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!