Friday, June 29, 2012

GBHS

"God Bless Her Soul" is a southern bad habit.  I know you may be surprised, but this phrase really isn't as kind-hearted as it appears. Let me illustrate.
  • "She's been drinking for years. GBHS."
  • "His head was all squished. GBHS."
  • "He married a golddigger. GBHS."
Do you see the problem? "God Bless His/Her Soul" is really just the add-on ap that allows you to say whatever you want, no matter how insulting it may be.  My 93 year old grandmother, the self-proclaimed Scarlet O'Hara, is the master of it.  Again let me illustrate.
  • "He was so ugly The day he was born, I swore the devil went and got a hold of me.  GBHS."
  • "She's got herself a foster child; it's a crack baby.  GBHS"
  • "She's so beautiful. If it weren't for those thighs of hers. GBHS."
I kept a record of her habit throughout the past few years because it's so thoroughly entertaining.  Now that Nana is in a nursing home, unable to make such comments anymore, I am grateful for my journalism.  The last time she could speak, she said the Lord wasn't ready for her yet, and I thought, "GBHS."

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Perfect Days


Perfect Days:

·        Wind, warm sand, cool ocean floaters.

·        Wind in my hair, sun on my face, snow under my board

·        Wind in the trees, colors all around, spice and pumpkins

·        Wind in my hair, sunglasses on my face, water splashing my legs

·        Wind all around, “lean!” being screamed, a jet-ski in view

·        Wind coming in the windows, summer music blasting, laughter from the girls

·        Wind in my hair, your arms around me, kisses on my face




Tuesday, June 26, 2012

The Back Story

The Back Story


I am from the morning and moon, born after twelve hours, nine to nine.

I am from the soft grass that crinkled beneath my toes as I wandered through my backyard, smelling the tulips and daffodils.

I am from the old brick school, paralleling the creek bed of crawdads, with a giant slide that accompanied the tire swing of my childhood.

I am from oranges, yellows, and reds, the colors that fueled our economy and embellished my imagination on the hikes, where I was an Indian captive or Pocahontas.

I am from the land of “school is delayed!” There was an inch of snow this morning!

I am from my basement, towel covering the crack in my door, hiding the reading light late into the night.

I am from the blue and gold cement stadium, an amphitheater of sports nestled in the Smokeys.

I am from early mornings and long drives, the birth of my most important education.

I am from plane rides and road trips, the child of constant movement with a steady base.

*Inspired by George Ella Lyon's "Where I'm From"


Thursday, June 21, 2012

Frankly My Dear...


You know that perfect ending? The one where Rhett Butler turns to Scarlet after years of female, emotional abuse and says to her "frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."  It didn't matter that the seductive, elusice lady adorned in dark, lush lashes, an 18 inch waist, and a southern charm was begging him to stay.  It didn't matter that she loved him finally after having gone through two dead husbands and pining away after Ashley for all those years because Scarlett, "he just don't give a damn" anymore. You pushed him over the edge.

But what if years later, they reunited? What if Scarlett chased Rhett like he pursued her? What if she followed him to Charleston and reversed the traditional male/female roles?  Maybe Rhett would pass through another wife until she deceased (Charles, Mr. Kennedy) and another long lost love such as Belle Watland (Ashley).  Maybe by the end and an illegitimate child later, they'd end up together with Rhett forgiving all Scarlett's grievances and follies, fall madly in love and compliance again.  What if that had been the real ending--a female fantasy where the woman changes her mind to the point of insanity, breaks her man's heart, and then gets her way in teh end after much melodrama in between. 

Oh wait--that was the "new" endnig in Scarlett, the so called 1991 sequal to Gone With the Wind.  I'm sorry Alexandra Ripley; there is no other end to "frankly my dear I don't give a damn." That's why it's called Gone With the Wind.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Like My Sisters


LIKE MYSISTERS

I have four older sisters, who I’ve neverlived with. The youngest of them isseven years older than me. When I was probably twelve years old, I began tonotice how pretty they were, and how much I wanted to be like them. Diedra was so thin and athletic. Becca had the best southern accent, charm,and confidence—at least it seemed so. Leanna had the best hair and seemed so feminine yet hippyesque; how didshe manage that balance? I saw in Erica the spunky yet stunning blonde I hopedto become as well. I looked to them asexamples of what a woman should be, amidst the confusion I felt throughoutadolescence.

When I grew up, the plan was set. Iwas going to dress like them. They wereso classy! Always in solids, instead of the trendy clothes that would fly inand out of fashion, my sisters could have been the poster children for GAP andBanana, even though I don’t know if that’s where they were actually shopping. At one point or another, I saw them in thisoutfit: a black shirt, simple and form fitting, something foreign to me since Iwas used to wearing a shirt a size too big so that I could wear it the nextyear too or seeing my mom wear her giant tie-dye shirts. They donned khaki pants, popular in the 90s,accompanied by brown leather sandals with a small platform to add some height;and I never failed to notice their simple, silver earrings, usually a pair ofsmall, thick hoops. That was what I wasshooting for. That classy, classic look.

My freshman year of college, I eventold my roommate that it was better to buy a few classic, classy pieces foryour wardrobe because they’d always be in style. She looked at me like I was crazy. I kinda was, but I felt so grown-up andjustified in my comment. I wasdescribing my sisters’ style, and I told her so. She said, “you are 18 and you want to dresslike you’re 30 or 40.” I realized thatsounded weird, but I really did want to be like my sisters. Implementing that desire proved harder than Ithought. I didn’t know how.

Throughout college, I transformed—thechubby caterpillar to a polished butterfly? I hope so. I traded my T-shirtswith logos for T-shirts with varied necklines and colors. I bought sizes that fit better and were moreflattering, after much coaching. I joineda gym so that my body would better fit the styles I wanted to wear and figuredout I could become more fit and healthy, like my older sisters.

A fewmonths ago, even 6 years after working on this, my roommate said, “Sarah, if we’dlet you, you’d wear a tent.” I wanted to buy a giant shirt—I don’t rememberwhy, but we laughed and laughed at how true that statement would have been afew years before, but eventually, my personality and confidence came into itsown. I have my own style, that my littlesisters still laugh at, but I love my bright colors and fun jewelry—solidprints and GAP jeans to be classy like my role models and funky jewelry just forme.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Love yourself. :)

Search This Blog