I have a post up over at Deep South about Chryslers, hot summer days, drive-through carwashes, and “Afternoon Delight.” Check it out!
For the longest time my front porch has been decorated only with three crinkly dead plants and a disintegrating doormat, and the front door has red mud handprints made by boys who paw the door while trying to grasp the door handle.
Yesterday I tossed the plantings of death and went to the local garden shop looking for something funky to spruce up the place, because how many Boston ferns do we really need in the Tiny Kingdom?
I was thrilled to find crocodile ferns that I paired with dieffenbachia. Now my pots say welcome, but don’t get too comfortable here.
Three years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: The Lone Vagina
I lost the battle over having toy guns in the house way back when Finn was a toddler, and then I handed the whole firearm issue over to Bill.
So while we are notorious hard asses about media, you might describe us as incredibly lax in another area (besides haircuts). Each boy owns an air soft gun, a product I’d never heard of until recently.
It’s like a paint ball gun without the paint. The boys put on protective goggles and run around the yard SHOOTING EACH OTHER ON PURPOSE, which is exactly what I don’t want them doing in video games.
Bill says, “Lighten up, Frances,” and I guess he’s right. We can’t ban everything. At least there’s no blood, flying body parts or scantily clad women involved.
But I bet the neighbors across the street worry when they see this:
Is this a Southern thing, a boy thing, or what?
A year ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Drew Discovers Santa’s Limits
Apparently “Weagel Weagle” isn’t the only nonsensical verse of a football fight song out there.
When I wrote about the
animusgood-natured rivalry between Alabama and Auburn fans, I quoted the Auburn fight song, part of which causes many a confused Alabamian to ask, “What the hell is a weagle?”
Bodygetta Bodygetta Bodygetta Bah
Rah Rah Rah
Sis Boom Bah
War Damn Eagle
Kick ‘Em In the Butt Big Blue!!
Joy wrote in to say that she’d been taught to say “Regal eagle,” and she surmised that years of drunkenly attempting such linguistics had morphed the phrase into “weagle,” which seems a good explanation.
Kelly then pointed out that at Ole Miss the fans proudly yell a ditty which makes them seem confused, if not amnesiac:
Hotty Toddy, godalmighty,
Who the hell are we?
Flim, flam, bim bam,
Ole Miss, by damn!
As she said, “Flim flam? Also, we wonder who the hell they are too.”
That led me to wonder what else is being screamed in stadia* across the nation in the name of team spirit. Do share.
If you can beat “bodygetta bah,” Tiny Kingdom readers want to know about it!
*So excited to use my high school Latin. Thanks, Mr. Velotas!
Many of you have insisted that I cannot technically be neutral between Alabama and Auburn, and you are correct. My parents were in a mixed marriage, commonly denoted by the license plate you see here:
Generally my parents sat on the Alabama side, but one year my mom got pissed and said she was tired of sitting with the enemy, so my dad bought two tickets on the Auburn side and two on the Alabama side. I sat with my mom, Aunt Su sat with my dad, and Aunt Lulu stayed home with the ancient babysitter who gave her half a candied orange slice as a super-special treat. If she was really lucky they watched Hee-Haw instead of the game.
Although I went to college out of state, I married a man who grew up in Auburn, and that sealed my fate. When pressed, marital harmony compels me to proclaim allegiance to Auburn.
While I don’t have a problem giving my children unusual names, I’ve taken a resolute stand against double first names (heretical in the South). My main activity as an Auburn fan is to revel in the fact that at least Auburn’s quarterback doesn’t have three names. John Parker Wilson is making it difficult on the announcers who have to spit out all those syllables every time he throws the ball.
The night before the Iron Bowl we layered up to brave the weather and visited some tailgating friends. It was a large affair, complete with heated tent and guitarist, located improbably about ten feet from the parking lot, but whatever. As the musician tuned up to play, someone in the back of the crowd yelled, “Don’t you break that G-string!”
“That’s what all the girls say,” another man hollered.
I cringed and glanced at the boys. Finn gave me a knowing look while managing to seem a bit embarrassed, Drew was confused, and Porter was pissed.
“That’s not the G-string, it’s a B. I should tell that man that you remember the strings by saying ‘Easter Bunny Got Drunk At Easter.'”
This from my fervent guitarist who once responded to a man who said, “Anybody got a request?” by asking, “Can you play an E?”
He takes his notes seriously.
Bill saw some childhood friends he hadn’t seen in ages. A guy named David told me that Bill was the first kid in town to wear tube socks, thus assuring himself a place in Auburn fashion history.
I was pleased to know that Bill was sexy long before Justin Timberlake was even born, much less driven to bring sexy back.
I don’t know that I’ve ever written so much about sports in so short a time.
Those of you in town who are interested, I have a friend who makes the yummiest chocolate roulage! (You know, the flourless chocolate cake filled with whipped cream that’s rolled like a jellyroll).
You can give them as gifts or buy for yourself to serve as a holiday dessert. Each is $35 and serve 12-15 people each. They come frozen. This is not a mail thing, so unless you are planning to drive to Vestavia, you are out of luck. She bakes and freezes constantly between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and it’s first-come, first-served. Email me if you’re interested.