Y’all Come Back Now, Y’hear?

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.


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