Bad Bang

In a fit of pique, I hacked my bangs like a 15 yr old in a love triangle. In fact, I haven’t butchered my hair like this since I was a 15 yr old in a love triangle.

 

While I am prone to both the hair brush throwing hissy fit and the occasional boogered up bang job, rarely do I break anything or cause (semi) irreparable damage. But this is bad, y’all. It’s a real bad sign.

The other day, after picking the shells off the umpteenth hardboiled egg, I went postal on a particularly stubborn one and just crushed the whole damn thing in my fist and threw it in the sink. The crunch of the shell combined with the warm squoosh of the innards was so satisfying that I did it again on a perfectly innocent one. There is no comin back from a smooshed-ass egg, y’all. Major irreparable.

Out of two dozen eggs, four of them felt the wrath of my pre-menopausal impatience.

Cheaper than therapy; easier on the liver than Merlot.

When my brand new Stick Vac quit after sweeps, I held it over my head and aimed it out the window. The image of having to clean up all that shattered glass without said Stick Vac stopped me before I let her fly. So I walked outside and tossed it, with great indignation, into the yard.

Then, of course, I picked all the grass out of the handle, found the receipt and took it back to Meijer.

See? I’m not a hysterical 47 year old, hormonal lunatic.

My sweet Stud Muffin totally agreed with me when I asked them that very question just this morning while I was using his super-sharp filet knife to carve up a chicken. He gently took the knife from my hand, agreed wholeheartedly that I was not psycho and graciously offered to finish all that nasty cutting. He’s a pip, that one.

So the whole hair whack job has me in a dither.

I’m going to have to go to my hair chick and admit to cutting my own bangs. Then I’ll have to admit to the Hissy Fit. Then she’ll sweetly ask what on earth was wrong? And then I’ll have to admit that it was nothing more than me being tired of tucking that little patch we were trying to grow out behind my ear every five freakin’ seconds.

“Well, we don’t have to worry about tucking it behind your ear now, do we, honey?”

Witch.

Then she’ll talk me into layers so my bangs will blend. Which will look great after she puts three brands of goop in it, blows it, curls it, fluffs it and lacquers it down but will look like living hell after two seconds on the boat or in the Jeep or in the morning FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!

Oh my. Oh my my…

This is when Brittany got the scissors out. This is when Carrie Underwood carved her name in the leather seats. This is when Charlie popped open the Tiger Juice.

But not me, y’all. Southern women are bred for civility and gracious forbearance.

This is when I uncork the bottle.

My name ain’t Anita Merlot for nothin’….

Big Butt Little Britches

It has come to my attention that certain people think I’m a little too big for my britches.

I’ll admit to not giving my badonkadonk enough of a vote while shopping. The Girls are loud and it’s two against one. Then sometimes I forget to turn around in those blinking florescent dressing rooms. Sometimes they’re just too darn small. Sometimes I forget to care.

For instance, if the last three get-ups I’ve strapped on have been bathing suits, it doesn’t really matter what comes next. A) I can’t focus properly because I’m still snow-blind from the Thigh Exposure and b) if it buttons without oxygen deprivation – buy it!

If I’m having some doubts, I let the price tag be the gauge.

“Oh hell, for $21.99 I can make this work.”

“What? Half off? Surely I can find something orange to match these shoes!!

or my favorite

“OMG! I love this! When I lose 10 pounds it will zip right up!”

I’ve ‘bout $20-dollared myself into the Poor House at TJ Maxx, y’all. I have a closet of cheap orange clothes from 1999 still waiting for that 10# to slough off.

So, yes, usually, my butt is too big for my britches. Oh wait, that’s not what you mean?

It’s the Fudgie thing again, isn’t it? Too hoity-toity?

Maybe that’s it – you’re threatened by my advanced vocabulary. Words like “hoity-toity” and “badonkadonk?

Well, I’m fiddinda ‘splain a few things to you, idjit.
(probably that sentence, to start…)

If you feel like I’m talking over your head, it’s probably because you’re staring at my ta-tas. Look up.

Perhaps you don’t understand my accent? Do all my words sound like sound like I’m suckin’ on a big ‘ole cherry Popsicle? Dude, I mean it. Look UP!

Do my southern colloquialisms confuse you? Really? Gee, I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny.

Here’s a little secret. (I’ll probably lose my Scarlett Card over sharing this) Sshhhhhhh…

YOU’RE WEIRD, TOO.

But, you don’t think so. Which makes it twice as funny.

Sugar, I know my sky-high shoes are too slut-puppy. 

 

But, did you notice that you’re wearing birth control on your feet?

No, the new Mephisto sandals are still not cute. Nice try.

Go ahead and cluck at me while I’m lapping up a juicy steak, a loaded baked potato and a fat glass of merlot.
I’m sure your leafy greens, hardy legumes and Tofu Tar Tar are just yum yum yummy.



I will still leave a prettier corpse: young, plump and smiling.
You will need extra embalming fluid and a Beano.

You say, my hair’s too poofy and my butt’s too poochy and my boobs are too poochy AND poofy.
I say, didn’t your mama teach you The Three B’s?
Blowdryer, béarnaise, for Newton’s sake, brassiere!





If I showed up bra-less, in Birkenstocks and
hemp pants, sayin’ “soda” and “you guys”,
Mama Merlot would fall over in her collard greens.






Newsflash: I’m not from here.
I’m not gonna fake it.
Okay, I am gonna fake it – but not the Yankee part.

You want fudge?
I can slather that with Fluff and graham crackers and southern fry that.
But don’t bite off more than you can chew.

Too big for my britches? Ya think?

(Not So) Simply Anita

Everyone needs something.
Anita Merlot.
When it’s really crazy? Anita Preauxzach.
When it’s -9 degrees?  Anita Vaekay.
God knows, Anita Schpanken.
And a damn Merlot. Helllooo?!?

As a cultured woman of the South, I was taught to simply hold my empty stem up with a helpless, limp hand and it would automatically be swept away and refilled accordingly. Preferably by my significant other, but if he’s too slow (or perhaps distracted by some blond bimbo’s stem), there was always a chivalrous gentleman ready to accommodate my needs. Wine-wise, I mean.

My first clue was when I tried that move with my future husband. No go. I waggled the glass in the air. I even tossed in a perky little pout. Nothing. Really? Anita Rhett….

His business partner, a beautiful silver-haired Southern Man, who was on his fourth or fifth wife, quickly took my Iowa preacher’s kid of a fiancée aside and gave him his first lesson in how to accommodate his little Scarlett O’Thirsty. He did this while holding his own wife upright so she didn’t collapse into a puddle of perfume and Pinot Grigio.

Seventeen years later, my now husband is affectionately known as “Sir Pours Alot”. He’s a good learner. He’s dangerously chivie. Ask my friends, Sharon Chardonnay and Ivana Shiraz. They’ll confirm - Anita Leesh…

So, in answer to the burning question you didn’t ask, yes, there are many faces of Anita. Don’t fret; I’m not going all Sybil here. There’s not a nine-year-old boy lurking in my psychic corner waiting to peg you with a spitball or anything. But there is definitely more to Anita than Merlot.

I, Anita, am a complex, multi-layered Vidalia onion of a woman. Sweet and juicy, but I’ll still bring you to tears if you cut me wrong. If I seem simple on the outside, it’s because I am a teeming mass of emotional depth on the inside. If “teeming mass” brings to mind a Medusa-like tangle of neurotic baggage, then you’re on the right track. We grow ‘em like that in the South. Granted, it’s mostly due to our mother’s fondness for gin and Salems during pregnancy. Or, maybe the fact that we are taught from birth how to gaze adoringly at whom ever hands us a bottle. Milk to Merlot – it’s not a big leap.

Right now, for instance, Anita Peddie. See, that’s not scary-deep. Harmless, in fact. Its just toes. Better than say, Anita Strangleyew.

Right?
RIGHT???

That’s what I thought, darlin’. You’re just the cutest little thing….

Now, where were we? Oh yes…. Anita Merlot.