I just finished listening to Belle Weather by Celia Rivenbark and just have to share some of this woman’s incomparable wit. This audio book is read by the author herself, and she has that lovely southern belle accent I just love to slip into when I’m in a southern belle short of mood, or I’m imitating some belle I recently heard on TV or radio. I think it’s even more fun than pretending I’m from Ireland! It’s kind of funny, but the older I get, the easier it is for me to slip into that southern belle mystique; that, “I need a big, strong man to do this for me” attitude (read as if you are Dolly Parton saying it).
My husband caught me at this just the other day (minus the accent, of course, that would have been a dead giveaway). He was tightening up the handle of the screen door into the house, and I nonchalantly mentioned how I thought there was a cupboard in the kitchen that could use a little tightening too. This from the mouth of a woman who prides herself in being pretty handy around the house. He took me to task right away by replying: ‘Since when did you forgot what the right side of a screw driver looked like?’ I smirked, but when he was done with the door, he went into the kitchen and tighten the offensive cupboard. (Yes!) I tried to save face by explaining how I had tighten this other cupboard door a while back, but he just went on silently with his work. (Doesn’t hurt to try!)
Well enough about my silliness. Here are some quotes from Belle Weather and a real pro at southern belle/ female redneck humor.
“Back in Dallas I decided to make the pilgrimage to the mothership that is Neiman Marcus, where I accidentally spent forty-eight dollars on an eyebrow pencil. For a Maybeline girl from way back, this was downright guilt-inducing. Still, I deserved it. I was staying in a hotel where I was-I swear-the only guest not affiliated with a national cheerleading convention. If you ever want to feel old, just ride an elevator with thirty-five giggling teens wearing their hair in buns of spongerubber rollers and saying “Shut up!” a lot to each other.”
Here is her encounter with a particularly nice pest control man and a dead opossum:
“Look,” I said…”The possum is dead. Dead! I don’t care if you go all Abu Ghraib, put a leash around his neck and smoke a cigarette with your leg propped up on his haunches. Just get him the hell outta here!” Once Vince actually listened and realized the possum had waddled on over to that great other-side-of-the-road in the sky, I was sure the fee would drop dramatically, but I was wrong. “On initial investigation, we will ascertain as to the particular species of the possum…” Sweet Lord above. Deliver me from a worldly post control expert. Whatever happened to the good old days when I could just dangle a twelve-pack in front of a passing redneck and not only get the varmint removed but also get a damn good start on a deck on the back of the house? I tried again.”
One last piece where she is talking about some plumber that are working on her kitchen:
“And even though my current plumbers had some kind of weird version of Tourette’s while working, we got along just fine. I discovered that it’s actually not so bad to communicate via obscenities. I’d point at a leaky faucet and say simply, “Shit.” They’d respond with a slow whistle followed by a wholly sympathetic, “Son of a bitch!” And then the repair would begin in earnest. While linguistic snobs would say that cursing is the lowest form of human communication, they’d never had such excellent plumbers in their house.”
I think I’ll read more of Celia’s stuff!