I've Screwed Up
I've fucked up my template. This will all seem wierd for awhile. I was trying to show some sophistication and fucked up. I will recover.
Friday, August 01, 2003
Bless Your Heart
This appeared in the blogosphere half a dozen or so years ago. It bears repeating. Anyone knows the author of this piece, let me know. She has a fan.
Bless Your Heart
Someone once noted that a Southerner can get away with the most awful kind of insult just as long as it's prefaced with the words, "Bless her heart" or 'Bless his heart." As in, "Bless his heart, if they put his brain on the head of a pin, it'd roll around like a BB on a six-lane highway." Or, "Bless her heart, she's so bucktoothed, she could eat an apple through a picket fence."
There are also the sneakier ones that I remember from tongue-clucking types of my childhood: "You know, it's amazing that even though she had that baby seven months after they got married, bless her heart, it weighed 10 pounds!"
As long as the heart is sufficiently blessed, the insult can't be all that bad, at least that's what my Great-aunt Tiny (bless her heart, she was anything but) used to say. I was thinking about this the other day when a friend was telling me about her new Northern friend who was upset because her toddler is just beginning to talk and he has a Southern accent. My friend, who is very kind and, bless her heart, cannot do a thing about those thighs of hers, so don't even start, was justifiably miffed about this. After all, this woman had CHOSEN to move south a couple of years ago "Can you believe it?" she said to my friend. "A child of mine is going to be taaaallllkkin' a-liiiike thiiiissss."
I can think of far worse fates than speaking Southern for this adorable little boy, who, bless his heart, must surely be the East Coast king of mucus. I wish I'd been there. I would have said that she shouldn't fret, because there is nothing so sweet or pleasing on the ear as a soft, Southern drawl. Of course, maybe we shouldn't be surprised at her "carryings on." After all, when you come from a part of the world where "family silver" refers to the large medallion around Uncle Vinnie's neck, you just have to, as aunt Tiny would say, "consider the source."
Now don't get me wrong. Some of my dearest friends are from the North, bless their hearts. I welcome their perspective, their friendships and their recipes for authentic Northern Italian food. I've even gotten past their endless complaints that you can't find good bread down here. The ones who really gore my ox are the native Southerners who have begun to act almost embarrassed about their speech. It's as if they want to bury it in the "Hee Haw" cornfield. We've already lost too much.
I was raised to sware, not swear, but you hardly ever hear anyone say that anymore, I sware you don't. And I've caught myself thinking twice before saying something is "right much," "right close" or "right good" because non-natives think this is right funny indeed. I have a friend from Bawston who thinks it's hilarious when I say I've got to "carry" my daughter to the doctor or "cut off"" the light. That's OK. It's when you have to explain things to people who were born here that I get mad as a mule eating bumblebees.
Not long ago, I found myself trying to explain to a native Southerner what I meant by being "in the short rows." I'm used to explaining that expression (it means you've worked a right smart but you're almost done) to newcomers to the land of buttermilk and cold collard sandwiches (better than you think), but to have to explain it to a Southerner was just plain weird.
The most grating example is found in restaurants and stores where nice, Magnolia-mouthed clerks now say "you guys" instead of "y'all," as their mamas raised them up to say. I'd sooner wear white shoes in February, drink unsweetened tea, and eat Miracle Whip instead of Duke's than utter the words, "you guys." Not long ago, I went to lunch with four women friends, and the waiter, a nice Southern boy, you-guys-ed all of us within an inch of our lives. "You guys ready to order? What can I get for you guys? Would you guys like to keep you guys' forks?"
Lord, have mercy. It's a little comforting that, at the very same time some natives are so eager to blend in, they've taken to making microwave grits (an abomination), the rest of the world is catching on that it's cool to be Clampett. How else do you explain NASCAR tracks and Krispy Kreme doughnut franchises springing up like yard onions all over the country?
To those of you who're still a little embarrassed by your Southernness, take two tent revivals and a dose of redeye gravy and call me in the morning.
Bless your heart.
This appeared in the blogosphere half a dozen or so years ago. It bears repeating. Anyone knows the author of this piece, let me know. She has a fan.
Bless Your Heart
Someone once noted that a Southerner can get away with the most awful kind of insult just as long as it's prefaced with the words, "Bless her heart" or 'Bless his heart." As in, "Bless his heart, if they put his brain on the head of a pin, it'd roll around like a BB on a six-lane highway." Or, "Bless her heart, she's so bucktoothed, she could eat an apple through a picket fence."
There are also the sneakier ones that I remember from tongue-clucking types of my childhood: "You know, it's amazing that even though she had that baby seven months after they got married, bless her heart, it weighed 10 pounds!"
As long as the heart is sufficiently blessed, the insult can't be all that bad, at least that's what my Great-aunt Tiny (bless her heart, she was anything but) used to say. I was thinking about this the other day when a friend was telling me about her new Northern friend who was upset because her toddler is just beginning to talk and he has a Southern accent. My friend, who is very kind and, bless her heart, cannot do a thing about those thighs of hers, so don't even start, was justifiably miffed about this. After all, this woman had CHOSEN to move south a couple of years ago "Can you believe it?" she said to my friend. "A child of mine is going to be taaaallllkkin' a-liiiike thiiiissss."
I can think of far worse fates than speaking Southern for this adorable little boy, who, bless his heart, must surely be the East Coast king of mucus. I wish I'd been there. I would have said that she shouldn't fret, because there is nothing so sweet or pleasing on the ear as a soft, Southern drawl. Of course, maybe we shouldn't be surprised at her "carryings on." After all, when you come from a part of the world where "family silver" refers to the large medallion around Uncle Vinnie's neck, you just have to, as aunt Tiny would say, "consider the source."
Now don't get me wrong. Some of my dearest friends are from the North, bless their hearts. I welcome their perspective, their friendships and their recipes for authentic Northern Italian food. I've even gotten past their endless complaints that you can't find good bread down here. The ones who really gore my ox are the native Southerners who have begun to act almost embarrassed about their speech. It's as if they want to bury it in the "Hee Haw" cornfield. We've already lost too much.
I was raised to sware, not swear, but you hardly ever hear anyone say that anymore, I sware you don't. And I've caught myself thinking twice before saying something is "right much," "right close" or "right good" because non-natives think this is right funny indeed. I have a friend from Bawston who thinks it's hilarious when I say I've got to "carry" my daughter to the doctor or "cut off"" the light. That's OK. It's when you have to explain things to people who were born here that I get mad as a mule eating bumblebees.
Not long ago, I found myself trying to explain to a native Southerner what I meant by being "in the short rows." I'm used to explaining that expression (it means you've worked a right smart but you're almost done) to newcomers to the land of buttermilk and cold collard sandwiches (better than you think), but to have to explain it to a Southerner was just plain weird.
The most grating example is found in restaurants and stores where nice, Magnolia-mouthed clerks now say "you guys" instead of "y'all," as their mamas raised them up to say. I'd sooner wear white shoes in February, drink unsweetened tea, and eat Miracle Whip instead of Duke's than utter the words, "you guys." Not long ago, I went to lunch with four women friends, and the waiter, a nice Southern boy, you-guys-ed all of us within an inch of our lives. "You guys ready to order? What can I get for you guys? Would you guys like to keep you guys' forks?"
Lord, have mercy. It's a little comforting that, at the very same time some natives are so eager to blend in, they've taken to making microwave grits (an abomination), the rest of the world is catching on that it's cool to be Clampett. How else do you explain NASCAR tracks and Krispy Kreme doughnut franchises springing up like yard onions all over the country?
To those of you who're still a little embarrassed by your Southernness, take two tent revivals and a dose of redeye gravy and call me in the morning.
Bless your heart.
Why do some men name their penis?
I've called mine names (like, opportunistic), but I've never like, given it a name. Do women name their vaginas? I think not. Okay, now that we know men do, here is a list of the 50 worst names you can choose.
I've called mine names (like, opportunistic), but I've never like, given it a name. Do women name their vaginas? I think not. Okay, now that we know men do, here is a list of the 50 worst names you can choose.
Hepburn and Tracy, NOT!
I'd like to say I don't watch much tv, but that's not exactly true. I don't pay attention to a lot of tv, but I watch it more than I have time for, and the only part of tv that interests me is news about people, i.e., gossip.
Now because I watch it peripherally, I see different aspects of it, and miss others all together. I mention all of this as a background for my next topic, Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez. All I know about either is what I've gleaned from tv gossip, advertisements, and information I think I pick up from the commentators on the morning entertaining news shows. I think Ben Affleck must be one of the smartest young newcomers to hit Hollywood in a generation or so. Notice I didn't say he could act. Doesn't matter. He's cute. He comes across as nice. His friends are nice. He may be as mean and nasty as Joan Crawford, but he's got a clean image. Ms. Lopez has come from a different direction. For all her talent and determination, she's mentioned as much for the men whose company she has kept as for her own skills and talents.
Her greatest skill so far has been looking out for the JLo phenomenon. She's going strong. Same for Ben. He's going strong. They have one shared strength: the camera likes them.
Still can't act. Either of them. She better than he, but that doesn't make her good or even close to good.
About a year or so ago, I heard that Ben and Jennifer had obtained the rights to remake Casablanca. Oh my God, I thought. Is nothing sacred?
Okay, that was a silly question, but I shuddered at what I imagined their updated and "cool" version of Casablanca would be like. If it's anything like this, there oughttabe a law. Apparently others dislike the new movie also.
I certainly wish Ben and Jennifer the best. If they do a porno flick, I'll buy it in a minute. But they can't act. Their problem is they have too much power, and they think they're smater than they really are. People like them need to let directors, writers and producers be in charge. A good director can make a mediocre actor look good. A good writer can give cute people actual words to say to give their beauty context. And a good producer can . . . well do whatever producers do better than someone who's done what they've done so far because they're cute. If they need a warning example, I give them Kevin Costner and Barbra Streisand. (Hasn't her decline into mediocrity been sad?)
Meanwhile, Ben, Jennifer, please leave Casablanca alone. Oh, and leave those other Hepburn and Tracy movies alone, too. I don't care how cute the two of you are together, you can't act. I feel bad for you about that, but heck, you're rich and beautiful, ain't that enough?
Oh well, there goes my invitation to the wedding.
I'd like to say I don't watch much tv, but that's not exactly true. I don't pay attention to a lot of tv, but I watch it more than I have time for, and the only part of tv that interests me is news about people, i.e., gossip.
Now because I watch it peripherally, I see different aspects of it, and miss others all together. I mention all of this as a background for my next topic, Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez. All I know about either is what I've gleaned from tv gossip, advertisements, and information I think I pick up from the commentators on the morning entertaining news shows. I think Ben Affleck must be one of the smartest young newcomers to hit Hollywood in a generation or so. Notice I didn't say he could act. Doesn't matter. He's cute. He comes across as nice. His friends are nice. He may be as mean and nasty as Joan Crawford, but he's got a clean image. Ms. Lopez has come from a different direction. For all her talent and determination, she's mentioned as much for the men whose company she has kept as for her own skills and talents.
Her greatest skill so far has been looking out for the JLo phenomenon. She's going strong. Same for Ben. He's going strong. They have one shared strength: the camera likes them.
Still can't act. Either of them. She better than he, but that doesn't make her good or even close to good.
About a year or so ago, I heard that Ben and Jennifer had obtained the rights to remake Casablanca. Oh my God, I thought. Is nothing sacred?
Okay, that was a silly question, but I shuddered at what I imagined their updated and "cool" version of Casablanca would be like. If it's anything like this, there oughttabe a law. Apparently others dislike the new movie also.
I certainly wish Ben and Jennifer the best. If they do a porno flick, I'll buy it in a minute. But they can't act. Their problem is they have too much power, and they think they're smater than they really are. People like them need to let directors, writers and producers be in charge. A good director can make a mediocre actor look good. A good writer can give cute people actual words to say to give their beauty context. And a good producer can . . . well do whatever producers do better than someone who's done what they've done so far because they're cute. If they need a warning example, I give them Kevin Costner and Barbra Streisand. (Hasn't her decline into mediocrity been sad?)
Meanwhile, Ben, Jennifer, please leave Casablanca alone. Oh, and leave those other Hepburn and Tracy movies alone, too. I don't care how cute the two of you are together, you can't act. I feel bad for you about that, but heck, you're rich and beautiful, ain't that enough?
Oh well, there goes my invitation to the wedding.