The thing no one tells you about being on the injured list is that the television remote is REALLY not your friend. Especially if you’re a news junkie like me and the news these days causes the “F” word to spill from your pristine lips faster than a glass of grape juice spills in the hands of a toddler in the middle of your white-carpeted living room.
The answer? Turn off the f@&#(ng television. See what I mean about my poor disintegrating language? I’m a disgrace.
But after one giant killer Gin and Tonic and the latest copy of Southern Living magazine (I LOVE Southern Living magazine — Hi Subscription folks), I’m back to my normal, sweet, genteel state. A half hour with my beloved magazine and I can once more utter the word, Southern, with the best drawl ever drug across a fan-fluttering, porch-sitting woman’s lips. And I’m not even from the South. Never been there. Closest I’ve come is a meal one time at a Po’ Folks restaurant in Sacramento.
Nevertheless, I love the style. I love the recipes. I love … I love. I should have been an alligator-wrestling, kudzu-chopping, vowel-elongating Southern woman. But alas, I live in the desert with scorpions, rattlesnakes and bunny-eating coyotes. It’s mid-September and still over a hundred degrees here! What a waste of a perfectly good woman.
I need a porch where I can cool my dear broken leg in a bayou-scented breeze. I need a plate of grits and greens to soothe my misplaced manners. I need a Mint Julep with a Sweet Tea chaser.
Oh Lordy, I need my f@&#(ng fan.