These girls are not like other girls.
They attend revival services; they know how to act when the preacher works himself into a lather. They know when it’s appropriate to shout, “Amen!” and when to whisper, “Did you see what that hussy had on?”
These gals know their Bibles — which is why you must never argue with them. Because they can also cuss the hair off your neck, should you refuse to listen to Scripture.
They know the differences between February and April wardrobes. Which kinds of shoes to wear in July, what kind of top to wear before Labor Day, and which kinds of pearls to wear on the eve of Christopher Columbus’ birthday.
Some of these ladies will raise several kids, a puppy, and one adult male who still pees on the toilet seat. In the daytime, they clean house, organize baby showers, make gift-baskets, dig up flowerbeds, fold laundry, and still find time to fix supper for the lovable idiot with bad aim.
Speaking of supper. When they feed you, they feed you. They make biscuits from scratch — and they don’t believe in margarine. They spend entire afternoons on coconut cakes, or slow baking hams. They’ll prepare fifty thousand deviled eggs for the funeral of someone’s uncle they’ve never met. Then deliver lemon chicken casserole to the grieving in-laws.
They pay good money for hairstyles. And, by God, they deserve them. Because it’s not about her hair — it’s never been about her hair. It’s about you, dammit. She wants you to find her beautiful. And she’d appreciate it if you’d tell her as much.
She calls her mother frequently enough to warrant a second cellphone. She can read your moods like the TV Guide. She logs important dates in the error-proof calendar known as: her brain. She knows when to leave big tips; she knows when to call the manager.
Sometimes she does both.
She brews tea sweet enough to rot your gums. She’ll drink beer from the can, and she’ll fetch you a cold one if you’re nice.
She’ll dust your ceiling fans, reorganize your closet, scream alongside you at football games, and still fit in her mid-week Bible study. She’s strong as hell, and Southern as a crop of cotton.
I’m biased, but I won’t apologize for it.
Because she’s everything to me.