And, despite what Hugh-baby says, this website? Totally funny. My point is: As with strong drink, cigars and fast women, practice moderation. And be nice to each other.
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