I started experimenting with the ever-so-popular "green monster smoothies" earlier this summer in hopes of catapulting past a post out-of-town decorating
June is the traditional month for weddings. I am often interested in the many ways brides and their mammas find to make the ceremony unique. It is, hopefully, a unique occasion in the young couple's lives. Of course, they want it to be different, at least in some little way, from all the others.
I confess there was a time between adolescence and my 30th birthday when I was addicted to the sun. Tanning beds were my best friends, along with silver reflective sun blankets and baby oil. The sun was my drug, and I was an addict.
For every new father who has cradled a newborn in his arms and fervently wished someone out there taught a course on becoming a good dad -- well, someone does. For each man aspiring to be a better role model for his children, a helping hand is extended. For any father willing to step up to heal fractured family relationships, support is waiting. Through weekly classes, the Fatherhood Initiative represents a committed network of people in the Golden Triangle who help dads fulfill their precious, irreplaceable roles in the lives of their children.
It was sad news last week when The Times Picayune, New Orleans' daily paper became New Orleans' three-day-a-week paper. After 175 years, the publication is going digital, and no more home delivery. Mon Dieu! What a tragedy.
I've always been captivated by the idea of having a thriving vegetable garden reminiscent of my great-grandparent's and Ryan's grandparents'. Most of my husband's childhood memories of both his maternal and paternal grandparents revolve around two things: their legendary green thumbs and, of course, the simple yet mouthwatering meals created from their garden bounty.
Just the other day an age-old myth raised eyebrows at the salon amidst the yellow roses, somewhere near the current issue of Veranda and most definitely surrounded by two beautiful ladies sitting regally on my antique red settee.
These days a power walk around the block a few days a week just doesn't cut it. Lately the fitness motto seems to be, "Go hard or go home." And with all of the hardcore training routines out there, from at-home DVDs such as P90x and Insanity to group classes like R.I.P.P.E.D. and CrossFit, it's easy to see why.
May 5, 1945, was a typically beautiful spring day in Plzen, Czechoslovakia. The sun shone; flowers bloomed everywhere. But two hostile armies occupied the city. The Second Infantry Division of the U.S. Army were coming in on the southern flank for Allied forces in World War II. Germany held the city, but their resistance was fading.
We live in a place rich with history. Pilgrims come to the South from all over the world just to walk in the shadows of our past. This does not seem strange to us.
I remember my mama's arsenal of hairstyling tools from an early age. When you look at today's innovations, you might think she could as well have been beating two rocks together like a cave woman. Her hair dryer was about as small as a closed fist. It was the most offensive shade of tan, and it buzzed so loudly my daddy couldn't even hear the animals roaring on "Wild Kingdom."
Well, the question that everyone wants to know from last week's column is, "Did Ryan and your dad catch any fish?" and "What did you do with them?" I was so excited about my gourmet camp food that I left out any details about why we were on Horn Island in the first place.
Last weekend I decided, on a whim, to join my husband and my dad on one of their saltwater fly fishing trips to the barrier islands off of the Mississippi Gulf Coast. They go on these survival camping trips to Horn Island several times a year, and when they return from their adventure it takes them days to recover from the sunburn, bug bites, chaffing, and general malnourishment and dehydration. Sounds fun, huh?
Little girls grow up way too quickly to suit us, and my niece is no exception to the rule. Recently I was honored to escort her to the makeup counter where she would be introduced to mascara applied the right way, lipstick in a shade worthy of a graduating sixth-grader, and even something to "blush" about, literally.
For generations of Columbians who have only hearsay to know what MSCW (Mississippi State College for Women, now Mississippi University for Women) used to be, Eugenia Summer has a tale of the days when Dr. B.L. Parkinson was president. I think it will amuse, perhaps amaze, you.
Deep in the heart of every writer lurks a voyeur. We are masters of schizophrenic listening. A good writer can participate in a lunch-time conversation while tuning into diners at the next table. He (or she) is an observer of human nature, body language and, most importantly, subtle inflections, the nuances of speech. There is an invisible recorder in the brain, storing away accents and tones.
Many of my friends are reading "Fifty Shades of Grey." They simply can't put it down. I suppose many of us need to escape reality, if only through the pages of a bestseller. Well, never mind that, I am going to hit reality head-on with a few "grey" matters of my own.
Doesn't it seem like men have it easier where weight loss is concerned? It doesn't seem to take any time at all for a guy to get into tip-top shape. And don't even get me started on how quickly and easily those rascals can lose fat and gain muscle. It's quite unfair.
"Why did the chicken cross the road?" giggled 8-year-old Stella, entertaining her house sisters and "Mom," Kara Copes, at Palmer Home for Children in Columbus. Her audience, gathered under the gazebo on a bright May afternoon, pretended to be stumped.
As a child, I was terrified of trains. I cried if our car stopped near a train track or crossing. Many songs have been written about the romantic sound of a distant whistle. I cannot relate to lyrics about the allure of a train whistle's screech. That sound pierces chills and panic into my body. To me, it is the soundtrack of horror movies.