A Flavor of Moravia

Not long ago my mother asked me how to spell my middle name.

Okay, now didn’t she give the name to me? I’ve always harbored a quiet suspicion that my parents sort of threw that name at me like you might throw spaghetti against a wall to see if it’s going to stick. When I was old enough to ask about it, they said it was Grandmommy’s maiden name and it was German. I spent decades thinking I had German blood until my aunt discovered the name is actually Moravian. Moravian. Ooh, now that has a ring to it. Moravia. My people are from Moravia. I hail from Moravia…

Just one question. Where the hell is Moravia?

A quick pass at some online research reveals that Moravia used to be its own principality in Europe but is now a region of Czechoslovakia. The pictures seem like a fairytale with quaint bridges, old-world spires and snow covered forests. I can’t tell if my ancestors were charming princes or gingerbread men. Apparently members of the Moravian Church ventured to the new world as missionaries and settled in strong numbers in Pennsylvania and Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Wait a minute, I went to college in North Carolina and this sounds familiar. Old Salem… Christmastime… Moravian Spice Cookies.

I love these cookies! I thought ‘Moravian’ was a brand, like Keebler. (I’d rather be related to gingerbread men than elves.) But the Moravian Spice Cookie is an old European recipe popular during the holidays and famous for being the world’s thinnest cookie. I’m not sure how it differs from an everyday gingersnap but it just does. I would love to send Moravian cookies at Christmastime with a beautiful letterpress card weaving together my Moravian heritage with holiday blessings. This is something I absolutely would have done when I was young and married in my twenties. A real Martha Stewart moment. I’m not having many Martha moments these days, so I just ordered some cookies for myself at A Southern Season, one of my favorite gourmet retailers located in Chapel Hill. Now if you’re in my immediate group of friends and family, don’t you dare steal my idea. I fully intend to make them my signature gift, just not this year.

The cookie packaging is sleek and good looking. Good aesthetics, I knew I would like being Moravian. Our icon is this gorgeous multi-point star, appropriately named The Moravian Star. It began as a geometry project at a Moravian boys’ school in the 1830s and was quickly adopted by the Moravian Church as an Advent symbol. Even Domino Magazine features Moravian Star ornaments to illuminate and decorate for the holidays. I’ve already ordered several.

And when they arrive I am going to make a Christmas wish on my Moravian Star ornaments. I am going to wish that my family will cease and desist from any more genealogy research. Because with my luck they will discover we’ve been misspelling my name all along and take away my Moravian roots. Oh, but let’s not even speak of that. Everything about Moravia is just so magical. Elegant imagery. A spiritual symbol of the Christmas holiday. Paper thin spice cookies.

I am going to try to be more of all of those things in my daily life. More elegant. More spiritual. More thin.

More & More Moravian.


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Bleepin' Christmas Gifts

There is nothing more gratifying than a well-timed expletive. Cussing is such a delicious vice, an art form if done properly. I’d rather someone call me a [BLEEP] with a smile on their face than to say SHUT UP and mean it. I have taken a strong position with my daughter against saying angry words like HATE, STUPID and SHUT UP. Apparently she listens to me because my Little Chick has become the Bad Word Cop. She charges one quarter if you say a bad word. (And she doesn’t even know about the good ones yet!)

We were a little stir crazy after Thanksgiving. I was bleeding [BLEEPIN’] quarters covering for my dad as he shouted at the football games. We needed an activity and Little Chick was desperate to work on her Christmas list. [BLEEP]. A tricky chore for any parent, but especially difficult on divorced families. My mind wanders down a rabbit trail and I get myself completely worked up…I really want her to get precisely what she wants and Divorce Guilt makes me want to spoil her rotten. But of course I don’t want to spoil her, because then she’d be a Divorced Kid and a Spoiled Brat. Yikes. And how do I make sure my Ex is working from the same list? What if we get her the same thing? Oh [BLEEP] what if his gift is more special? What if he knows I am going to get her something special so he coasts by only getting her the cheap stuff? And what about grandparents and former in-laws? What about the godparents who no longer speak to me? And of course everyone sends multiple and separate [BLEEPIN’] emails to ask what size she is in dresses. In shoes. In pants. In socks.

It’s enough to make me loathe the entire month of December. I need a lot of quarters for all the words that come to mind.

But this year I had a stroke of genius. We marched into Target, found Guest Services, and I set up a gift registry for my Little Chick that can be accessed at any Target store, including online. My ex, the grandparents, aunts, uncles, extended family…everyone has the same list. And it’s updated by Target so you can see if something has already been purchased. All the details are right there including colors and sizes. All I had to do was make sure she selected items in a variety of appropriate prices ranges.

But the best part? The scanner. They give you a handheld scanner to create the list. Find an item you want, scan the little red light over the barcode and BLEEP, it’s on the list. It’s strange how much fun it was. Little Chick was madly pulling down toys; I was BLEEPIN’ them as fast as possible. She tried her hand at the scanner, but frankly she didn’t really have the BLEEPIN’ touch. She didn’t mind because she was literally buzzed checking out every item on every shelf. I haven’t had that much BLEEPIN’ fun in a toy aisle in 30 years. She wasn’t begging me to buy her something. I wasn’t rushing her out of there. She got to inspect every single toy to her hearts content and I was giddy with power with that BLEEPIN’ scanner in my hand.

So the Christmas list is all wrapped up, and we have a funny new tradition. I saved myself enormous headache, which keeps the BLEEPS from escaping my mouth and the quarters in my pocket.

And let’s face it. I need every last quarter to pay for all the BLEEPIN’ toys on that list.
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Fowled Out

Every year I approach Thanksgiving with the same goal: do not succumb to the pressures of holiday gluttony. Enjoy within reason. Exercise twice a day. Emerge on the other side victorious and svelte. I went into this year's battle armed with the usual gameplan. I would fill my plate with turkey and green beans. Avoid the rolls and stuffing. A dot of gravy and just a dollop of sweet potatoes for some color on my plate.

The first play in my playbook worked well, I loaded up on turkey. Nice move, this was going well. Hmm, but look at that gravy. Our good friend had ceremoniously made it just before we served the meal. It looked awfully rich and creamy. Just a touch -- whoops! Ok, so perhaps I was a little heavy handed. No more showboating, or gravyboating as the case may be. But adding too much gravy on my fowl was merely the first of many fouls to come.

Someone was serving the dressing and offered to put a heaping portion on my plate. I couldn't be rude, of course. And then I had to get extra sweet potatoes because I really wanted two marshmallows (marshmallows just seem so light and harmless) and they were spaced kinda far apart. Then came the rolls. Another good friend brought the rolls which were nothing short of luscious. She owns a bakery for heavens sake. They were plump and tall, slightly browned on top with a dusting of flour. Completely soft and doughy on the inside. By the time I found the green beans there was simply no room. I could only fit about three or four little green beans on the edge.

I looked at my plate. YELLOW FLAG! Piling on...definitely a 5-pound penalty.

Then came dessert. My daughter was terribly proud of her shoo-fly pie recipe so I had to have a little slice. And since a guest brought the pumpkin pie, I would have been a bad hostess not to try it. My mother made apple pie and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Of course everything needed whipped cream.

YELLOW FLAG! Excessive celebration. Another 5-pound penalty.

I rolled myself to bed Thursday night feeling completely stuffed and defeated. How did that happen? I started with turkey and pretty much fowled-out from there. And this was only halftime. I still had to face The Leftovers. Part of me was confident and somewhat idealistic. I knew I could avoid the Leftovers. The food was a nice treat but no longer necessary. I would just eat lean, carb-free foods and enjoy my family and friends for the rest of this game - I mean holiday. That's what it's all about, right?

And then there was the other part of me...the part that was wondering if we had enough apple pie leftover for breakfast. This part of me was backed-up against my own end zone about to throw an interception. The consequences would be harsh. I would have to regroup the minute I get home...New Offense: Stricter Diet....New Defense: Join a Gym....Special Teams: The Master Cleanse. Two-a-days would start on Monday. No, we travel home Monday. Start on Tuesday.

I held my own against the Leftovers for awhile but when the football games started, the grazing began. Ultimately I blame the Texas Longhorns for my downfall. The Aggies beat them like a drum for four straight quarters and I nervously nibbled my way through the entire game. With a little over two minutes to go I gave my daughter this big speech about not giving up on your team, a good fan stays until the end, keep hoping for a miracle. It was a tough loss. And to top it off I got completely wrapped up in the Arkansas-LSU game. Unbelievable! Unranked Arkansas beat #1 LSU in the third overtime. Just goes to show anything is possible. At the first overtime I was still rooting for LSU to win it. But by the third overtime and my third helping of coffee cake I had starting cheering for Arkansas. What a great victory for the underdog.

I suppose hoping against hope is in my blood. My great-grandfather played in 'The Game of the Century' in 1916 when Georgia Tech beat Cumberland 222 to zero. It remains the greatest win (or loss, depending on your point of view) in college football history. And I say, with great pride, my great-grandfather played for Cumberland. I think he was even the quarterback for a few plays. He stills holds the college record for most kick-off returns received. I really cannot imagine what compelled the Cumberland players to press on for all four quarters. In the face of certain defeat how did they pick themselves off the bench and persevere? Perhaps it was a combination of hope, sheer drive and a relentless commitment to their fellow teammates. And maybe just a touch of insanity?

I need a little dose of that Cumberland never-say-die spirit. I need to lose this defeatist attitude. So I overate on Thanksgiving? So I plowed through the Leftovers yesterday? I think my gameplan was flawed. Today is a new day, so I'm calling an audible. I am going to put on my snow boots and take a leisurely walk on the county road, with these beautiful mountains as my backdrop. Maybe I will head into town with my dad for the Carroll College football game. And then help my mom plan Christmas. After a super-traditional Thanksgiving she likes to do a wintry Italian meal for Christmas day. She's thinking Osso Bucco this year...

...hmmmm. Hey Coach, put me in. I'm ready.
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Istanbul was Constantinople...

The city of Istanbul has had more name changes than Elizabeth Taylor has had husbands. It’s been on the map for centuries and somehow manages to endure one empire after the next. And with each wave of reinvention, a new name…Byzantium, Augusta Antonina, New Rome, Constantinople, Stamboul, Islambol…just to name a few. It’s a rich brew of cultures, religions and customs. Any way you slice it, there’s a lot of history in Turkey.

I’d love to go back. But new lines are being drawn in the global sandbox and sometimes it’s hard to keep up with our friends and foes and the fuzzy in-between. Is it still safe to visit Turkey? I was there in the early 90’s but things are so different now. After all, Americans aren’t exactly beloved around the world these days. Travel advisories to Turkey seem to vary on the Internet. Some say okay, some say to visit with extreme caution. I suppose change is inevitable, but it’s heartbreaking to think there’s this beautiful part of the world that might suddenly be off limits to me simply because I’m an American.

But this is really just fodder for conversation because I have no immediate plans to travel to Turkey.

I do, however, have plans to travel for turkey. I am madly doing laundry and pulling out our warm clothes to spend Thanksgiving in Montana, where thankfully our somewhat simple and cozy traditions have not changed all that much through the years. Add a daughter, subtract a husband, substitute some family friends. All in all it’s still a low-key affair with a standard menu, roaring fires, college football and lots of movies.

For some reason I always curl up and watch The English Patient. I don’t know why it’s such a treat to watch out there. I have the same DVD here at home but never want to invest the time to sit still for the entire thing. But in Montana I can really sink into the whole long ride, without feeling guilty or rushed. One year I remember my father and I engaged in an enthusiastic, wine-soaked critique of the film, analyzing the characters, the era, the symbolism, the cinematography. In our minds we were brilliant although likely less articulate than we imagined ourselves to be at the time. We started with the obvious... how it’s ironic that Count d’Almasy is the German speaking ‘English’ patient who is actually from Hungary, but separates himself from any national identity. With loyalty to no country he is able to hover above the developing war without taking a side as new lines are drawn in the sand. Instead, d’Almasy and his team are part of the Internationalist movement, dedicated to exploring the dessert and making maps. This presents an added layer of irony because as a mapmaker he is simply drawing his own version of the dessert. Carving out definition to areas that were previously unchartered, laying claim to new regions by naming them. There’s power in the naming of things. D’Almasy has a love affair with Katharine and begins to refer to her as his ‘wife’. Does the word itself make it true?

One of my favorite scenes is when Count d’Almasy and Katharine first meet:

Katharine: I wanted to meet the man who could write a long paper with so few adjectives.

D’Almasy: Well, a thing is still a thing no matter what you place in front of it. Big car, slow car chauffeur-driven car--

Katharine: --Broken car?

D’Almasy: It's still a car.

Katharine: Not much use, though.

So do words and names change the essence of a person, place or thing? Shakespeare’s Juliet asked the same question…what’s in a name? Her answer…a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. And perhaps it’s true. Whether you knew him as Muhammed Ali or Cassius Clay he could still float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. No matter if he’s Prince or The Artist Formerly Known as Prince he’s the same guy that brought us Purple Rain. Kentucky Fried Chicken and KFC are both finger lickin’ good. Sweet potato, mashed potato, it’s still just a potato.

Wait, wait! Hold on, that one doesn’t work. Sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes are most certainly not the same dish. As I learned in my first year of marriage there are two kinds of Americans in the world: those who were raised with sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving dinner and those who were raised with mashed potatoes. Imagine my shock when I learned I had married a Mashed Potato. How did this slip by in our premarital counseling?

So just as I switched my maiden name to my married name (which by the way, only required that I remove one letter, the letter ‘t’), we decided to sidestep the stalemate by serving both kinds of potato at our first Thanksgiving. It was a perfect solution for many years. And the truth is I really liked the mashed potatoes better. I only eat the melted marshmallows from the top of the sweet potatoes anyway. But sweet potatoes are simply part of the holiday. It’s a family tradition. Since my divorce my mother has quietly and unceremoniously dropped mashed potatoes from the menu. Meanwhile I have kept my ex-husband’s last name because I couldn’t bear to confuse the world by sliding the letter ‘t’ back in. So basically I’ve had my maiden name all along, just with a typo.

Apparently the pilgrims at the first Thanksgiving weren’t even called pilgrims back then. They were the Plymouth Colonists further categorized as either Saints (Separatists), Strangers or Crew Members. The term ‘pilgrim’ was only applied about 200 years later when someone resurrected a document from William Bradford, the first Governor of Plymouth. As he described those on the Mayflower he said, “they knew they were pilgrims” in reference to a Bible passage that reads, “…they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country.” Whether you call them separatists or pilgrims, these early Americans went through a hell of a lot in the name of freedom. After all, freedom was the name of the game for this new country they were putting on the map.

Of course a lot has changed since the first Thanksgiving with the pilgrims. A lot has changed since my first Thanksgiving with my ex-husband. New lines have been drawn. Friends and foes have swapped sides. Freedom has a whole new ring to it. But one thing that holds steady? Traditions. Traditions keep us from getting lost in all the name changes. Keep us from erasing our history as a new empire takes control.

So with that in mind I have to get back to my tradition of over-packing. Here’s hoping for a safe pilgrimage to Montana, a warm welcome when I get there, and extra marshmallows on the sweet potatoes.

Happy Thanksgiving.
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Gypsy Queen

My life was so turbulent back then that I didn’t really know how to deal with the calm after the storm. I didn’t know how to handle the heavy dose of freedom that joint custody prescribed every other weekend. So I became a manic traveler, fleeting off for a weekend here, a getaway there. New York, New Orleans, Las Vegas, even Port Aransas. My little black suitcase had wheels, so I was always packed and ready to roll. I was quite the gypsy.

Suddenly one weekend I decided to ground myself. It was time to stay in my own hometown and simply sit still, play with some of my Austin friends. But my anemic attempts to make plans failed. Everyone I called was out of town. I was hopeful that the phone would start to ring and the invitations would come pouring in. No such luck.

After a grueling Friday night alone with my dog and my thoughts, I knew I had to get out of the house on Saturday as quickly as possible. It was a beautiful day so I wandered up to the Four Seasons pool which was packed. There were three weddings at the hotel that night so the pool area was alive with pre-wedding revelry. I found a chair and set up camp for a day of sunbathing and people-watching. But before long my voyeurism was eclipsed by self-pity. I couldn’t believe how unnoticed I was. Didn’t one person want to talk to me? Don’t they realize how funny and charming I am? I’m a laugh-riot for heavens sake. I felt like I was in a movie where the character dies but doesn’t know it because he’s still roaming around in his own life, just invisible. Even the waiters were oblivious. I needed a bottle of water and a margarita but couldn’t get anyone’s attention. Waiters waiters everywhere but not a drop to drink.

Things were getting kind of crazy by the pool. A wild, sort of exotic looking group of older men arrived and they were revving up the party. They weren’t part of the wedding crowd. Were they foreign? Heavens, there were more of them. Multiplying exponentially, they were everywhere…chatting up the wedding guests, playing water volleyball, snapping girls’ bikini tops. Oh yes, they were foreign. Smoking in the pool and ashing right into the water.

As I took a dip I tried not to make eye contact with the wild bunch. They made me nervous and I decided I wasn’t in the mood to be social after all. But the chief wild one who was managing the flow of things bobbed over to include me in their next round of fruity frozen drinks. Well, at least I could finally get my drink. And just like that I joined their wacky little party. What were those accents? Hard to say. Apparently some of them lived in France, some in Los Angeles. The Chief of the wild bunch was very nice and effusive about how much they loved Texas. So finally I had to ask…what were they doing in Texas?

Chief puffed up a little bit and proudly gestured to include all of his comrades. “We are the Gypsy Kings.”

Good Lord. The Gypsy Kings? I was kinda into their music for a spell in college. And when I lived in Boston every uppercrust hostess played The Gypsy Kings to add a dash of acceptable flavor to an otherwise whitebread dinner party. And now I was in the Four Seasons pool playing water volleyball with them. Apparently Chief was their manager. They were doing a show that night at Bass Concert Hall and he assured me there would be a ticket with my name on it waiting at Will Call.

And poof, the pool party evaporated. Everyone but me had to get ready for a wedding or a concert. I went home to google The Gypsy Kings and learn all about their Gitano gypsy culture. Funny, I decided to stay put for once and the wanderers came to me. Maybe it was a sign I should go to the concert. Should I go to the concert? I really didn’t want to go. But I knew all the get-over-divorce literature would want me to roll the dice and go. Fine, I decided to go. I mean pretty cool, right? I could say I was with the band, of gypsies.

I took a cab so I wouldn’t have to navigate parking at Bass Concert Hall. My seat was in the second row, surrounded by all the gypsies’ extended friends and family. And a few groupies. The men were a little oily and the women were, well, also a little oily. A pungent cloud of cologne lingered over the first few rows. Meanwhile the rest of the hall was filled with yuppy couples, several of whom I recognized. Soccer moms trying to look spicy in their Tory Burch tunics. Oh, I didn’t want them to see me with the smarmy crowd at the front. This was embarrassing. Finally the lights dimmed and the music started, but I was getting a splitting headache. I suppose the performance was topnotch, I just couldn’t get into the groove. People were dancing like crazy, singing along to hits like ‘Volare’ and ‘Hotel California’. One song about flying and the other about being stuck.

I sensed we were nearing the end, thank heavens. But right before the grand finale, Chief appeared in the aisle, gesturing at me to come with him. Come! Come! Oh Lord, I was invited to an after party with the band. Chief marshaled me into a brightly lit conference room that was already packed with about 40 people. Folding tables displayed vege trays with ranch dressing and heaping piles of cubed cheese. Goofy women were waiting with cameras and paraphernalia to be signed. It had finally happened. I had died and gone to Hell.

And I needed an exit strategy pronto. I had to get closer to that door so I could slip out unnoticed. I was sizing up my options, when who should walk in the door like a wonderful apparition, but living guitar legend Charlie Sexton. I couldn’t believe it. I had just been on an airplane with him a few months earlier. What are the odds? I’ve been a fan ever since he was in Thelma & Louise. His band was in the bar scene when Thelma and Louise launched their fateful roadtrip. And now he was alone by the door so I launched over and introduced myself. He was lovely. We chatted for a few minutes and sang praises for The Gypsy Kings (even though I was completely sick of the Gypsy Kings at this point.) Just enough chatter for me to get closer to the door, duck out and call a cab.

A cab that never came. I waited and waited. Everyone was long-gone. It was getting dark and desolate, my head hurt. I roamed to the back of Bass Concert Hall to see if the cab might be there. Damn! I found the band and their giant entourage getting on their bus. Please don’t see me, please don’t see me. Too late. Chief spotted me and insisted I ride back to the Four Seasons for the after-after party. I almost started to cry. I just wanted to be home alone with my dog. But with no car and no cab my options were slim. Begrudgingly, I joined the gypsies on their caravan and was seated with the lead singer. Why? Why was this my life? This was creepy. What if they weren’t really going to the Four Seasons? What if I ended up like Thelma & Louise? What if this is really a ring of white slave traders? Nervously I made small talk. Doesn’t the capital look pretty at night…look how many people are out downtown…did he enjoy Austin…the show was great. If he could speak English he pretended not to understand me. Finally I stopped filling the silence as the dark bus barreled down the road. And suddenly without warning he just put his hand on my knee. Ewww!! Completely creeped out I politely, but emphatically removed his hand from my knee. We never spoke. The moment we arrived at the Four Seasons I hid behind a column until the band of gypsies were all inside. I grabbed a cab and headed for home.

I woke up Sunday depressed. Did that whole trippy evening really happen? How surreal. Where was my normal life? I scooped up my blues and my handbag and headed out for another aimless day. I found myself at a weird little garage sale, flipping through some old records when who should appear, all alone at the same little garage sale, but Charlie Sexton! Charlie Freakin’ Sexton…three times in three months. I mean seriously, what are the odds?

It was a sign. He is, after all, in a band called the Arc Angels. So I decided it was a positive sign and that perhaps this weekend might be redeemed after all. I mustered up a tinge of cheer and drifted back to the Four Seasons pool. Certainly the servers would have more time for me on a Sunday. I could tell my story from the night before and probably get a few laughs. And dulled by a hangover, maybe the wedding crowd would be a little more open and friendly, a little more respectful to their once and future Gypsy Queen. Click Here to Keep Reading...

Ring My Belle

Pop culture has always had a love affair with the Southern Woman. From Scarlett O’ Hara to the Sugarbaker sisters, Thelma & Louise to those Steel Magnolias, we drink them up time and time again. Like an absinthe, these characters are elusive, intoxicating, bittersweet, steeped in ritual…and sometimes just a tad hard to swallow. In fact, the word ‘absinthe’ actually derives from absinthium, which in Greek means “undrinkable.” Admittedly, these characters are inflated for entertainment value and sometimes pander to archaic southern stereotypes. But if you strip away the outdated trappings, if you look past the hoop skirts and the sweet tea, these silver screen belles reveal some delicious personality traits that continue to course through the veins of modern southern women.

I’m not really sure I fit the prefect southern girl profile. Early on I sensed brains and brass would take me on a slightly different track. I was probably even a bit smug in the fact that I operated outside the stereotype. Or did I? I wasn't a very good Junior Leaguer but I was Rush Chair for my sorority. I was never a husband-hunter, but I did marry quite young. I’ve never played down my smarts around a man, but I am an awfully good flirt. Any way you slice it, the dixie in me has been coming out more and more. Blame it on age, divorce, motherhood, who knows? I will be plodding along, handling the business of my day, and DING! …something rings a Belle buried deep in my southern psyche.

A few years ago I bought a fabulous new pair of smoking-hot designer jeans. I raced to the alterations shop first thing Friday morning to have them hemmed in time for my birthday party that night. I threw myself at the mercy of the alterations Maven. I cooed and apologized and begged and sweet-talked. I explained how I was recently divorced and this was my first birthday celebration as a single girl again and I just had to look fabulous at the party. Finally she agreed to have them ready for me later that afternoon.

Five o’clock arrived before I knew it and I jumped in the car to retrieve my jeans without a thought about what I looked like, which was pretty gamey. Black leggings with dried paint on them. A ratty oversized t-shirt that I grabbed from the pile of unwanted clothes my ex-husband left behind. I figured I would shower after I ran errands.

The alterations shop was utter chaos. A team of bridesmaids was wreaking havoc. Businessmen were impatiently flicking their claim tickets. One particularly handsome guy was being fitted for a tuxedo. The alterations Maven was nowhere in sight and her Worker Bee was not on top of things. I waited and waited and waited. Suddenly from across the room, Worker Bee barked directly at me, asking what I needed. I answered over everyone’s heads that I was picking up jeans that were a same-day rush. She pointed at me and replied loudly, “Oh yeah! The maternity jeans?”

What? Maternity jeans! Horror of all horrors. I know I look grungy but do I look fat? Time stopped. Chatter ceased. The air sucked out of the room. Everyone was staring at me to see how I might react, sizing me up to see if I was pregnant or if Worker Bee had just offended me. Truthfully I think she just made an honest mistake but Lord knows in my giant t-shirt I wasn’t looking too svelte. The awkward boom was lingering over all of us. I could see how uncomfortable it was going to be when I said I wasn’t there for the maternity jeans. Even Hot Tuxedo Guy was staring at me with a tinge of pity.

DING!

I smiled as sweetly as I could and said, “Yes!! I’m here for the maternity jeans! Are they ready?”

And just like that Worker Bee bagged up some absentee woman’s maternity jeans. I wrote a check and carried them out the door as fast as I could -- without endangering my fake baby of course.

What can I say? It was a southern girl moment that really rang my Hostess Belle. You see, we are great at playing hostess. Experts at flexing and bending and absorbing all negative energy to ensure our guests feel warm and shiny and wholly at ease. I guess sometimes it’s a skill that’s hard to turn off. It just seemed easier not to embarrass Worker Bee and make all those people uncomfortable.

So like a lunatic I drove the maternity pants around the neighborhood for about twenty minutes until there was a turnover in clientele. I went back to the alterations shop and promptly returned them for my own.

More and more daily experiences seem to strike a chord with a Belle inside me. If I see a woman walking and smoking, DING! There goes my Snobby Belle. Who knew? I myself will cuss like a sailor but I think it is beyond tacky for a woman to walk and smoke. Ladies please, for me, sit down if you’re going to have a cigarette. And when did it become ok for children to look so sloppy on an airplane? Remember the days when we got all dressed-up to travel?

When my daughter was invited to participate in Cotillion….DING! Nostalgia Belle. I had no idea I would be so excited. I’ve already bought her 3 pairs of white gloves with a little pearl closure at the wrist. I’m trying to find other places for her to wear them – which believe me is hard to do in Austin Texas in 2007.

One of the strangest side effects after my divorce?...DING! The Funeral Belle. Southerners love a funeral. And with no husband to plot my service I have become obsessed with documenting my funeral plans. The trumpets, the choir, gobs of white flowers. And afterwards a raucous gathering with my ‘Funeral’ playlist I keep on itunes.

Not long ago I was having a blusey Sunday. My daughter was with her dad. I had so much to do, yet somehow I was bored at the same time. I tricked myself into feeling under-the-weather, took to my bed for the day and found myself watching ‘Gone With the Wind’. Seeing Scarlett roll up her sleeves and save Tara really rang my Survivor Belle. I realize other women and men deal with much more than I do on a regular basis, but sometimes I get so worn down having to manage everything in this house on my own. The bills, the yard, the dog, the trash, the air-conditioning filter, the opossum in my attic. It’s draining. It’s depressing. Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. But I really do give a damn, and frankly Scarlett’s grit was pretty damn inspiring.

So what does it for you? North, south, east, west. Set geography aside. Do you have a steel magnolia in you? Maggie from ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof’? What about Leslie Benedict from ‘Giant’? If you were a Designing Woman would you be Suzanne or Julia? Maybe a little of both?

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One Plucky Chicken

Welcome to the inaugural post of my very first blog. My name is Christine and I am a divorced mother (Divorce Class of 2004) in Austin, Texas, raising an eight-year old daughter. And I have to say, things are going shockingly well. Finally.

It has been a hell of a ride.

I don’t like to reflect on the year right before my divorce, much less the year right afterwards. I have never felt or acted less like myself. I remember trying to explain to a girlfriend that I was being such a chicken, terrified of the very things I used to do without effort. Scared to write. To eat at a restaurant by myself. To go to PTA meetings. To speak to clients. To be alone for an entire weekend. And not just any chicken...I felt like a chicken being choked around the neck, while having my feathers plucked out one by one. Naked and exposed and certain that the stifling grip was ironically the only thing keeping me from sliding into a pot of boiling water.

I’m sure a trained therapist would say I was likely suffering from some social anxiety disorder and temporary paranoia brought on by the stress of my marriage ending. But I didn’t give my therapist enough couch time to hear all the gory details. And I stopped sharing with friends too. If you’ve been through a divorce you know how that goes. As wonderful and supportive as they are, our friends can literally only hear so much. And my friends did not like seeing me as the scared little chicken. Not one bit. It just didn’t compute. So each day I would either feign mental health or hide out in solitary confinement. I did most of my grocery shopping at 7-11 in those days.

At this time I actually had a kickass executive job at a consulting firm where former Texas Governor Ann Richards was a senior advisor. I had the good fortune to work on a few client projects with her which was a treasure in its own right. But one day, I got a gift I could have never expected.

Her assistant rang my office and said that Ann wanted to see me. Truthfully I was hoping to spend a meeting-free day behind closed doors doing some actual work. Ruffled by this unexpected call I madly grabbed the client folder I assumed she wanted to discuss and scurried down the hall to her office. Bluntly she said, “Rumor has it you’re going through a divorce.” Rattled, I barely maintained my executive polish a bit longer, politely confirming that ‘yes’, in fact, I was going through a divorce.

Well she stripped me of that lovely veneer as fast as she could talk. She’d been there and wanted to know exactly how I was doing. How many girlfriends did I have who had been through it. That wasn’t many. She gave me a reading list of novels and told me to come back and talk with her about them for fun. Asked if I’d like to go to a movie sometime. What restaurants did I like. Not to worry about any friends that would ditch me. Find better, more interesting friends. Stay busy. She finished as bluntly as she began, “Listen Christine, you are in the fight of your life. Just remember how brave you are. And for heavens sake, don’t hang out in your house alone. If you need something to do, call me.”

Well I was blown away! Besides being a little bit scared of her directness, I was really very touched. Governor Ann Richards took the time to check in on me. Me? ME?? I mean, just the day before I had been eating Cheetos in bed while on a client conference call. Her tough words were inspiration enough to rise to the challenge. That was it. I was going to be FINE. Enough of being a depressing ninny. I wanted to be the courageous woman Ann Richards thought I could be. I was going to wake up the next day and toss out the Hostess Cupcake wrappers on my nightstand, eat whole grains, fruits and vegetables, host interesting dinner parties and be an all around fabulous divorcée.

Well, of course that didn’t happen, at least not the next day. I wallowed for months to come. Quit my job. Got a little more lost before I was found. There were more Hostess Cupcakes. My countless trips around the Whataburger drive-through became like the scene in ‘Alice in Wonderland’ where the fantasy creatures race round and round an island in circles without a clear start or finish line.

And then a funny thing happened.

I was at my daughter’s elementary school last year and another mom was telling me about the divorce she was going through. As if channeling Ann Richards, I went into caretaker action mode. I asked if she had plans for Mothers Day, and with a air of upperclassman confidence and experience I outlined her Mothers Day plans and explained how critical it was for her to be prepared for such a tough day post divorce.

And that’s when it hit me. Life goes on. There is a whole a new freshman class of divorced moms coming up the ranks, and my pain is old news. Thank heavens. How liberating. And suddenly I realized I had long since graduated from being a scared little plucked chicken, into a bold, plucky chicken. Life is ok. My daughter cracks me up daily. I love being a homeroom mom. Dating life is no longer treacherous – now it’s just hysterical and fun. I am so busy with friends that I relish time alone. And lo and behold here I am writing again.

Governor Richards died last year so we never made it to the movies. They have renamed a bridge in downtown Austin in her honor, and I can’t think of a better metaphor for the role she served in my life. She was my bridge. Her advice helped me get to the other side of a really painful era, and I get farther from it each time I pass along her advice to someone else. So for me, the question isn’t “Why did the chicken cross the road?” but “Why did the chicken cross the bridge?”

My answer is simple: “Because Governor Ann Richards Kicked My Butt To Get Over It.”

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