Category: Southern Hospitality

After having spent the last several weeks of summer trying to lose weight — forgive me if I brag a little, but it actually worked — you can imagine how annoyed I am to see candy sprouting up like dandelions in the spring.

It haunts me at the checkout at the grocery store, makes me sick to see it at the drugstore, and tempts the bargain-hunter in me with those two-for-one deals at the dollar store. It’s free at the dry cleaners. Maybe they’re hoping you’ll drop a Milk Dud on your $150 pair of greige linen slacks, necessitating additional business for them. At the gym, there are bowls of Tootsie Rolls, free for the taking. Don’t they realize eating this candy will add rolls to their clients? Wait, of course they do . . .

I would just as soon the Halloween holiday be eliminated. Banish it from the calendars. Outlaw the dang thing! Nothing kills a diet quite like it. (You do know what D.I.E.T. stands for, right? Did I Eat That? Because, let’s face it: scrawny celery and carrot sticks, skinny chicken breasts and quinoa don’t exactly satisfy, especially when your tummy is growling and you can’t remember if you ate or not.)

But the retailers and stores are bound and determined to trick (not treat) us into submission, especially with those enticing, brightly colored, cute-as-buttons, fun-sized bags of candy. They seem so innocuous. How many calories can there possibly be in a handful of those darling little Milky Way bars? Let me tell you: a lot more than you think. 

The other thing that gets me is the annual onslaught of those darned specialty candies like marshmallow circus peanuts, candy corn (did you know they make peanut butter cup, caramel macchiato and s’mores candy corn now?), orange yogurt-covered mini pretzels and Hershey’s white chocolate candy corn bits chocolate bars.

If I don’t buy them now, I tell myself, then I’ll have to wait another whole year to find them again. This screwy reasoning of mine also says it won’t hurt to buy a bag of Skittles and some more Milky Ways while I’m at it.

Halloween is nothing but a money-making scam. If you don’t believe it, just look at the shops that pop up in late summer and sell strictly Halloween items. That said, I do love to decorate my house for the holiday. I don’t go all out like some neighbors and string black and orange lights, plastic skeletons and spider webs in the front yard. But I do put out my stacked orange pumpkin statue with the black hat and slap a big orange bow on my door wreath.

 And, truth be told, I finish off my decorating with bowls of — yep, you guessed it — candy. I guess I’m a sucker for Halloween after all.

 – Ann Ipock

Author of Life is Short, But It’s Wide; Life is Short, So Read This Fast; and Life is Short, I wish I Was Taller

As Mother Teresa used to say, ““Give, but give until it hurts.” I discovered what that means when, just the other day, I pulled a passion vine root out of the ground to give to my sister, Cathy, who wanted to plant it in her own yard. She was standing nearby when I trudged through my English cutting garden, through the god-awful red mulch (dang our H.O.A.), to the beautiful vine in question.

I searched through the tender, new growth and found a baby root coming up from the trunk of the mother plant. Aha! Oh yeah, baby! This is going to be simple, I thought.

Upon closer inspection, however, the baby was connected to a very thick root. I can do this, I thought. I knelt down, careful my knees didn’t touch the razor-like mulch. I took a couple of deep breaths. Then, using all my strength, which isn’t insignificant, I pullllllled on that sucker like there was no tomorrow. For reasons I’ll never understand, the imposing root, which resembled a small stick and seemed quite attached, popped off easily and immediately.

The sheer centrifugal force knocked me backward, slamming my body down hard against Mother Earth. I’m sure it looked like something you’d see on America’s Funniest Home Videos. I’m still surprised that I didn’t do a backward somersault.

“Oh, no! What can I do?” Cathy asked, trying hard not to laugh.

“Well, for starters, you could help get me up OUTTA HERE!” I said, sprawled flat out in the flowerbed. But in order for her to help me, I had to try to meet her half way. Either that, or a gurney would be needed.

I carefully rubbed my hands together to brush off the mulch, a million tiny potential splinters just dying to stick in me. Then I managed to get myself into a squatting frog position. Cathy tugged, but I fell backward, laughing. I made it up on the second try, and we rallied excitedly with our prized twig. (Was it just my imagination, or did she in fact search my hand for the plant before searching my body for injuries?)

The next day Russ and I went to church, then brunch, then Walmart whereupon my sweet hubby bought me the kind of gift that warms a gardening gal’s heart: a 125-foot, heavy duty, no tangle garden hose. I’d rather have that than jewelry, honey — in the summertime, that is, when I’m actively gardening. In the winter, I’d prefer a Caribbean cruise and a nice piece of jewelry before debarkation.

We came home and Russ hooked up my hose, which I used to water all my new plants — a Japanese fatsia, ginger lilies and Mexican petunias from Cathy’s yard. Next I went to the grocery store, came home and cooked dinner. All was well.

But about 7:30 that night, an inexplicable, mysterious pain came over me that intensified with each breath — a crippling burning in my chest, under my arms, my ribs and back. It was excruciating. Since I’m a former medical transcriptionist, I know how doctors rate pain: 1–10. Mine was 100!

Twenty-four hours later, I’m on the mend, but not unscathed. You see, I had to tell Russ what happened, which bruised my ego, but at least he didn’t get to see it. The pills that the doc gave me resulted in a 16-hour deep sleep. I’m still sore, but thankfully I didn’t break any bones. Perhaps passion vine is adequately named, because my passion for gardening is still here. In fact, you could say I’m bowled over by it.

– Ann Ipock
Author of Life is Short, But It’s Wide; Life is Short, So Read This Fast; and Life is Short, I wish I Was Taller

Have you ever felt like you were living in “The Twilight Zone?” I once spent eight days there, from Sunday to Sunday.

I went to Raleigh to help my sister Nancy. She was preparing that week for her son Huck’s wedding. I thought I’d calm Nancy’s nerves, run errands, cook meals and even (so out of character for me) clean her house. Russell, my hubby and naysayer, often says, “No good deed ever goes unpunished.” He might be right.

For starters, it was hot as Hades that week. Even a supposed cool splash in the pool was unnerving. With zillions of kids swimming around me amid warm water, one thing came to mind. So I jumped out, preferring to sweat off my Bain de Soleil poolside in a blasting-hot vinyl chair. That night my feet were burned. Upon inspection, they resembled bubble wrap, blistered from the scorching concrete. And I developed a cold sore the size of Cleveland above my lip.

I also watched our granddaughter, Madison, two days for Kelly. One morning we walked (but mostly sweated) around the neighborhood. The next day I drove her to My Gym for classes. Okay, I admit I was half asleep at 8 a.m. – that’s early for me – when we left the house. Hours later Kelly fussed at me for sending Madison off in her pajamas. What can I say? They looked like regular clothes to me: a colorful top and matching capris. This Grammy Gram thing is tougher than I once thought.

Nancy and I made repeated trips to craft stores, party stores, wedding shops and stationery shops where I clutched the coveted list that we continually added to. Once, after leaving the craft store for the fourth time in two days and jumping into Nancy’s car, I screamed, “The list! It’s missing!” Nancy nearly slung me out of the car, turning around on two wheels while landing squarely on the sidewalk. The frightened clerk must have sensed my hysteria as she joined my buggy search, consoling me with, “Don’t worry, honey.” It was no use. The list was gone. I found it later inside the car and held it tightly in my sweaty palm until bedtime.

For the rehearsal dinner, I had picked out a favorite dress a week earlier. But Katie forgot to pack a dress. Flying in from a summer music festival in Sewanee, Tennessee, she had only concert attire. Thankfully Nancy’s neighbor, Bethany, offered to lend her something.

At the airport, I swooshed Katie into the bathroom and helped her quickly change into the wrap-around, mint-green linen dress with no buttons or zippers and only a sash to tie. Easy enough. She looked beautiful, thought I noticed the hem lining was showing. No matter, I thought, rushing through the airport and out to our car.

We arrived at the club just as the rehearsal party began. Bethany’s shocked face revealed the problem, “Katie, your dress is inside out!” Moments later, I was the one surprised, saying to Nancy, “Did you know you have on two different earrings?”

The next day, even more wedding-related blunders surfaced. The air conditioning in the church wasn’t cooling well. Therefore, the bride, groom, and all attendants (20-some in all, in tuxedos and black and white satin gowns) were sweating bullets. I wanted to cry – from emotion, empathy and heat.

And at the reception, there was another slip up: a bridesmaid’s zipper split wide open, exposing her entire back.

Later that evening, the bride and groom left for a motel an hour away, planning to fly out at 6 a.m. the following day for Cap Juluca, Anguilla. Nancy went home and collapsed onto the bed when the phone suddenly rang. It was Huck. “Mama, I forgot some luggage. Can you drive it over now?” Without hesitation, Nancy did so, therefore stretching the limitless theory, “that’s what moms are for,” to the limit.

It’s no wonder I was eager to get home on the eighth day, hoping for some normalcy. No such luck. Our car died a mile from home, resulting in the purchase of a new alternator. I think maybe we need a new life?

– Ann Ipock
Author of Life is Short, But It’s Wide; Life is Short, So Read This Fast; and Life is Short, I wish I Was Taller

The other night a good friend and I were discussing how much we enjoy fruit-scented lotions and soaps, oils and candles, perfumes and body sprays. Thanks to all the new bath and beauty shops everywhere, there is something for everyone.

Only problem though, is when I run out of, say, the kiwi lotion, I still have three bars of kiwi soap left. I can never even it up. Do I return to the specialty store and buy more kiwi lotion? Survey says, “No!” So now I have strawberry soap, peach lotion, apple body spray and blueberry perfume. It’s enough to make me feel like a walking fruit basket. (Russell prefers to call me a “fruitcake” though.) In fact, if you’d just add a little whipped cream and pound cake to my medicine cabinet, you’d have enough dessert to last for three years.

If fruit-scented products aren’t your thing, there are always cosmetics created with essential oils and fragrant herbs, including musk, eucalyptus, almond, camphor, cinnamon, lavender and mint. No wonder so many people have sinus problems. It’s not the pollen or the rye grass. It’s all of the fumes swirling around.

Go to any show or performance, and at least one woman (yes, nine times out of 10 it’s a woman, I admit it) will be enveloped in perfume fumes. And guess what, she always sits in front of me — or worse yet, right beside me. Gag me! I want to say, “Listen here, dear. You don’t smell swell, and you’re giving me a headache.”

Several months back, I picked up some body spray for Katie. She’s been sick, and when I went to get her prescription, I stopped by the good-smelling rack and found her a surcie. You know what, she’s been using this stuff as body spray for a year. Then one night I was getting ready to spray some on me and realized the label said “linen spray.” Oops!

Now I’ve heard it all. Not only do we spray our bodies, use air fresheners, apply carpet sanitizers and rub on clothes enhancers, we also mist our darn pillows. I don’t think that’s what they had in mind when the song, “Sweet Dreams, Baby” was written.

I wonder what’s next for our aroma-obsessed nation. I have to tell you, I think it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Here’s an example: I recently noticed a bizarre novelty item — a fruit-scented pen. I’m sorry, but when I’m writing out my bills, I don’t care a flip about smelling strawberries. Perhaps the next new item the stationery supply stores will stock is money-scented pens. Now, that might make sense, no pun intended.

Recently I was at my parents’ house and I noticed that my mother had a can of no-smell neutralizing spray. I think the people who created it might be onto something. Since we are all so anxious to eliminate obnoxious odors like smoke, pollution and mold and mildew, I suppose neutralizing is the way to go.

Actually, I believe I’ll buy a trial-sized container of the no-smell stuff to keep in my purse. Then the next time I sit down beside a heavily perfumed woman, I can reach in my bag and neutralize her pesky aroma. What a great pollution solution!

– Ann Ipock
Author of Life is Short, But It’s Wide; Life is Short, So Read This Fast; and Life is Short, I wish I Was Taller

What child doesn’t want to please his or her mother? I think it’s both instinctive and touching. Starting around first or second grade, I realized the best route to my Mama’s heart was to clean my bedroom (or a portion thereof) and then call her in. “Mama, I have a surprise for you!” She would then ooh and aah, tell me what a ‘good girl’ I was and give me a huge smile. I beamed with pride.

Too bad I wasn’t quite as focused on my grades. The last thing I wanted to do in school — or at home, for that matter — was pay attention and study. A classic case of ADHD? Perhaps. But that was long before ADHD was even heard of.

Since those early days, I’ve taken really good care of things I own, be it my car, home, clothes, etc. Almost to the point of perfection. Early in our marriage, most Friday nights I spent vacuuming and dusting. Russell never complained and even helped me sometimes. He had the same compulsion about cleaning his golf clubs. We’ve both improved in that regard.
Now, fast forward 30-plus years. I still like my house clean, but I’ve wised up. Paraphrasing: I kick large dust bunnies under the sofa, and after sweeping the kitchen, well, what’s a little sand and grime swept under the fridge? Why not wait and clean it all at once, years down the road?
And that self-cleaning oven, well — that’s a joke. In seven years, it’s never once cleaned itself and that’s the very reason I bought it. Honestly! False advertising!

But where I allow myself to be a full-fledged Messy Mary is in my easy chair that’s next to my Grandmother Julia Margaret’s marble-topped table. On top of that table is my favorite wicker tray, which holds an assortment of items I use daily. One favorite is my hand-painted glass with the FROU (Females Rule Our Universe) lady that holds my pens. There’s also a ruler, yellow highlighter, receipts I need to enter for various purchases, emails I need to take action on, a newspaper section that tells us what’s happening today, sticky notes with ideas and phone numbers, a calculator and well, you get the idea.

To the average person, my work place might look messy, but so what? It’s my house and if Mama’s happy, ain’t everybody supposed to be happy? Even Russell has mellowed over the years. All I have to do is throw him a pork chop now and then and he’s happy, too.

But back to Mom: I get a huge grin from her these days by simply showing up for a visit at her assisted living facility. She hugs me tightly, tears up a little and says, “Ann, I am so glad to see you.” And that’s the purest form of love.

– Ann Ipock
Author of Life is Short, But It’s Wide; Life is Short, So Read This Fast; and Life is Short, I wish I Was Taller

Ever since I was a young adult, I’ve planted flowerbeds for beauty and cutting. I have always wanted a cutting garden next to my front door, filled with purple, red, yellow and magenta flowers and at least one fresh herb for fragrance. This would be a special area to enjoy at the end of the day. Finally, I got around to designing my dream garden. The first step was going shopping for some flowers. The next would be digging a bed.

I came home loaded down with a dozen perennials and proceeded to get the shovel out of the garage. Russell watched me with anxiety. I was able to get him out there in the first place because I told him I wanted an opinion. This was true — I wanted an opinion of how much he was willing to help me with this major gardening maneuver, but hey, I’m a little more subtle than that.

No wife in her right mind ever just blurts out, “Hey, honey, can you help me?” because that’s a sure ticket to watch your man run the other way, making up some silly excuse, like: “Oops, I just remembered I got a phone call from the repair shop saying the ball bearings I ordered for my lawn mower have come in. In fact, they arrived on an overnight flight from Yugoslavia, and another customer wanted them, and not only that, they are no longer being made, so I better get on down there before they close in five minutes. Bye!”

My dear husband did eventually agree to give me his opinion on where to plant this and that, did the colors complement each other, and did he think it was a sunny enough spot? (As if he would know any of that.) Then I began explaining the real reason I had drug him outside and away from the Golf Channel. Russell folded his arms across his chest. He knew what was coming. When I hinted that I’d like some help digging up the centipede grass, he immediately set the record straight (with an evil crooked smile), saying that he wasn’t lifting a finger. “Fine,” I said with my jaw set. Who was asking him to?

Anyway, I changed into flip-flops and proceeded to tackle the job on my own. You know what? It was impossible for me to remove that tangled patch of thick, green, healthy centipede with roots as strong as fishing line. For some reason, I could only get a real handle on the job when I dug at a 90-degree angle, making holes that were about 18 inches deep. The funny thing was, the deeper I dug, the more powerful I felt. Sure, it left a small gully in my yard, but no problem: I planned to go out the next day and buy around $275 worth of potting soil to fill in the holes.
Russell cringed when he saw I meant business. “Do you have to dig that far down?” he whined. He can’t stand it when I dig up good centipede. It’s right up there with my selling his golf clubs at a garage sale when he isn’t watching.

Finally he succumbed. “Here, let me help you.” “Oh no, you’re not lifting a finger, remember?” I snapped. Still he stood there, “guarding” the spread of greenery that he was losing mound by mound. Well. After a solid hour of digging up only five square feet by myself, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I also couldn’t stand up, my back hurt so much.

Out of pity (dare I think love?) Russell accepted the shovel and the job was finished in no time flat. As he drove off to get his ball bearings, I hollered, “Look at it this way. One positive thing came out of this, honey. Now you’ll have less grass to mow!”

– Ann Ipock
Author of Life is Short, But It’s Wide; Life is Short, So Read This Fast; and Life is Short, I wish I Was Taller