Your Summer Best

We're almost to Memorial Day, which is considered the unofficial start of summer, and the kickoff for sunny days spent at the pool or the beach, enjoying the lazy days of the season. As we begin this summertime, I want to take this opportunity, Southerners, to implore you not to fall into some of your typical warm weather behaviors. This goes beyond my request that you get a pedicure before putting your feet on display (please), I'm talking about risky and annoying behavior that we need to curb, ASASP: as soon as Southernly possible.

For starters, and this one is important, just because your body can be squeezed into a bikini does not mean it should be trussed up in that fashion (men, this applies equally to a Speedo, so listen up). Having a positive body image doesn't necessarily need to include triangle tops and bare bellies, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with suiting up in a nice one-piece suit that actually provides a little coverage. You don't want all of your candy falling out of the proverbial wrapper, do you? I saw several women who weighed more than my husband on the beaches of Tahiti sporting swimwear that would have better fit my 18-pound dog. Because I think highly of anyone who reads my blog, I opted not to include any visuals for this particular item. You can thank me later.

I think we can all agree that Southerners are by-and-large fascinated by explosives. As one who is drawn to anything that shines or sparkles, I can appreciate a good round of fireworks, but y'all: down here, summer seems to be the only occasion necessary for blowing up a round of them each and every night. They are available everywhere from the gas station to the grocery store to the Dollar Tree, and I feel like every dusk from May to September there are truckloads of them being set off, and it's annoying. Let's keep fireworks special by using them for big celebrations like our nation's birthday, not just to combat boredom on a Tuesday night in June.

Maybe make these special and use them just once a week, would you?

No matter what you may have seen Britney Spears do, please do not venture barefoot into public places, including but not limited to restrooms. It's not sanitary, and even if it (miraculously) doesn't give you an infectious disease, it makes the rest of us feel queasy just watching. At the very least, throw on a cheap pair of flip flops--they have them at the Dollar Tree and we all know you are headed there to buy fireworks, anyway.

Oops, she should never do this again.

I know you love that handy spray sunscreen, but I beg of you: please use a brief moment of precaution try not to douse yourself when I am directly downwind. One minute, I am enjoying the surf and the sand, and the next I feel like I am being maced by an angry pineapple. It's a lethal combination of chemicals and tropical scent that fills nearby sunbathers' lungs, eyes, and mouths and it is not at all pleasant. Be aware of your surroundings, and if you really want to reach genius sunscreen levels, spray it into your hands and wipe it on your body. I promise the people around you will love you for it.

I'll apply my sunscreen myself, no need to spray me with yours.

My last plea for good summer behavior is in regards to that Southern summer delicacy revered and respected by any good citizen of the South: the tomato sandwich. I recently came across an article that featured ways to "get creative with your tomato sandwiches." In a word, people, NO. Do not get creative. The halfwit who wrote this article suggested using croissants, bagels, and even rye bread in addition to different types of spreads to add variety to your tomato sandwich. You can have whatever you want for lunch, but frankly my dear, if it doesn't come on fresh white loaf bread that sticks to the roof of your mouth, it's not a true tomato sandwich. Use homegrown tomatoes whenever humanly possible, salt and pepper that thing to high heaven, and don't even get me started on the required use of Duke's mayonnaise. That. Is. All. If you feel the need to tear basil, sprinkle celery salt, slather hummus, or slice avocado, do that right over the trash can and keep away from my sandwich. If it ain't broke, after all....

Loaf bread, tomatoes, and mayo. The Southern sandwich trinity.

There you have it; just a few, simple practices to make summer great again. Enjoy the longer days, the (hopefully) slower pace, and everything that the season has to offer. Just please don't do it while walking around a gas station barefoot, eating a tomato and hummus on croissant sandwich, and setting up your fifth fireworks display of the week. It's too hot down here to put up with those kinds of shenanigans, y'all.

I Got It From My Mama

Big hair, my sense of humor, some people even say my Southern accent. These are just a handful of the things I got from my mom, along with her time, advice, and support since I entered the world a few decades ago. Anyone who has seen us together (or heard us talk) will undoubtedly say I "got it from my mama," and I take that as high praise. With Mother's Day upon us this weekend, I thought I would thank my mom for some of the things she's given me as my caretaker all these years (and maybe throw in just a humble bit of apology, too).

Mom, thank you for thinking highly enough of me to worry that I might be abducted as a child. Looking back, we now both realize I was too loud, inquisitive, and high maintenance for kidnapping to have ever been an issue, but it's truly sweet that you had this nagging nervousness that someone might take me. You were basically a basket case every time I left your sight, and only a mother's love can do that to someone.

In a world where plenty of kids get cereal for supper, thanks for all those family dinners. You know, the ones we grumbled and complained about, where you got to plan the meals, cook the meals, and then threaten us about what would happen if we didn't eat the meals? I'm glad you made it a priority for us to sit down and have time together...even on the nights we had chicken livers and I swore I was going to die sitting there.

After a five-hour flight from Los Angeles to Charlotte with some very (ahem) precocious children sitting behind me, I would also like to express my gratitude to you for teaching me manners. Please and thank you, sir and ma'am, and not kicking the seat of the person in front of me. After narrowly maintaining my sanity on the previously mentioned airplane, I firmly believe that manners save lives.

Thank you for teaching me how to hot roll my hair. No, seriously. I have a friend who is turning 40 this year and she still can't use a set of Conair Big Curls to save her life. It's a skill, and a necessary one, in my book. I am forever grateful that I know how to spritz, spray, roll, coif, tease, and dazzle!

From holidays to school projects and beyond, thank you for instilling in me the notion to go big or go home. I can still hear you saying, as you watched me at dance practice, "Do it full out, or just stop wasting everyone's time." I can promise that had an impact on me, as I'm now an adult who is doing my darndest to do life full out and not waste everyone's time. Life is short and it is worth putting in the effort. Bonus points if your high kicks touch your forehead, right, Mom?

Thank you, from the bottom of my hostessing heart, for guiding me in the ways of hospitality. Over the years, through instruction and example, I learned from you that entertaining guests doesn't necessarily have to be fancy, it just needs to be thoughtful. For instance, a few years ago when a friend hosted a birthday dinner in my honor, it was fine that she used Old El Paso taco kits and 90-second rice. I'm a fan of both, I just wish she hadn't left the taco kit boxes out for all to see and that she had taken a few extra seconds to put that rice in a serving bowl, instead of having us serve ourselves directly from the microwaveable pouch. You showed me that the most important thing is to make company feel that they have been hosted, and my own supply of taco kits and 90-second rice thank you for it.

I'd also like to take this opportunity to sheepishly say I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry for the times I laughed at your varicose veins. Looking at them now in my own legs, I realize they are (ahem) quite lovely and certainly not a circumstance to be mocked. The same thing goes for your cracking knees; mine now sound like a percussion section in a raucous band every time I bend or squat, and so I think it is safe to say that karma knows my name and address.

And on this pre-Mother's Day occasion, for all the world to read, I want to apologize for the times I questioned your wisdom. Generally speaking, every time I have doubted you, you've turned out to be right. From which brand of pimento cheese tastes best, to bringing a jacket in case I get cold, to questionable company I may have kept, you've proven that moms really do know best. I took it a step further and bought the kitchen towel to prove it:

You taught me to how to parallel park, walk in high heels, make conversation with practically anyone, and the thrill of using a coupon. From you, I learned a reverential respect for grammar and an unapologetic adoration of McDonald's; I also inherited a hatred of baking, a love of clothes, and just the slightest touch of competitive nature.  The older I get, the more I realize everything I got from you, and I am exceedingly grateful.

Happy Mother's Day, to one of the best. My last words of appreciation are this: thank you for giving me life, and for not taking it away during my teenage years (I'm sure there were moments when you were seriously tempted)!

Here we are, in 1986. I'm pretty sure we're driving her crazy, but she's pretending not to notice.