Carrie on

 I really had to think about what I would title this one. Remember when we first started this 'thing' we have here...remind me to tell you about the panty story, I said. Remember? You were curious weren't you? I knew that others might be too. That's part of the reason I chose this title. Why should others be able to slip in whenever they see a titillating title. Psh. What we have is special. I know you are here because you care. With a title like this one, you must. My fashion education began with Vogue . I read it devoutly through high school. Somehow, I could afford it back then. Calvin Klein became my obsession (no pun intended). His ads papered my walls, like the Coreys, Guns n Roses, and Skid Row once did. Kate Moss's waif look and heroin chic confused me. I never cared to resemble her. Cindy Crawford and Niki Taylor made tall okay, doable, cool--almost. Their signature beauty marks made me feel that the jerk who tried to scratch mine off of my face really wa

How are ya? No, I don't mean to be casual or informal. I'm sorry if my lack of pretense turns you off. I write the way I speak. That's my way, my authenticity. My real. I don't think that you can really know me unless you've heard me....the way I sound. My voice is like the sweet inside the honey. The gummy crumbly warm insides of a buttermilk biscuit. The sass that tickles your ears when you drink tart lemonade. My sound is my flavor. My voice, I guess, is unique. It must be, I figure, because people always want to talk about it, and ask me about it, and demand that I say certain things like, "It's shake n bake and I helped...." Really? Like I would ever say that. I'm not from Georgia or Tennessee. I like grits and cornbread just fine, yes thank you, and I prefer sweet ice tea. There's probably a 'd' inside there, but I don't pronounce it. Perhaps it becomes part of the 't'. Ice'dt'ea. Something like that. Sometim

I don't know why that little girl died. I didn't watch her mother's trial. I didn't want to. That doesn't make me indifferent though. I used to think that those who were quiet must be indifferent. That is not so. Sometimes quiet is quite the opposite of indifference. I haven't discussed this. Each time I caught my mom or my husband watching the trial I said, "I don't know how you can watch that." I said that, but I'm not indifferent. There were times when I was a kid that I would aggravate my mom into silence. Sometimes she 'ignored' me...as if that were possible as loud as I was, but she needed to make me feel ignored anyway, so I would calm down. Usually, it worked. It worked though only after my squeals and shrieks and scolds climaxed in tears and snot and a scratchy throat. I threw my body wildly when sound wasn't enough, and she just went on about her business. Indifferent, I thought, but this wasn't indifference eith

Aidan was sixmonthsold. It was a hot July--no rainfull respites. It was hot, and relief came only indoors and in the shade. I love theme park food. Pickles--bigandoverpriced--funnelcakes--spaghetti with twohugemeatballs....somewhere behind Pompeii, across from the wax roses and cut crystal....Busch Gardens, Williamsburg. If I was going to sit, I might as well eat too...and why not catch a show while we were at it? It was one of those situations in which the show didn't really matter--it could be mud wrestling, and we weren't going to move. The seats and the shade and the cold drinks felt good--the spaghetti too, and Aidan contented himself in his stroller--Hallelujah! All things bright and beautiful--cooler too. The show was a song and dance review...imagine any theme park amphitheatre, add some flashy costumes and you've got it...my mom loves these things (smile). Okay, I'll admit it, I kind of like them too....only, I'm jaded, so I pretend to play it cool. I p

He would introduce me as his girlfriend. A bottle of JOY dish detergent sat beside his sink every day of my childhood. I thought he bought it because his name was on the bottle. That's how we pronounced it, "Joy." Nine years ago, I started writing a book about my Uncle Joey… I don’t know exactly when.   And when you’re paying tribute to a man who lived 94 years, I’m not sure the timing much matters.   What does matter is that I never finished it.   I don’t know if I will or I won’t—and again, that doesn’t really matter right now either.   But I can tell you why I wanted to write it, AND, I can tell you why I stopped. I met my Uncle Joey—who was actually my GREAT Uncle—32 years ago.   He was 61 and I was, well, I was just born.   In my earliest memories, he doesn’t have hair, he’s tall and thin and old.   You have to understand that to a child—anyone who isn’t a child is old.   But still, a 61 year age difference is significant.   We didn’t seem destined to become bud

“I mean, the thing is, I could die…haven’t you considered that?   I could die, and there you’d be and, you know everyone would blame you.” “You don’t need to explain yourself to me.   Just give me the money and this can all go away.   I won’t say another word about it, but you’re going to pay me ‘cause that’s the deal.” Survivor?   No.   Fear Factor .   Not even.   Cool Hand Luke ?   Well, close.   But Thanksgiving vacation was hardly life on a chain gang.   I was marked, that was true, but I was also guilty.   Yet again I allowed my spirited mouth to speak for itself.   A short drive following a bountiful, emphasis on full, Thanksgiving dinner.   The discourse digressed.   The drive drove.   On and on.   Thanksgiving, thanks, thankfulness.   Family, friends, food.   Delicious, desserts.   Ice cream.   Coffee ice cream.   My absolute favorite.   “I love coffee ice cream.   I could eat a gallon of it.”