Talk Southern to Me Read online

in his shorts.

  She’s prettier than

  a basket of peaches.

  He’s hotter than fish oil.

  I wouldn’t kick him outta bed

  unless he was better on the floor.

  He’s hotter than

  doughnut grease.

  You better come

  gimmie some sugar!

  That feller's got an ass l

  ike a forty-dollar mule.

  Darlin’, you’re cuter

  than a whole

  litter of puppies.

  He’s so cute

  I could eat him up

  with a spoon!

  I could suck the sugar

  right off his cheeks.

  I’d like

  to sop him

  up with a

  biscuit.

  She’s cuter than

  a bug’s ear.

  I'm gonna climb

  your frame like a coon

  climbs a corn stalk.

  That gal makes me grin

  like a possum

  eatin’ sweet ’taters.

  That boy’s got more

  moves than a

  slinky going down

  an escalator.

  He's hornier than a

  three-horned billy goat.

  Well, ain’t he just the

  tomcat’s kitten.

  You’ll never find

  Mr. Right

  hanging around

  with Mr. Wrong.

  She’s so trashy

  she better not linger by the curb

  on garbage day.

  She's anybody's

  dog that'll hunt her.

  Flit around from flower to flower

  and you wind up an old maid.

  With great

  cleavage

  comes great

  responsibility.

  You can’t ride two horses

  with one ass.

  If you lay down with dogs

  you wake up with fleas.

  Love can’t help what it falls on even if it’s a pile of sh*t.

  There's an ass for

  every seat.

  The older the fiddle,

  the sweeter the tune.

  Sugar, you’ve still got

  that new car smell.

  I love you

  more than a pig

  loves slop.

  I love you like a

  coon dog

  loves hunting.

  That couple’s

  tighter than bark

  on a hickory tree.

  She’d be better off sticking a toothpick

  in a lion’s ass than messing with my man.

  Southern women forgive

  their men when they are

  safely buried.

  There's no difference between a

  hornet and a yellow jacket when it's

  in your britches.

  You'll never find a

  rose in a pig pen.

  Bluebirds have

  enough sense not

  to marry

  buzzards.

  A blacksnake always finds his

  way to the hen's nest.

  That man’s just another job

  that don’t pay.

  If he ain’t handsome

  he better be handy.

  You can't turn a hoochie

  mama into a housewife.

  You don’t have to

  eat the whole egg

  to know it’s rotten.

  If you marry for money

  you earn every cent of it.

  Love flies out

  the window when

  poverty walks in

  the door.

  If it has tires or testicles

  it's bound to give ya trouble.

  Talk

  Southern

  to Me 'Bout

  Parenting

  Parenting

  “You can get glad in the same britches you got mad in.”

  Southern parents are ’bout as subtle as a tornado in a trailer park. They call it like they see it and rarely sugarcoat it. In order to be considered a true Southerner, you gotta be raised by one. I was raised by a village of Southerners: Mama, Daddy, two sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles, teachers, preachers, and babysitters. None of these folks put up with my shenanigans. As a child, I was confused by their quirky philosophies and annoyed by their strict rules. But I now realize I was brought up with tremendous love and wit and am forever grateful that my family molded me into a strong Southern woman with social graces.

  Traditionally, Southern children are taught to respect their elders and do not call their elders by their first name. It’s always “Ms. Honeycutt” or “Mr. Littlejohn.” These are the rules. “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, sir” are not optional—these phrases are required for survival. On several occasions I have offended a non-Southerner by saying “Yes, ma’am.” And believe me, there wasn’t enough time left in the universe to get them to understand I was simply being polite.

  A healthy amount of fear is instilled in Southern children. The most dreaded thing Mama could say to me was, “Just wait ’til I tell your Daddy.” And all my Granny Fowler had to do was simply cut her eyes at me in church and I knew immediately that I better sit up, shut up, and respect the Lord if I wanted to live to eat another piece of her mouthwatering Minnehaha cake.

  Southern children aren’t raised in a democratic fashion. They aren’t given much of an opportunity to negotiate with their elders. A phrase I heard a million times as a child was, “ ’Cause I said so, that’s why.” End of discussion. Bellyaching (aka whining) is frowned upon, and hissy fits, especially in public, are not tolerated. That’s ’cause Southern Mamas do not like to be embarrassed in public . . . ever . Lord knows, I’m no parenting expert, but I do know that the South has its own particular style of child rearing; a style that I haven’t observed while living in other parts of the country.

  Here’s a li’l story to illustrate my point:

  While in a fancy department store in Los Angeles on a crucial mission to find the perfect shade of coral lipstick, I saw a little girl running amuck in the makeup department. She was putting her hands all over the makeup samples, knocking over displays, climbing on the makeup stools, and using the lipsticks as body crayons. We’ll call this precious child “Little Miss Nightmare.” I thought the weary sales ladies’ eyeballs were gonna pop right outta their sockets from holding in their anger.

  Now, Little Miss Nightmare’s mother was unaware of this madness ’cause she was too busy talking on her phone and puckering her silicone-injected lips in every mirror she encountered. When Little Miss Nightmare sprayed her mother with some foul-smelling perfume, her mother finally took notice and calmly said to her child, “I’m shopping, please behave.” That’s when Little Miss Nightmare proceeded to have a full meltdown. She threw herself on the department store floor, kicking, screaming, and crying uncontrollably. I watched as the mother casually sampled hand cream and chitchatted with her screaming extraterrestrial.

  The mother said, “Tell me what you are feeling.” The child squalled uncontrollably. The mother said, “Use your words and tell me what you’re feeling.” Little Miss Nightmare squalled louder. The mother, who could not have cared less that her daughter was causing a scene, continued this line of questioning, “If you could describe your feelings as a color, what would it be?” To everyone’s delight, Little Miss Nightmare squalled even louder . The mother casually said, “Try to articulate what would make you feel less distressed.” The child replied through sobs and tears, “Chocolate.” The mother, still wrapped up in her lotion sampling, said, “You already ate some organic cacao today, remember?” Little Miss Nightmare sobbed and stomped and yelled, “BUT I WANT REAL CHOCOLATE!” The mother, who had moved onto eye shadow sampling, said, “We’ve discussed this. Chocolate is bad for your skin.” This sent Little Miss Nightmare into full dying duck fit frenzy mode screaming, “I WANT CHOCOLATE NOW! I WANT CHOCOLATE
NOW NOW NOW!!!”

  The mother refused to fold on the chocolate, but I’m sure that’s because she couldn’t bear facing the Los Angeles mommy cliques with a chocolate-eating, sugar-consuming, acne-prone kid. I watched in awe as the mother went into full negotiation mode agreeing to buy something for the child in order to get the kid to calm down. I stood there, jaw dropped, looking like a carp as the mother bought Little Miss Nightmare a tube of Chanel lipstick. Chanel lipstick. Good gussie! You can’t make this stuff up.

  Now, here is how that scenario would typically play out down South.

  The very moment the child begins destroying the makeup department, the Southern Mama says sternly, “I’ve got two words for you: BE-HAVE.” The Southern child, being a child, still proceeds to pitch a fit. The Southern Mama narrows her eyes and warns, “Quit actin’ ugly.” The Southern child, testing boundaries, continues the fit. The Southern Mama, now in full-on embarrassment mode, smiles apologetically to everyone watching then turns to her child and snaps, “Stop making a spectacle of yourself!” The stubborn Southern child’s fit escalates. The Southern Mama, now furious, plasters on a pageant smile and under her breath through gritted teeth gives the ultimate Southern parental warning, “If you don’t stop crying, I’m gonna give you something to cry about.” The child immediately calms down, sniffles and says, “I want chocolate.” The Southern Mama dryly retorts, “Yeah, well, people in hell want ice water.”

  “If you don’t stop crying, I’m gonna give you something to cry about.”

  Now I’m certain there are plenty of fancy child psychologists who find fault in this Southern parenting style. Nevertheless, this is generally how it’s done down South. And we grow up knowing it’s rooted in immense love. Funny thing is, Southern parents don’t stop raising you just ’cause you grow up or have kids of your own. No, no, no—it never stops. For the sake of sanity, I have learned to never embarrass my Mama in public and have resigned myself to the fact that my Mama’s way of doing things will always be better than my way. And I know that my Daddy will forever scold me like a five-year-old if he thinks I am acting meaner than a snake. And yes—Southern adults call their parents Mama and Daddy ’til the day their parents die. And then ironically, they deeply mourn the fact that all that suffocating, supreme Southern rearing is officially over.

  Y’all play pretty.

  You ’bout to

  poke somebody’s

  eye out!

  Bless your little

  pea-pickin’ heart.

  Act like you

  got some raising!

  It ain't dirty.

  Just blow it off.

  When in doubt,

  ask yourself

  what Jesus would do.

  You better march

  your behind over

  there and

  apologize.

  Quit workin’ all that devilment!

  Never pays to get

  too big for your britches.

  Be home by dark thirty or I’m sending

  the hounds to look for ya.

  Eat this . . . it’ll make you pretty.

  Suck it up, buttercup.

  Stop cuttin’ up!

  I’m ’bout to jerk a

  knot in your tail!

  Idle minds are the devil’s playground.

  Don't you roll your eyes at me

  in that tone of voice.

  You get

  what you get and

  you don’t

  throw a fit.

  You are who you associate with.

  Don’t act like you

  were raised in a barn!

  Don’t you track up my floors!

  Just wait ’til your

  Daddy gets home.

  Did your

  Daddy teach you that?

  Get your hind end

  down from there.

  Keep your dress down and

  your nose clean.

  Your face is

  gonna freeze

  like that.

  If you don't stop doing that

  you're gonna go blind.

  I brought

  you into

  this world

  and

  I will take

  you out.

  You need to drink

  some act right juice!

  You’re cute as a

  bug in a rug!

  Life sucks, hun.

  Get a straw.

  If y'all are gonna kill each

  other,then go outside.

  Child, you gotta

  cowboy up.

  Quit wigglin’ like

  a worm in hot ashes.

  You need that like you need

  a hole in your head.

  Do not bother me

  unless

  you’re on fire.

  You didn't get that

  from my side of the family.

  Me and you are

  ’bout to have a come

  to Jesus meeting.

  That’s your little red

  wagon to pull.

  No child of mine is going out

  of the house dressed like that.

  Use your head

  for more than a hat rack.

  Don’t you

  back sass me!

  Piss-poor planning on your

  part does not constitute an emergency

  on my part.

  Get outta that!

  You gonna ride

  to town on that

  pouting lip?

  Darlin’, you got

  a caviar appetite on a

  peanut butter budget.

  You better give your

  heart to Jesus 'cause your

  butt is mine.

  Pee in one hand and wish in the other and

  see which one gets filled up the fastest.

  Can’t never could

  ’til he tried.

  You’ve made me

  proud as punch!

  You’re gonna

  miss me

  when I’m dead

  and gone.

  Talk

  Southern

  to Me 'Bout

  Your State

  of Mind

  Your State of Mind

  “I’m madder than a cat being baptized!”

  Are Southerners more emotionally expressive than people living in the rest of the country? Does a cat have climbing gear? Does a one-legged duck swim in a circle? Does a fat baby fart? Duh! As a matter of fact, I’m downright irritated somebody might think we’re not more emotional than our northern and western counterparts. It irks the stew outta me! Makes me wanna slap the taste outta somebody’s mouth! Oops. Sorry. My hot-tempered Scotch-Irish heritage is showing—I better tuck my tongue behind my teeth.

  The irony is that although Southerners are extremely emotional creatures, we are masters at holding our tongues for the time being in order to put on a good face in public. No matter how upset you are at your lazy brother and his wife for mooching off your parents, you will act happy at their Fourth of July lake party on a pontoon boat your parents essentially paid for. Even if your husband informs you he wants a divorce while y’all are driving to the annual church Christmas pageant, you will arrive as the picture perfect couple and stew quietly as you endure amateur actors anointing baby Jesus. Of course, in the long run this only makes things worse. Our tendency to temporarily sweep our emotions under the rug only allows them to fester. Our emotional pot simmers beneath our sparkling, pleasant, pearly white smiles until it erupts with the force of a volcano. Ultimately, Southerners can’t hide from their emotional nature.

  The Scotch-Irish were early settlers of the Southern United States and brought with them a tough defensive attitude that stemmed from the necessity to safeguard their livestock from rustlers. Some believe this is why Southerners still live by a deep-rooted protective code of honor. Others argue that our emotionally reactive nature is due to the South’s warm climate—we tend to get hot under the collar.
Many would argue that our tetchiness comes from the burden of history that weighs on Southerners and the amount of suffering we must endure from patronizing non-Southerners. Here’s what I know for certain: antagonizing a Southerner is like picking your teeth with a rattlesnake.

  I’ve always battled my temper. But I take some comfort in knowing that I get it honest. My Daddy is a prime example of a Southern hothead. He’s a loving, mild-mannered Southern gentleman who has a wonderful sense of humor—until you make him angry; then all bets are off. He transforms into an unrecognizable alien of fury who courteously warns his provoker, “You better give your heart to Jesus, ’cause your butt is mine!” You just never know what might set him off.

  A few years ago, Daddy went in for a routine heart catheterization and wound up being immediately prepped for emergency triple bypass surgery. The concerned surgeon popped into Daddy’s hospital room and asked, “Mr. Fowler, are you aware you are obese?” Well this sent Daddy into a rage. “What kind of question is that? The very idea! Of course I know I’m fat! I’m not here to get a dayum tooth pulled!” Thankfully, Mama was there to remind Daddy that his life was in the hands of this surgeon, so he best calm his fat ass down.

  Daddy’s brother, Larry Dean, has the same temper. When I was a kid on vacation at the “luxurious” Viking Motel in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, my Aunt Kathy made beef stew for supper. I’ll never forget Uncle Larry getting madder than a cat being baptized simply because we didn’t have any ketchup. In his defense, we were too poor to go out to dinner, so our little home-cooked family motel meals were a “special occasion.” But, still . . . Uncle Larry fumed for days over ketchup. Even now, if we bring up this story his face gets redder than ketchup. I’m convinced the origin of Uncle Larry’s heart and hypertension problems is dadgum ketchup.

  My Mama is a perfect specimen of the paradox that defines Southern women. She’s a quintessential Southern lady who can mask her emotions if necessary, but she also has a temper. To this day, my high school girlfriends are still afraid of her. “Don’t tell Claudia!” continues to be our gang’s motto. Of course, it doesn’t help that Mama is a bit OCD when it comes to cleanliness and organization, as that only makes her more susceptible to irritation. For example, Mama organizes Daddy’s closet into “yard shirts ” and “forbidden shirts.” The “yard shirts” are for working in the yard and the “forbidden shirts” are for dinner, church, doctor’s appointments, etc. Daddy, of course, mocks her system, so when Mama catches him in the yard wearing a “forbidden shirt,” she raises hell like a pig caught under a gate. This woman’s blood boils over a shirt. And Daddy’s blood boils over her systematic shirt arrangement. It’s a combustible situation. I can only pray they don’t kill each other over this, because the headline in the local newspaper is sure to read “Southern Town Shattered By Scandalous Shirt Slaughter.”