It appears that all of my creative juices have been tapped by my efforts to finish Boondock Witch. Rather than leaving y’all hanging, I have hit upon an idea for the day: “Down and Personal with Yor’ Local Southern Witch.” Lesse:
A random day in my life includes researching strange weeds in hopes that they have magical properties.
My porch looks like a poster for “Witch House: the Redneck Edition.”
My rooster’s name is Stanley. He is the worst excuse for a rooster in the history of chickendom. I cannot kill him. I love his belligerent, “can’t get right” ass.
I quit smoking every night when I hit the bed—sure that I will never do it again—and usually make it until around three or four in the afternoon. I hate this about me.
I’ve never dated anyone who didn’t have dark brown or black hair. Ever. In life.
Folks think I dye my white streak. Truth is, I tie it up in an orthodontic rubber band, coat it with Vaseline and dye the salt and pepper out of the rest. Asshats.
I am deathly allergic to jalapeno seeds, but not the skins. This particular pepper grows like a weed for me. Out of cockiness, I reckon.
My least favorite chore in the whole world is changing the sheets on the bed. When the Southern Fried Teen was born, I was forced to work as a maid in a Comfort Inn. Nuff said. (But I CAN neatly fold a fitted shit.)
My favorite chore in the world is to wash dishes and stare out a picture window. It’s healing. Second favorite? Weeding. I have a brain that never stops whirling, thinking, contemplating . . . mindless chores are a blessed release.
Tiger Lilies are my favorite flower, hands down. Second in line are red begonias, aka Dragon leaf. And I will cut a bitch over my honeysuckle, zombie vine or not. Be forewarned.
I keep a personal logbook on every plant I’ve ever received, dug up or bought. They all have names. I know, I know. Weird.
Nothing infuriates me more than passive aggression. Nothing. Ever. In life. And I live and love in the South.
Most of my closest friends are curvaceous, ample women. (Most.)
If I could meet anyone alive or dead, it would be Jesus just so that I could tattle on all the Christians who made a religion he begged them not to make. And then we could make wine out of water and chill.
People who don’t brush their tongue make me physically ill. What the hell is that, a “save it for later” slide?
I have a serious, almost clinical, crush on Robert Downey Jr. and remind everyone within a mule mile that we share a birthday. From Eighties boy to crackhead to Ironman, I love that razor-tongued Aries like Paula Deen loves butter.
My favorite spells are earthy: grown from scratch herbs, simplistic design, cooperative moonlight and fireflies. Done.
I believe that, if you cannot drive a hybrid, yor ass should be in a Chevy. End of story.
Tire swings are sexy.
Honesty is sexy.
Bacon is a food group. (Hey, don’t start on me, vegetarian friends. You do you. I’ll do me. BACON.)
I’d rather have fried catfish and a slice of lemon with sweet tea than a steak. My favorite flavor in the entire universe is, however, barbeque. Hands down. All sweet and spicy and smoky and sinful. I’d eat a barbeque snail if they made ‘em.
My learning curve towards people and their integrity is like a dog’s: you kick me, I forget it for the first few times. The last time, you are gonna leave a piece of that meat in my yard.
I have only cast for myself (specifically) five times in my entire life. It’s worked ‘ary time. I reckon I save these moments up for special, like a secret weapon.
I no longer actually hate any living human being. It was killing me. Letting hate go did more for my general peace of mind than Botox has ever done for my frown lines.
I began grieving for my grandma’s impending death when I was four. Cried myself to sleep at night. Now that it has come to pass, I cry twice as much. Some folks leave a god-shaped hole when they leave.
I abhor wearing Easter egg shades—and still folks will make/buy me things in light turquoise, lavender, pink . . . blech. Let’s talk oxblood red or maize, please.
“Maggie May” makes me pull over the car and sob like a baby. I smell the early seventies and sweetness and pain and pine needles.
Status updates that say simply “THIS” or “True Story” before a link or a pic make me wanna hurl my computer through cyberspace at the poster. With a note that says: “this!”
I will always miss chubby baby hands, making pancakes on Sunday and all of the gooey, peanut-buttery, fubar, bloody mess of being a mom.
And there you have it. Back to the drawing board, y’all. I promise a for real blog before next week—but for now, the well is tapped. (But the book’s got legs.)