by irene bean
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SOME OF MY FAVORITE BLOGS I'VE POSTED
A Solid Foundation
Not Trying to be Corny
This Little Light of Mine
We Were Once Young
Veni, Vedi, Vinca
U Tube Has a New Star
Packing a 3-Iron
Well... Come on in
There's no Substitute
Dressed for Success
Life can be Crazy
The New Dog
No Spilt Milk
Have Ya Heard the One About?
The Great Caper
My New Security System
2006-02-16 1:06 PM
Note to the reader: ANY CAPITALIZED WORDS MUST BE READ WITH A SOUTHERN DRAWL FOR MAXIMUM EFFECT AND PLEASURE. NOW PRACTICE THE PREVIOUS SENTENCE AS INSTRUCTED.
Every time I go to the dentist, I'm reminded of an event that happened about 15 years ago.
A dull ache, much like the one in my heart (I was midst a divorce) was manifesting in one of my molars. The thought of toothache puts a special type of fear in my heart. So, like any normal person I made an appointment with my dentist. There's a twist here. My dentist lived in Nashville, Tennessee, which was a mighty distance from Laguna Beach where I lived at the time. Without much ado, let it be known my mouth holds a brick of bullion. My dentist was also my uncle and his services were gratis. He's a prince.
In addition to the terror of toothache, getting away for a brief respite held lots of appeal. I packed my bags in haste.
First business at hand was easily reconciled. X-rays confirmed the toothache was a false alarm. There would be no probing, numbing, drilling, or molten gold. My uncle boomed, "WHY IRENE CAROL, I BELIEVE YOUR TEETH ARE AS GOOD AS NEW. NOW YOU PUT ON A SMILE AND GO HAVE SOME FUN WITH YOUR AUNT." Upon hearing the news, I smiled the big, beautiful smile my uncle had given me many years earlier, when he totally overhauled my mouth.
The first morning after my arrival, my Aunt Jean Carol and I were sitting with our second cup of coffee and catching up with family gossip. All families are full of it. Ours is abundant and often requires a third cup. My aunt suddenly became pensive. She excused herself and skibbled upstairs to her bedroom. When she returned, her hands were cupped. When she unclasped them, gold rings of every imaginable size, shape and design tumbled from her fingers. She said, "IRENE CAROL, YOU CAN NOT HAVE NAKED FINGERS. I JUST CAN'T BEAR IT. NOW, YOU TAKE YOUR TIME AND PICK OUT A FEW RINGS TO KEEP. A WOMAN SHOULD NEVER HAVE NAKED FINGERS." Her command was spoken like a profound ism, and I instantly became a devoted disciple. I was dizzy with dazzle, but selected two that caught my fancy.
As I slipped one on, the cool metal graced my slender finger with warmth. It also covered the California tan line tattooed into my flesh by my wedding ring, which I no longer wore.
The next morning after our third cup of coffee, Aunt Jean Carol announced she'd planned a Day of Beauty for me. Again, in true Southern tradition, she used my double name. "IRENE CAROL, WITH YOUR NEW LIFE YOU NEED A NEW LOOK. WE'RE GOING TO FLUFF YOU UP LIKE A TIRED OLD PILLOW THAT SOMETIMES NEEDS AN OCCASIONAL NUDGE TO GET FLUFFED UP AGAIN." A comment like that might ordinarily ruffle a few feathers, but I knew she was right. God only knew what inspections I might face. I was a single woman again.
That week in Nashville was too short, but offered the mothering touch I needed. I returned to Laguna Beach a new person. At the very least, my self-esteem had been masterfully over-hauled. I was wearing subtle shades of femininity orchestrated by a cosmetics counselor.... Cousin Genevieve. My hair had been professionally trimmed with no discernible difference given its natural propensity to curl at will, and my fingers glittered with swirls of gold.
My Nashville kin exemplify the finest of all Southern traditions. AND THAT'S THE NAKED TRUTH. xoxo
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