These boots are made for ... giving away?

Yes, it's true. It's my first giveaway since I started the blog, and it's a big one, thanks to Country Outfitters.

They have graciously agreed to allow me to review a pair of their boots - and give away a pair to you, my readers. I am very excited about the opportunity because I have been lusting after these boots both online and in person. They are nothing short of fabulous.

Since I'm such a good mom (and we wear the same shoe size), I've allowed my teenaged daughter to be my foot model. Needless to say, she was very surprised, especially since we've teased her about her long, skinny feet since before she was born. (You can read here about how my father-in-law convinced me that she would weigh 12 lbs. at birth based on the size of her protruding foot when she'd kick.)

Here she is today making her boot selection. Please check back for details on the chance to win a pair of your own - or to surprise your teenaged daughter (or son).

Happy Everything!

It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and for weeks I’ve been called a Scrooge. Yes, a Scrooge as in “The Christmas Carol,” emphasis on Christmas.

Growing up, my dad was a firm believer in singing Christmas carols – on Christmas Day. I’m not quite as strict. My son’s been playing “Up on the Housetop” on his clarinet for a month now, and since it was my grandmother’s favorite carol, I’ve allowed it — plus it’s required for school.

See, I’m reasonable.

I bit my tongue when my husband accidentally called the house with a jazz version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” blaring on his truck radio. I wanted to ask if it were some kind of sick joke, but I didn’t. I’ve ignored his humming of holiday tunes around the house and didn’t accuse of him of doing it just to bug me.
See, I’m very reasonable — until one night when my family piled into the car to go somewhere.

“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock …” sang the radio.

“Jingle around the clock!” my family chimed in at the top of their lungs.

I turned, glared at the kids and pushed the button hard for the next station.

“I’ll have a blue Christmas …” it played.

“Without you …” my family sang in exaggerated fashion. “You’ll be doin’ all right, with your Christmas so whi …”

At which point, I couldn’t stand it and turned the radio off all together.

“You’re a Scrooge,” my husband teased.

“A Scrooge?” I said, outraged. “It’s Veterans Day!”

And, it was. Downtown Newnan looked beautiful with its white lights, but what about flags? Shouldn’t we slow down and enjoy each holiday as it comes, instead of lumping them all together into a “holiday season” that starts the minute the last door is shut on a trick-or-treater? Or is it just me? Sometimes I feel as if it is.

I love Thanksgiving. I love everything it’s about – family, food and, most importantly, being thankful for both. There are no gifts, no pressure to buy, no pressure to decorate perfectly or even to be happy. On Thanksgiving, the biggest decision one has to make is whether to take a nap, go for a walk or have another piece of pie after lunch.

And best of all, there are no songs.

I know some people really love all the pomp and circumstance that come with Christmas, and there are people who have already decorated and been ready for the big event for weeks. Believe it or not, this year, I’m one of them. My children went to a pottery place and hand painted the perfect gift for me. It’s a plate that reads, “Happy Everything!”

I’ve decided to keep it on my mantel year-round. I figure that covers all the holidays, and, hopefully, it will remind me that listening to “The Little Drummer Boy” won’t kill me, no matter what time of year it is — especially when my precious children are singing along.

Guilt free recovery

I had to have a procedure recently.

Procedure is supposed to be a delicate word for surgery. Kind of like issues is currently the delicate word for problems. So, I either had an issue that required a procedure or a problem that required surgery. You pick. The end result is the same — a month of recovery, a delicate word for doing nothing.

At first, I was horrified at the thought of sitting around and allowing my family and friends to wait on me, but I found that I soon warmed to the concept. So much so that I began enjoying it more than I felt I should. I voiced this concern to a friend who reminded me: “You have every right to enjoy your recovery – guilt free.”

That was just the permission I needed. Since that moment, I’ve decided to embrace my down time, not fight it. Here’s what I’ve learned in the process:

The world will not end if I don’t leave the house. That’s a good thing because I rather like not leaving the house.

Showers feel really good after a few days.

My son secretly knows how to do laundry. I don’t know how or why.

It’s very easy to tweet the day away.

It’s humanly impossible not to eat fun-sized candy bars if they are in the house.

True friends pass along their trashy magazines. I have lots of true friends.

There’s very little a piece of homemade lemon meringue pie won’t cure.

The more commercials I watch, the more convinced I’ve become that I need those products. To that end, Forever Cozy seat cushion and NoNo laser hair remover are on their way.

There are a lot of Denzel Washington movies I haven’t seen.

I could probably live in my bedroom if I had to.

One card makes up for a mailbox full of bills.

I can’t remember any of my passwords or my cell number, and that has nothing to do with the leftover effects of the anesthesia.

My purse constituted heavy lifting and violated the doctor’s orders.

Couches with built-in recliners are worth their weight in gold.

I don’t miss running nearly as much as I thought I would. Nor working. Nor cooking. Nor cleaning.

In fact, I think recovery becomes me. As my friend said, “It’s amazing what we go through just to get a vacation.”

She’s right. It may not fit into our plans, but God knows what He’s doing and when we need to put our feet up.
So, for now, I’m going to put away my to-do list, unwrap a bite-sized 3 Musketeers, pull out my stack of Hollywood magazines and enjoy because, ready or not, I’ll be well before I know it. At least, my family hopes so!

Thank you for being a friend

I had surgery two weeks ago, and my family couldn’t be happier about it – or fatter.

“Why do people keep bringing food?” my son asked when I came home from my brief stay in the hospital.

“Because that’s just what they do in South,” I said.

And it is wonderful.

As a mother, I was a little afraid of being incapacitated for a few weeks. Don’t get me wrong, my husband is very hands on, but I’m the mother. Since my daughter was born 22 years ago, I’ve pretty much believed the world would end if I spent a day in bed. I really thought very little about the surgery (which went fine, by the way) beforehand. Instead, I thought of more important things like, “Who will separate the delicates from the towels? Who will fix the sweet tea? Who will RSVP to party invitations?”

As I said, very important things.

I also worried a little about food, specifically, what we were going to eat. My husband is an excellent chef and cooks plenty of meals, but for some reason, I had it in my head that I should buy a case or two of power bars to keep by my bed just in case. I should have known that no matter one’s situation, if you know a few Southern women, you have nothing to fear.

In addition to my husband’s homemade Brunswick stew, we’ve been blessed with food from some of the area's finest cooks. Night after night, these sweet friends of mine entered bearing casserole dishes — some fancy, some disposable — all equally delicious.


“I like home-cooked meals,” my daughter said enthusiastically, making me feel a twinge of guilt for not cooking enough the past year, or two, or three ...

The best part about Southern women is they think of everything. The food was gluten- and nut-free per our allergies. They brought jugs of Chick-fil-A tea, 12 packs of cranberry La Croix and sacks of People magazines for me to pass the time. They brought ice cream and cookies for dessert, gift cards for take-out later and cinnamon rolls for breakfast. I gotta tell you, recovering from surgery ain’t half bad.

And beyond the kitchen, I’ve gotten flowers, phone calls, visits, texts and prayers. Any ounce of apprehension vanished as soon as my friends sprang into action. Thank God, I let them, though being the true friends that they are, I had no choice.

Speaking of thanking, one of my dearest friends, whom I’ll call “Louise,” picked me up last week and drove me all over town to look for thank you notes.

We finally found them at a local pharmacy. According to the sales clerk, they don’t carry many because they don’t sell. Kind of sad sign on the state of manners. I still think real mail trumps emails, texts and even phone calls, but I’m hoping this column will trump all three.

Thank you, friends.

All you need is ... sports

I never thought I’d be saying this, but I think the world would be a better place if women talked sports. Relax, men, I don’t mean talked sports with you. I mean with each other.

Just imagine ... there’d be no misinterpreting innocent comments, no later analysis of tone, no backhanded compliments to be offended, no subtle nuances -- just cut and dry stuff like “The Braves really sucked this year, didn’t they?”

Women wouldn’t have to worry about if they’ve forgotten their girlfriend’s daughter’s birthday or failed to notice right away that they got their late-in-life braces off. All they’d need to know is if the Bulldogs won and whether or not they need a new kicker.

It would really eliminate a lot of pressure.
Now, to be clear, I do not mean they should talk about their kids’ sports. While most women are supportive of one another kids, there’s still a gray area when it comes to who brought the best snacks and who has volunteered more often in the concession stand. Believe me, it exists.

Men do not have that. I can only guess it’s because they simply don’t care. I actually envy them. They don’t have to worry about staying in constant contact with their friends and knowing every aspect of their lives and wondering whether they are mad at them or not. They can go years without seeing each other and then pick right back up by asking, “Been playing much golf?”

In fact, I used to think sports were invented to give an outlet to the natural competitive spirit that we humans have, but now I think it’s so men can avoid these awkward issues. It’s no wonder they never complain of getting their feelings hurt after hanging with the guys. If a team is bad, they’re bad. Scores don’t lie.

As long as sports exist, men will always have something to talk about. I realize there are plenty of women who know sports and can discuss it without mixing up game, match, meet and umpires and referees. To me, that alone is impressive.

Though I have to admit, I have never seen two women discussing sports. Ever.

I have noticed, however, that every reporter on the field at football games is a woman. I’m not saying they shouldn’t be there, but I wonder if it’s now a requirement to get an interview.

Regardless, I do think women knowing about sports is the wave of the future. My daughter is an all-around athlete who can watch football, volleyball, tennis and basketball (among others) and discuss the plays intelligently —with her father. She doesn’t believe me, but I told her that would get her far in business and in life.

As for me, I like the status quo. Women chatting about sports with one another might bring about world peace, but I’d sure miss my friends.

Halloween horror tips

For a kid who has never seen an R-rated movie, my son knows a lot about them – particularly scary ones.

He can describe the plot of classics such as “Psycho,” “Amityville Horror,” “Halloween,” “Friday the 13th,” “Nightmare on Elm Street,” “Jaws,” “The Creature from the Black Lagoon,” “The Blob” and many, many, many more – a fact that is quite horrifying to his mother.

Apparently, one of the television channels is showing a scary movie a night. While I was out of town at a writers’ conference, he was home watching – not the movies – but the commercials.

“Who do you think is scarier, Jason or Chucky?” he asked.

After much debate, we decided that, while Chucky is certainly creepy and worth checking twice under our beds for, his small stature gave us the upper hand.

“Who do you think is the scariest out of all the horror movies,” he asked.

That was easy – Michael Myers.

And forget the movie, I remember borrowing the book, “Halloween,” from a friend and reading it on the bus.

“What’s ‘The Shining’ about?” he asked.

I could have regaled him with the details, but instead, being a mom and scared to death of that movie, I said, “Nothing you need to know about.”

To his credit, he didn’t press. Some stories are better left dead and buried.

With his help, I have compiled a list of do’s and don'ts if you happen to encounter Chucky, Jason or, gulp, Michael Myers this Halloween:

Don’t answer the door if you hear scary music. For example, the “chee, chee, chee” sound that Jason’s waiting outside with a knife.

Girls, don’t go parking with boys and vice versa.

Don’t pull the cover over your head when you hear footsteps.

Don’t watch scary movies alone.

Don’t move to a deserted hotel in the middle of winter. Just don’t.

Do lock the door when you shower. Yes, I do.

Do carry your cell phone. Home lines will always be cut.

Do get cable, so your child won’t sit in front of the television mesmerized by static.

Do not trust anyone who smiles like Jack Nicholson.

Do expect if you buy a scary mask for Halloween, your kid will sneak up on you while you are doing laundry and not say a word.

Do rent Monsters Inc. this Halloween -- or ET, and cuddle up with your kid.

That seems to be the best defense of all.

Wanna be a runner?

As part of my mass effort to improve myself, I decided to pick up my feet and start running.

I’ve described myself as a wanna-be-runner for years. In case you want to know what that is, it means as I’m driving downtown and I see people jogging, I think, “I wish I could do that,” and then turn up the AC. Over time, however, I’m chipping away at the wanna-be part.

My first 5K was two years ago. I was very proud of my time. An impossibly-thin friend I had not seen since high school saw me after the race and asked me what my time was. I proudly told her (note that I am not writing it here).

“That’s a great run for a 10K,” she said.

“Oh, that was for the 5K,” I said.

Her face said the rest.

Since that time, I’ve entered more races, and I’ve run better times. I set my PR when I was running with my best friend. She had done the couch to 5K training plan. I assumed her 5K time would be like my first 5K time. We stayed together the first two miles. By the third, she was still talking, and I knew I was in trouble.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“Just. Can’t. Talk,” I managed to get out during breaths. “Go. Ahead. Save. Yourself.”

And off she went to the finish line. She later swears she wasn’t trying to beat me – just the guy who was speed walking ahead of us. It didn’t matter, my pride was too tired to care.

As time passed, I found some other running buddies to race with, including my teenage daughter. Now, if you’ve had a teenager, then you understand that if you find an activity that you can do together, you’d better latch onto it like a snapping turtle. And that’s just what I have done.

Next thing I knew, we were slipping out early Saturday mornings to race against our peers – and ourselves. Though the truth is there’s more cheering for one another than racing.

Runners are kind people, I’ve found. They don’t care how old you are or if you have to stop to walk or if your 5K time is mistaken for a 10K time. They know if you are out there participating, then you get it.

You get that there’s nothing to make you feel more alive than almost dying en route.

If you are a runner, then you know how nice it is to see the sun come up while you feel the crisp air fill your lungs. You know what a thrill it is to hear your quiet daughter give a war whoop as she passes you. You know how cool it is to get a new T-shirt and to have a great playlist and to feel grateful to be alive. You know what it’s like to chip away at your time, sometimes second by second. You know what it’s like to do something you’d never thought you’d be doing. It is running, and it is incredible.

It’s a sport that grows on you, and it has worked its way into me. I no longer loathe it. I look forward to it. I no longer dread the minutes on the treadmill. Instead I push myself to go faster. Somehow, step by step, I have become a runner. There, I finally said it. Doesn’t mean I’ll ever have a great time or even a good time, but I’m out there. I’m doing it. I am running, and this wanna-be finally belongs.