Americana Weekend

This past weekend, I sliced deeply into some American pie. I dredged up some of my Deep South roots from so far down, I should have worn some protective caving gear — or at least a helmet, because I was at the roller skating rink.

My friend Teesha, supermom that she is, hosted a skating party for her daughter's birthday. And since there's no mini-van alive that will fit nine excited girls, I volunteered my services as chauffeur and chaperone. (I should point out that 3 of the 9 girls were Teesha's, and that's not even all of 'em. Hence, her automatic "supermom" status. Something must be incredibly satisfying at her house. That's all I'm saying.)

Turns out, Teesha, me and our friend Cate were just about the only chaperones there in a rink full of teenagers. And boy, did it bring back some memories. Although we all hail from different parts of the South, we realized that early teen roller skating was something we all shared.

And then we wondered, is this a universal truth in the American adolescent psyche? Is roller skating as much a part of Americana as Friday night football and apple pie? When you move up north, do you just replace your wheels with blades and keep on sliding around the rink?

For us, it was a valuable opportunity for cultural reflection. For our daughters, it was a different kind of learning experience. At one point, my 8-year-old and her friend came up to me with very serious looks on their faces and said, "These teenagers move way too fast, and teenage boys like to show off a LOT."

There's a life lesson, no matter what culture you're from! Hopefully it will sink in.

And I'm not above a few more turns around the rink if anyone wants to go.

The Best Thanksgiving Recipes You'll Never Get

Secret recipe
Guarded for generations
But blabbed on the Web


Ah, Thanksgiving, the carbo-holiday!!

Debby and I are planning a team effort this year. As we've planned our menu and divvied up the work, we realized that we both have "non-negotiable" side dishes that must make their annual command appearance.

Hers include sweet potatoes and stuffing. Mine are butternut squash souffle and sour cream green beans.
Fortunately for us, these dishes have stood the test of time and become family favorites.

Sadly for you, dear readers, I can't share mine, under penalty of death and disownment from my own mother. See, we come from a place and time before the Internet age, before television - heck, maybe even before radio, when recipes were almost a form of identity.

Think you've got a cool Twitter handle? Check out my top-secret rhubarb pie. The word spread and the reputation grew in the same manner it does now, only much more slowly, so you could savor every bite. My mother honors this tradition religiously. Holding these recipes close is perhaps a way of holding the memory of the women who shared them close as well.

But that leaves me in an Internet age with an eager (I hope) audience that is hungry for both posts and recipes. So here's another recipe that I've made the past few years and like a LOT. And because I've forgotten where it came from, I'd say the likelihood of blowing anyone's secret tradition is pretty slim.

Cranberry Chutney
2 cups fresh cranberries
2 cups sugar
3 tablespoons water
1 chopped apple (I like Granny Smith for this)
2 ribs celery, chopped
1 tablespoon grated orange rind
1 cup orange juice
1 cup golden raisins
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves

Cook cranberries, sugar and water over medium heat for about 5 minutes, until sugar is completely dissolved. Add remaining ingredients and simmer for 35 minutes, stirring frequently.

Remove from heat and chill. Store in the refrigerator in an airtight container for up to 3 weeks.

Makes 2 1/2 cups.

What's Under the Hood

This week, I had a dented door replaced on my 2001 Subaru Forester. It was one of the many bumps, wrinkles and scratches that makes my car look like it was "rode hard and put away wet," as the saying goes.

With my new, pretty door, I was driving it to pick up kids and thinking about how this could be the start of gradually repairing all the dents and completely rejuvenating my ride, when my daughter called out from the back seat, "Cool! The fabric on this door is different than all the rest!"

Cool to her, but a crossroads for me. See, I already have the reputation among my daughter's friends (and, secretly, their parents) of being the "junky car mom." I know I'm not the only one, and I screamed with laughter when a friend pointed me to the "Mom My Ride" video on YouTube.

Leaving the upholstery unmatched would be one more giant step down that road, but it also would be another chapter in my car's story.

The fact is, it has been ridden hard, but it's had lots of fun along the way. It's gone camping, on family trips, to more parks and playgrounds and hiking trails than I could count. It's had two different dogs take their rightful places in the back, and its seats have absorbed enough juice-box spills and Cheerios to feed breakfast to a small army.

As I looked at my car, with all the remaining dents and mis-matched upholstery, I thought, "Jeez, I really should just trade it in and start over with something new."

Then, I hopped in it to pick up my son and remembered why I keep it around. It's fun to drive, highly dependable, and can take anything life throws at it. All admirable qualities for anything - or anyone - that's got that many miles on 'em.

The car stays, along with my "junky car mom" reputation. But the nice guys at MAACO did put my original upholstery back on.

Strictly Need-to-Know

Late fall and winter are what I think of as "airplane season." It's about the only time of year I fly for work, and when I do, I always like a window seat. I like to see what's down below as we zoom overhead, and imagine the lives of the people down there.

But I've also found that I'd like to know exactly what I'm flying over as I pass. What's the name of that town? What's that river? Who's crop circles are those? (I'm sure there's an app for that, but I'm not exactly a "first adopter" for technology.)

I'm not sure where this need to know comes from. Maybe I just like to have my bearings. But I do find that I'm more interested in what I'm passing as I travel than what's going to happen when I get there. Is this a "live for the moment" mentality? A fear of the future? Or am I just usually too preoccupied with the lingering questions from the homefront to think too far ahead?

"Did I leave the milk out? Is the coffee pot on? Did my family get to their respective daily destinations without breaking anything?" These are the questions that rattle quietly around in the back of my mind as I travel. On this last trip, the break count was two items — my daughter's soap dispenser and my husband's ankle. Par for the course.

I think perhaps my focus on the present also comes from a healthy realization that I don't want to know what's going to happen next. Information about the future is indeed a stressful thing, whether it's keeping a surprise party a secret, not telling co-workers that you overheard they're being laid off, realizing that you're responsible for classroom snacks for an entire week next month, knowing that your best friend has a little spinach in her teeth and not being able to signal to her across a crowded room before she goes to talk to that great-looking man.

These are all small things, so the knowledge of knowing the big things in advance, like when you will die, would be too overwhelming. Talk about the stress of planning the perfect outfit!

No, I prefer to coast. Do I have hopes for the future? Of course. Do I plan for it? You bet. Would I want to see into the future, given the chance? No way.

I like to know as much as possible about the here and now, and the week or two to come. But as for the bigger future, I'm happy with a strictly need-to-know basis.

Why motherhood will end war

Today I sat on a plane to Memphis, Tennessee, next to a young man bound for two-week's leave from his post in Iraq. He was on his way home to surprise his mama. You gotta love that.

Michael is 19, has been in Iraq for 9 months and has 9 more to go on this tour. He showed me some photos on his My Space page of Kuwait and Iraq, and shared some chocolates he had picked up in Germany on his way home. (Those Germans know their chocolates. That was some fabulous stuff.)

Talking with Michael made me realize two somewhat life-altering things.

First, I'm old enough to be his mother. That was truly an ah-ha moment - and not in a good way. I'm used to thinking of my self as mother to my 8 and 3-year-old kids. But technically, I could be the mother of a 19-year-old kid, on his way home to surprise me.

That thought led to another thought: I wanted Michael to stay home, go to college, find a nice girl, have some kids and find a way to add to a peaceful, caring world. I wanted him to be safe. And although I've never met her, I'm pretty sure his mama feels the same way.

I bet the mothers of soldiers all over the world feel that way, too. Yes, we are proud that our sons and daughters are brave and are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the ideals we believe in, but we'd much rather they didn't.

Suppose that all the mothers in the world put their collective feet down, and said, with one hand on a hip and the other brandishing a cooking implement that suited their culture,"You are NOT going to go out and get into fight with those other kids! And if I hear about you doing anything like that, you'll wish it WAS world war three!"

I bet we'd have one helluva peaceful planet.

Godspeed, Michael. May you return safely.

The Fountain of Youth

As I mentioned before, at my house, we're obsessed with the urination habits of our 3-year-old son.

By weekday, he's a well-trained, cotton-undies wearin' kind of guy. I picture him at pre-school, standing next to the other boys at a row of pint-sized urinals, giving and getting high fives for solid bulls eyes.

But at home, he becomes like a spoiled cat. Urine is weapon used to show displeasure, and he's not afraid to use it.

This morning, I told him that he needed to get dressed before he came downstairs. He stripped off his jammies and pull-up happily as I went downstairs to answer the phone.

Over the next several minutes, I frequently called up the stairs, "Are you getting dressed?"

Answers varied from "not yet," to "in just a second." (Hmm, wonder where he learned that one?)

Eventually, I went to check on him, and found him happily playing with a toy shark and one of his favorite CDs submerged in a sink full of water. Still nothing on down below.

I took him to his room and saw the puddle on the floor.

"Is that water?" I asked.

"Nooo."

"Did you pee on your floor?"

A sly grin.

"Why did you DO that?" (loudly)

"Well...I didn't want to get dressed."

Guess he showed me.

I shared this story with friends this evening, and one jokingly suggested a clothespin to stem the tide. Can't say I didn't think about it. But instead I admitted defeat for the moment and wrote a haiku in honor of my worthy opponent:

Water on the floor
A boy's discovered power
The fountain of youth.

Want more haiku? Check out  Haiku and Food to Suit Your Mood. It's simple recipes for the body and witty haiku for the soul. 

The Post-Halloween Hangover

Today is November 1st. It's the day of All Saints, the middle of Dia de los Muertos in Mexico, and "Candyfest" to my kids.

For me, it's "Ohmigosh-Here-Come-the-Holidays-Deer-in-the-Headlights" Day.

As I unwrap the umpteeth chocolate purloined from my daughter or son's candy bag, I'm already building up regret for the holiday pounds to come or the extra exercise it will take to prevent them. I'm dropping my head under a pillow as I think of the casseroles to bake, the gifts to buy and the possibility that this could be the year we actually re-instate the sending of holiday cards.

It's also the day that the time changes back to early darkness - just to remind us that as the year rounds to an end, we've not only got more to do, we've also got fewer daylight hours in which to do it.

Doesn't seem fair, does it? Kind of like a 60-day hangover that lasts from now until next year.

It makes me dream of winning the lottery and taking an extended trip to an exotic, remote locale - preferably a "Saint-something," where I'm waited on hand and foot and look fabulous in my ski suit or swimsuit (depending on the fantasy), only returning home when the first buds of spring emerge.

Well, that ain't happ'nin. So I propose a revolt.

Why do we wait until what should be the beginning of winter and the last of the year to add all this extra hoopla to our already busy lives?

Instead, let's move Thanksgiving to May, when we're truly happy for warm spring weather, and Christmas to July when there's no chance of getting cheesy sweater from Aunt Sally. Then, let's declare November through February as "Sleep Season," where it is completely socially acceptable to hibernate (mentally at least, if not physically).  It's a lot cheaper than that exotic trip.

What Could Be More Fun?

Recently, a friend gave me an extra copy of a book about wrapping presents in creative ways. There are so many things wrong with this concept I'm not sure where to start.

Of course, there's the time factor. If it comes from my house to yours, you're lucky if it's not wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. Plus, that's the only wrapping material that my son can't easily shred.

And there's the eco-factor. All that crisp new wrapping paper likely came from what used to be a fresh pine tree that was cut from a plantation where native hardwoods used to be. We believe in hand-me-down gift wrap in my family. In fact, there's a gift box stored away amid my mother's Christmas stuff that has been in circulation for as long as I can remember. You get a present in that box, and you're getting the gift of history!

But as I flipped through the book, here's the sentence that irked me the most:

"What could be more fun than packing an individual lunch in an unusual take-out carton complete with a faux lobster tail artfully arranged and attached with a charming black ruffle-edged ribbon?"

Are you kidding me?

I can think of a million things that would be more fun. Like paying down my equity line. Fixing the new dent in my already-dented Subaru. Meeting my deadlines.

Or more importantly, actually interacting personally with the people I care about most, rather than "packaging" my feelings for them. I'd much rather bring you a brown bag of wine and spend time laughing over a couple of glasses with you than showing up late with a beautifully wrapped bottle.

I'm not saying that a beautifully wrapped package isn't a nice gesture — it's just not a high priority at my house. So as the holiday season approaches, I offer this consolation to my friends and relatives: it may not be pretty, but it will be wrapped with love. (And if you can't appreciate that, I've got another nice gesture for you.)

A new take on potty training

Amid the chaos of work and family life lately, I've noticed a little sub-theme emerging. And sadly, it's all about pee. Not mine, but my three-year-old son's. He's so close to being potty trained that my husband and I each have one thumb on the champagne cork, so to speak.

It's amazing what becomes cause for celebration once you have kids. It's also amazing how pervasive bodily functions become in everyday conversation. This was reinforced earlier this week when I called a friend - a mother of three - and overheard her saying in exasperation "there's no pee in the bathtub!" to her daughter before she could get the receiver to her mouth to say "hello" to me.

Potty training is the Holy Grail of early parenthood. But perhaps my husband and I have pushed the whole "potty training" obsession too far. We must have discussed the phrase one time too many within earshot of the boy. Here's why I say that:

The other evening, as we're wrapping up a family dinner with Grandma ("Ganna") at our house, I notice the tell-tale sign of something amiss — the boy is quiet. I spy him around the corner, leaning a little to the left and shuffling a foot.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Don't look at me," he says.

I know what that means. He's peed in his pants...again.

Daddy cleans him up and the evening continues, until I happen to notice Thomas the Train playing cards on the living room floor. In a puddle. Soaked. And it ain't water.

I grab the rag and cleaner and re-soak everything. My mother looks on in amusement.

Only later does it occur to me: He needed to go to the potty. He saw trains.
Maybe he was "potty training!"

Pop the cork, honey! That's good enough for me!

Naming the Next Wonder Drug

My husband and I frequently laugh about the names of prescription drugs we see ads for on television. Names like "Abilify" or "Boniva" or "Advair."

I picture a conference room full of over-confident, adrenaline-pumped young ad execs throwing darts adorned with parts of nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs to see which ones strike the bullseye. Or maybe they randomly draw letters out of someone's shoe until someone can make a word out of them. Or perhaps they just get really drunk, and then try to speak about the medication's properties and have one sober person write down all the slurred words.

But seriously, I'm sure there's a science to it - so to speak.

Why don't I have that job?

I could do it. Really.

In fact, I've already developed sophisticated names for drugs that I'm sure will one day be on the market:

Nopia - instantly potty trains your kids

Zombiza - transforms active, noisy children into quiet television watchers

Noitol - automatically provides correct and impressive answers the thousands of questions your kids, husband and colleagues ask each day

Pasdua - eliminates the pain and stigma of library fines

Pheedol - cooks dinner for everyone

Flaccinex - gets rid of that sagging skin below your jawline as you age

Noresta - a sleep aid, especially for "the weary"

And, my favorite:

Damitol - locks you in the bathroom with a tub of bubbles and a bottle of bubbly while the rest of the world fends for itself

Are you paying attention, high-priced ad execs? Anyone want to fly me up to New York for a well-paid brainstorming session?

- Betsey

Why NOT to yell at your kids

My husband sometimes says I shouldn't "scream" at our kids. Not that it's an everyday occurrence. I do raise my voice occasionally. Sometimes I may even yell. But as I once told my husband, "That isn't screaming. You've never heard me scream. You'd know it if you did."

Well, the young son heard it this morning. While daughter and Dad were away, in the midst of the get-ready-for-school rush, he pees in his pants not once, but twice. This from a kid who's pretty much potty trained, and who had told me only minutes before the second incident, "I won't do it again."

The first time just got one brief, exasperated outburst. But the second? Boy howdy. I let loose with a tantrum like the 13-year-old girl next door.

I let him know, loudly, that I was disappointed in his behavior. (Not him, but his behavior. See, I'm up on some of the modern parenting psycho-tactics.) I let him know that pee on the floor was gross. I plopped him into the bathtub to remove his second set of soiled clothes by himself. I stomped back and forth cleaning up the puddle.

And you know what that little booger did next? He giggled. Giggled! Apparently Mommy acting like a pre-teen is FUNNY!

I'd like to say that in that moment, I suddenly realized the humor in the situation, too. That we both collapsed on the floor in laughter, had a big TV-moment hug and went on with our morning.

Sadly, that wasn't the case. I continued my rant for a little while longer and we eventually got out the door and off to school. (But we did have a hug - always.)

Did I make my point and convince him never to pee in his pants again? Of course not. Did I feel better after losing my cool? Nope. Can I now see the humor in the situation?  Begrudgingly, yes.

Do I feel better sharing this with my fellow SLUTS? Damn straight.

Look for me in the kindergarten carpool line in a couple of years, ladies. I'll be the one laughing while I send my son into class with a bag of pull-ups.

- Betsey

The Subconscious Deadline

In order to get my child out of the house on time, I move up the deadline of dressing, eating. and brushing teeth. The kitchen clock runs 5 minutes ahead of itself.

Accepting that I will want to snuggle in for at least 10 minutes with the warm body of my husband in bed every weekday morning – I set the white noise on the alarm that far ahead of the actual alarm to get me to the lala state of feeling but not knowing.  The deadline of rising is moved up to fool myself.

During the month of August, I won a large battle to relocate my daughter to Asheville, NC, and marry my high school sweetheart.  I could do nothing to move that clock ahead; it took 1 1/2 years to just be heard in front of the judge.   I had 1 week to move us and our furniture up here, merge it with someone who already had 3 children, and get my daughter settled into a brand new school.  (Did I say get it on the moving truck and unpack? Did I tell you I also got married?)  After that deadline, which would not budge, I had the due date of October 1 to contend with:  the birth of my second cookbook.  Could I move it back?  I did not dare.

So in 6 weeks, basically, I developed and tested and edited and blurbed 140 recipes.  That is a lot of energy expended along with settling down, getting married, and transitioning a child from private to wonderful public schools.  I pretty much said, “Honey I love you but we’ll catch up after October 1.”

In some ways, having that work deadline helped me not freak out about all of the other personal issues that were swirling around.  I was able to claim absolute tiredness under the guise of all that physical recipe testing.

So, after all of that trauma that I put my family through with my book deadline of Oct. 1., I read the contract again today, because I wanted to see the format I was to send in the manuscript.

And the deadline is October 31, not October 1.  All of the theatrics of “my having to work” and “y’all have to go out for dinner “was for naught.

Or was it?  Did I unintentionally move that deadline in my head to October 1, knowing it would keep me in work up to my eyeballs and I would not have time to worry about what sofa went where?  It was almost a ploy for me to help me keep my sanity.

And I will tell you that nothing feels better than to finish a major project 1 month before the deadline.  I like pushing deadlines ahead; that way you are ready for everything that comes along.


- A. Diva

The perfect excuse for everything

The other day, quite by accident, I stumbled across the perfect excuse for just about everything. It's a magical phrase that most people don't even seem to question.

Ready for it?

"I'd love to, but I don't have the right shoes."

Think about it.

Bored on a date and want to skip the romantic walk?  "I'd love to, but I don't have the right shoes."

Arguing with your spouse about who's turn it is to mow the grass? "I'd love to, but I don't have the right shoes."

Want to get out of driving rainy day carpool? "I'd love to, but I don't have on the right shoes."

Desperately want that other mom to take your kids to the pool so you can stay home in peace? "I'd love to, but I don't have on the right shoes."

In a pinch, it can even work as an excuse to get out of office Christmas parties and other stuffy occasions. Everyone would understand. After all, even Cinderella suffered a temporary social downfall due to inappropriate footwear.

Why is footwear such a good excuse? Perhaps because just about any movement we make is based in how our feet feel when they strike the earth. Footwear is fundamental to function. That's why we always assume the woman shuffling down the sidewalk in house slippers is quite "all there." Her true mental health is irrelevant. If she had on clogs or sandals or hiking boots, we'd assume she was relatively "normal."

That said, I should confess that I own one pair of heels and rarely wear them. I have an athletic shoe for just about every occasion. But that doesn't mean I'll have them on when that invitation to hike into a wilderness area in search of bears comes up. When that happens, I'll gladly say, "I'd love to, but I don't have on the right shoes."

- Betsey

Living with all Five Senses

My 8-year-old daughter recently asked me to help her list all the five senses. Together we went through sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch. All of these are important to everyday life, but they are not the five senses that immediately come to mind for me.

In my mind, the five senses all SLUTS work with throughout their lives are as follows:

1) Fashion sense. In my case, this is a lack thereof. I'm proud to say that my fellow SLUTS have developed this sense much more adeptly than I. There's not any particular fashion that's required for one to have this kind of sense — just a well-honed understanding of what looks good and represents who you are. Also, knowing what kinds of style says "I've had at least two kids but I'm still a hottie" is a plus.

2) Street sense. To many, this may mean knowing how to avoid (or find) corners with drug dealers or recognize oncoming traffic dangers. But to SLUTS, it also means knowing where to find the best lattes, a good table for lunch, one-of-a-kind used furniture and accessories, and the shops that satisfy your fashion sense (see above). It also means know where to find everything you need at which stores so you can quickly get in, get out, and get on with it. Having a good sense of direction can makes one's street sense even more acute.

3) Horse sense. This is, quite literally, at least a passing understanding of horse flesh and the ability to pick a winner or a close runner up, either at the Kentucky Derby (the Holy Grail for those with horse sense) or at a regional steeplechase. SLUTS who can combine horse sense with a good recipe for mint juleps, mohitos, or other festive cocktails are a breed apart. (No horses in your area? You can apply horse sense to whatever runs through your world.)

4) Business sense. We're not a stupid bunch. In fact, all of us currently posting under the SLUTS banner are self-employed and the primary breadwinners for ourselves or our families. Generations before us, our predecessor SLUTS mastered the art of the deal. Thanks to them, we have at our disposal an arsenal of traditional and modern persuasive tactics and we're not afraid to use them.

5) The Sense God Gave a Dog. This is perhaps the most important kind of sense anyone can possess. In other cultures, it is referred to as "common sense," but we SLUTS prefer to think of ourselves as anything but "common." This type of sense is recognized with comments such as "She's got a good head on her shoulders." But it's more notable (and memorable) when absent, as in "He ain't got the sense God gave a dog." And remember, we're talking hound dogs here, not poodles.

So there you are - five senses. Any I forgot?

- Betsey

The Sanctuary

An older, wiser, more in control of her life sister of mine waved her hand majestically as she referred to her Master bedroom as "the Sanctuary." Only two things should take place there, and sleep is just a bonus. Yesterday my husband referred to our bedroom as a disaster. A sea of half-unpacked suitcases, piles of laundry & linens, un-ironed frocks, and things to be mended. Just general bad housekeeping.... Did I mention the dust bunnies? Correction... French lop-eared rabbits are living under my bed. I was thoroughly embarrassed yesterday when not one, but three of my girlfriends were exposed to this scene. It smacks of a life not in order, a sacred space not being honored. Something must be done! So on this Sunday morning, after a prayer and a cup of tea, I will embark on a clutter-busting mission with a clear goal in mind. A glass of wine, dim lights, no dust... you get the picture. Tonight I'll sleep knowing that the most important room in our home is as it should be, and that our life is anything but a disaster!

- Cate

In Search of Dickie Longerbeam

It's football season again. One thing we all learned in the South is to at least fein an interest in an SEC team, and if we're really good, we actually pay attention and are aware of season wins and losses. I grew up in Mississippi, where college football is akin to religion — a once a week "come to Jesus" experience.


The other evening, a friend told us about a friend from her Virginia Tech days. Not an SEC team, but we'll acknowledge their program just the same. This friend was a great running back. For awhile, he may have held the school's record for rushing yards in a single season. According to a book about VA Tech football, he even broke his neck and lived to tell about it. But what impresses me about Dickie Longerbeam isn't how he performed on the field — it's his name.


I mean, c'mon. Dickie Longerbeam? Don't think we didn't giggle over our wine glasses on that one.


What struck me the most was how my friend described the way Dickie presents himself, as in, "Honey, I'm pleased to meet you, but you are not ready for my name." Apparently, Dickie embraces himself for who he is and has put it all right there on the line, on and off the field. (And yes, I'm sure many of you are drawing off-color inferences from that last sentence.)


I've never met Dickie Longerbeam, but I've gotta admire his approach to the gifts his Southern ancestors gave him: great athletic ability and the ability to run with a name that might cause others to hide in a closet. That's one way to handle what life hands you — just face it head on.


So, here's to you, Dickie Longerbeam. It sounds to me like you've got a good head on your shoulders (despite the broken neck) and a great outlook on life. All of us could perhaps use a little more Dickie Longerbeam-ness in our lives (and yes, I'm aware of the off-color inferences in that statement as well).


And Dickie, if we ever meet, the martinis are on me.


- Betsey

Welcome to SLUTS!

As any good Southern-born woman knows, stress is inevitable in one's life. What sets us apart is how we handle it. In our case, we strongly advise cocktails, girlfriends, good food that's not always so good for you, screaming out loud (at times), laughing, and staying connected to our Southern roots - for better or worse, for richer for poorer, you know the rest. (Funny how it's sometimes easier to cleave to one's heritage than to one's spouse.)

We are not daughters of the high society South. To our knowledge, no one in our families has ever owned slaves, been a debutante, attended a college where football is more important than English literature or engaged in other stereotypical Southern activities that are, quite frankly, in downright bad taste.

We come from various parts of the region, but we all now reside in Asheville, North Carolina (pretty much the antithesis of the Deep South). We know that there are many, many of our sisters scattered far and wide who share the burden of balancing good manners and grace with lives of constant havoc and insanity.

To address the ongoing stresses of life, we turn to alcohol, exercise, chocolate, and other diversions. But mostly, we know the value of sharing our stories, concerns, observations and dreams with one another. There's nothing in life a friend can't get you through. We learned this from Virginia, one of our great Southern lady friends, who just happens to be a mother-in-law to one of us. Just goes to show, there's an element of being raised in Southern womanhood that really can transcend some barriers. Virginia and her friends take the credit for forming "Southern Ladies Under Terrible Stress," otherwise known as SLUTS. We are honored to build on their tradition.

So to you, ladies, we lift our martini glasses high, and for you, we begin this new blog for SLUTS everywhere.  Read, laugh and comment often!