Good lord, Cashmere. My thoughts are with your family.

Fuckity, Cash. Hope they get it fixed straight away.

Thanks, Pete. My MiL keeps phoning with updates. I'm sure he'll be fine but it's scary.

And thanks, Aims.

Good lord Cash!

Much healing~ma to your BiL and calm~ma to your MiL, Cashmere. I hope they decide on a course of action soon.

know! Do you like Mexican food? Or Sal's pizza? Shopping? Bars? Dives or swank? Live music? Hairdos and pedicures?

Um, yes. Really. Let's see, I eat Mexican, we own a pizza shop/restaurant/bar that's neither a dive or swanky that occasionally has live music on Saturday nights (but that can be dive-like if the other bar in town closes early), and I can't live without a good cut and color, and nice looking fingers and toes on a regular basis. Oh, and I shop, therefore I am.

I have a feeling we're going to cause some trouble. Hell yes!

Jeez, it's like the A word is the new "Hi!"

What? Just be glad I didn't say "Hi-dorable!"

Oh Cashmere, what a nightmare.

Much healing~ma to your BiL and calm~ma to your MiL, Cashmere.

So very much this.

Oh, Cash! Health~ma to your BIL

My South is cornbread without sugar; biscuits; grits; greens; field peas cooked with a ham end; pulled pork with some outside meat; green beans cooked with ham and topped with chopped raw onions; and muscadines and scuppernogs. It's where "peas" means crowder, black-eyed, field and related peas, and the other peas are English or green peas. It's where people still talk about "sweet milk," as opposed to buttermilk, and iced tea comes sweet unless you ask for unsweetened. It's making eye contact with strangers and smiling. It's also poor schools; crazy liquor laws; an unhealthy obsession with high school and college football; and going from your air conditioned house to your air conditioned car to your air conditioned office.

Ginger's South is an awful lot like mine. It's eating watermelon on the porch in the summertime while staring out at green fields of cotton and soybeans. It's chasing lightning bugs in the cemetery after Sunday night church. It's turning your thumbs purple shelling field peas. It's where I'll always be Kelly's girl and Ervin and Eunice's youngest grandbaby, and where everyone over 70 exclaims over my uncanny resemblance to my dad's Granny Wilder. It sings the old hymns with more of a twang than a drawl. My South's battle cries are "War Damn Eagle" and "Roll Tide Roll." My South is the red clay I'm rooted in no matter how far I travel.

What? Just be glad I didn't say "Hi-dorable!"

Oh. Bugger.

Note to self: Make new list just for MFNlaw.

You're cute, Pete. Is that more or less embarrassing than the A-word?