New Year's Day

Growing up in South Mississippi, New Year’s Day was traditionally a pretty laid back holiday. Maybe that was because we were all tired from the Christmas celebration that of course was followed closely by shooting fireworks late into the night on New Year’s Eve. As kids we would watch the parades on TV while the adults were cooking the “traditional” New Year’s Day fare. I was well into adulthood when I realized not everyone in the United States ate black-eyed peas, rice and turnip greens (or some type of greens) on the first of January every year. We always had some type of meat (usually pork chops) along with what we kids called the “bad stuff.” The worst part was – we had to eat some of everything to insure the New Year would be prosperous, happy, and productive.

The greens signified greenbacks – or money. As a kid, I swear, eating actual money would have been a better treat to the culinary palette. If I recall correctly, the peas represented change – I always thought Mama meant quarters, nickels and dimes, but common sense now tells me it must have be change in fortune or direction in life. The rice, (which was usually eaten with the black-eyed peas) well it was supposed to be for luck. As I was staring at my plate, I remember most years thinking, “Yeah, I need the luck to get this yucky food down.”

After lunch we would usually watch football games and scream for our favorite teams with the enthusiasm of someone who had actually attended the colleges represented in the bowl games. I always contributed the lack of lethargy that usually followed the other usual holiday meals to the football games and the horrible food. I certainly didn’t realize that we ate less than at Thanksgiving or Christmas and the carbohydrate-rich foods we consumed on those holidays were responsible for the lethargic feeling after eating. (Yes, the traditional turkey contains tryptophan, that when taken on an empty stomach without any other food will cause drowsiness, but it’s the carbohydrates that are actually the culprit). Despite the food, New Year’s Day was always special and I now realize it was because it was a family day.

After 1968, we added birthday cake as an afternoon snack. My baby sister chose New Year’s Day to make her arrival in this world, bless her heart. Had she known what we were force-fed on that day, I KNOW she would have gestated another day. Back when we were kids, only convenient stores were open on New Year’s Day, so there was no option of fast food for a special treat for her birthday. Heck, there were very few fast food places when I was a kid.

Unfortunately, this year, both my father and my baby sister were sick, so I cheated a bit on the menu and cooked red beans and rice and the only greens I could find were mustard greens. Funny, maybe it’s the economy, but I didn’t have to force my two kids that were here to eat the greens. And my baby sister, well, because she was sick, she was able to skip the traditional New Year’s Day meal. Miserable way to spend your birthday! Anyway – Happy Birthday, baby sister. I love you!

©Copyright 2010
SLG
All rights reserved. No further use,
reproduction, or distribution in any form,
including print, electronic or otherwise, may be
made without the express permission of the author.

Trophy Wife

Sitting in the Wards in Picayune, Mississippi last week, I happened to glance over at the next table. An attractive young woman, probably in her early to mid twenties and her 4 or 5 year old son were sitting there enjoying their lunch. It must be some instinctive thing that mother’s have, but since becoming a mother at age twenty, anytime a child is in the vicinity, my eyes somehow seem to zero in on that child.

I love watching people, but my favorite subject(s) to observe would have to be children; savoring their joy, love for life and most importantly their innocence. On this occasion, the young mother was trying to coax her son to eat his French fries so they could get ice cream and then go home so he could watch the cartoon network.

I looked over at his mother and happened to notice she was wearing a t-shirt that proudly proclaimed “Trophy Wife.” I can honestly say, I’ve NEVER seen that phrase written on a t-shirt, let alone someone wearing a t-shirt with that phrase. Trophy Wife? I looked closely at the young woman; yes she was fairly attractive. Now maybe I’m confused about the definition of a trophy wife, but I always picture a drop-dead gorgeous woman, who lacks intellect and has only one function in her husband’s life, being an adornment.

I think at that age, I was as attractive as this young woman, but I dare say, none of my ex-husbands would have had the courage to refer to me as a “trophy wife” unless perhaps they were suicidal. Don’t get me wrong; I didn’t mind being told I was attractive (though I never believed it) but for someone to insinuate that I was no more than an ornament – BIG MISTAKE! I could have seen Joey giving me something like that as a “gag” gift, but he would have stood on the other side of the room when I opened it.

Now I don’t know if this young woman’s husband had bought her the t-shirt or whether she had bought it herself. Obviously, this young woman was a “stay-at-home” mother. So she has a function other than an ornament, though from the interaction I observed, like most young women her age nowadays, she needed a course in parenting.

As I sat there eating my lunch listening to her tell her son to hurry so she could go home and play on the computer while he watched cartoons, I came to the conclusion that yes, she must be a trophy wife. Although I didn’t know the young woman, she apparently didn’t have the wisdom or astuteness to realize exactly what her t-shirt was proclaiming to the world. By the way, if anyone sees me wearing something that declares a similar sentiment, please notify the authorities, because I have completely lost my mind and need to be committed!
©Copyright 2009
SLG
All rights reserved. No further use,
reproduction, or distribution in any form,
including print, electronic or otherwise, may be
made without the express permission of the author.