In which my Sainted Southern Mother wins the Internet for the day

(Ranidaphobia is defined as “a morbid and irrational fear of frogs”)

Emailed my Sainted Southern Mother the following, under the subject line “Baby Steps”:

“Your son-in-law is in Iowa, so I did the trash and recycling. I opened the recycling bin and a nasty, eyeball-sucking-out tree frog was stuck to the inside.

“I was very brave, if your definition of brave is also squealing, banging on the outside of the bin to try to get it to leave, fetching a broom, coaxing it onto the broom, then squealing even louder while flinging the entire broom into the backyard.”

My Sainted Southern Mother immediately replied a single line: “How long did it take for the police to get there?”

Middle-school paparazzi

So I was minding my own business walking down Jones Street past the entrance to the natural science museum, where approximately eleventry hundred field trip kids were waiting to board activity busses back to their small towns in far-flung counties.

"Look! That lady has pink hair!!!" I heard them squeal as they started taking my picture. 

This. This was my punk-rock moment. This was where I was supposed to shoot double birds with a cigarette dangling from my lips.

But I didn't. I was very mature, because I hope one or more of those small-town kids saw me and aspired to move to Raleigh and be a weirdo, like I did on my own 8th-grade class trip.

How it all began

One Sunday when I was eight years old, I hemmed and hawed trying to get out of going to church and was not dressed when my Sainted Southern Mother and little sisters were ready to leave for Sunday school. 

"You make sure she gets dressed and is in that sanctuary when service begins," my mama hissed angrily at my daddy (who didn't have to go to church) while glaring directly at me.

Daddy let me just stomp around mad for a little while before laying down the law: "Go get dressed NOW!"

So I did. I put on an awesome outfit and immediately felt fierce and ready to be seen and admired after Daddy dropped me off. And when I walked into the proper Methodist church, past the grownups to the front pew where we kids had sit and behave, my SSM looked down at me from behind the organ she played and was horrified.

I was wearing one of my long, 1970s church dresses and my favorite white Converse.