You Can’t Drink All Day if You Don’t Start in the Morning (21 page)

Oh, yes, they also “needed space.” It was “not you, it’s us.” Whatever they said, it meant that loyal Paige, whose skill at using really big and dangerous power tools should’ve caused them some concern, was tossed like a used paint-tray liner.

But that was then and this is now and the scummy ex-boyfriend begged pitifully for a second chance.

While I personally think Paige should’ve let them twist in the wind, like Frank’s homemade kitty-cat chimes, a bit longer, she’s just too damn nice and perky for that, bless her heart.

So she said, “OK” and only asked that her best designer-friends (Hildi, Frank, Laurie, and Doug) be given the spotlight, too.

Paige has scored a win for all of us who have been, at some point in life, cast aside by the one we were loyal to in the search for someone “prettier” or “thinner” or “smarter” or “less-likely-to-stab-you-in-the-retina-if-you-cheat-on-her.”

The good girl won when the bad boys who dumped her showed up—nervously twisting the latest lousy Nielsen ratings in their sweaty hands—and said they were sorry and would do anything to get her back.

Anything, that is, except letting Hildi plant grass on their office walls. Everybody’s got limits, y’all.

Has your heart been broken or maybe just bent up a little? The ultimate indulgent comfort dessert is close at hand. Like all my favorite go-to recipes, this one is ridiculously easy but doesn’t taste that way.

• 1 (21-ounce) can apple pie filling
  
• 6 (8-inch) flour tortillas
  
• 1 teaspoon cinnamon
  
• 1 stick butter
  
• ½ cup sugar
  
• ½ cup light brown sugar
  
• 1 pint vanilla ice cream (I prefer Ben & Jerry’s)
  

Spoon pie filling evenly down the center of each tortilla. Sprinkle with cinnamon; roll up, placing seam side down in lightly greased 9 × 13–inch baking dish.

Bring butter, sugars, and ½ cup water to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, stirring constantly, for about 3 minutes. Pour over enchiladas. Let stand at least 30 minutes so it can soak in good. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes. Serve hot, topped with a scoop or two of vanilla ice cream. Cheers up six despondent gal pals.

I had just finished the book tour for the hardcover edition of
Belle Weather: Mostly Sunny with a Chance of Scattered Hissy Fits
, when it hit me: Vampires sell. Every store was full of promotional posters and displays of bestselling vampire lit. I could’ve sworn the salesclerk at Barnes & Noble said, “Neck, please.” Face it: You can’t sling a cat without hitting a vampire book these days.

The bad news is that I don’t write about vampires. But, hons, that’s all about to change. Maybe.

I got the idea from the Princess, who joined me for a road trip to Richmond, Virginia, the last stop on the
Belle Weather
tour. Her eleven-year-old nose was buried in the book for most of our five-hour drive.

Oh, not
my
book. Noooooo. She was reading something
called
New Moon
, which is the second book in a vampire series called
Twilight.

“I thought you were going to read
my
book,” I said, biting my lower lip and sounding utterly peevish.

“I am,” she said, still not looking up. “And really soon. But I just can’t put this thing down.”

“Gimme that,” I said, reaching out to grab the silly vampire book out of her hands and careening a little off the highway in the process.

“Hmmm,” I said, scanning the jacket copy. This sounded pretty good. Mousy high school student Bella falls for dashing and devoted classmate Edward. What could go wrong?

Oh. He’s a vampire. Well, that sucks.

The
Twilight
series has sold in the millions, mostly to preteen and teenage girls and their moms, who love them because the devout Mormon author makes it clear that Bella and Edward are saving themselves for marriage.

These moms are addicted to the vampire series, apparently because they don’t understand that humorous nonfiction is what can really make their lives more fulfilling and interesting. No, what I meant to say is that they are giddy at the books’ chaste message. It’s almost as if they wouldn’t mind it so much if their daughters would turn eighteen and, like Bella, get engaged to the supernice vampire boy from down the street.

The notion that any eighteen-year-old is thinking about marriage is scarier than a roomful of thirsty you-know-whats
to me, but I can’t fight it any longer: Vampires sell and I want in.

Sure, it’ll be a little difficult at first because I write Southern-style humor, but I’m sure I can get the hang of it. Hell, how hard can it be?

So here’s the plan: I’ll create a main character, Bubba Bloodworth, a dashing, bib-overall-wearing vampire who brings a whole new meaning to the word “redneck.”

Bubba’s victims will be recruited as he cruises local tractor pulls, chicken bogs, and monster truck rallies, looking for, ahem, blood relations.

Beautiful women will willingly offer up their necks, unable to resist Bubba Bloodworth’s signature pickup line: “Are you from Tennessee, ’cause you’re the only ten I see.”

Are you hooked yet? See, it’ll be a whole subgenre, as we say in the publishing biz, the irresistible bumpkin-vampire who uses his considerable charms to lure women to his (corn) crib.

“Girl, you’re hotter’n fish grease,” Bubba Bloodworth will whisper seductively into his Southern belle victim’s ear, causing her to giggle and squeal, “Oh, Bubba! You are just a vampire caution!”

If the vampire thing doesn’t work out, I will go to Plan B which, based again on my tour of many bookstores throughout several states, is to write a book about a cat who lives in a library. And yes, of course, I know that’s been done, but imitation is the sincerest form of plagiarism and mine would be a
vampire
cat if need be.

I told all this to the Princess on the drive home from Richmond but she didn’t bite, so to speak.

“Mommie, you gotta stay true to yourself,” she said. “You can’t just suddenly start writing about vampires, even ones named Bubba.”

“Vampire pussycat?”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

I pretended to agree with her, the same way I didn’t argue when she said that Joe Jonas was the cutest of the Jonas Brothers. Any wise parent knows that, particularly at this tender cusp-of-teendom age, it’s important to pick one’s battles carefully.

“We’ll see,” I said, turning off I-95 as the sun set over an especially breathtaking field of cotton and we headed toward home. “We’ll just see about that.”

I am deeply grateful to these editors who have offered solid advice, unflagging support, gentle correction, and a steady paycheck over the years: Sammie Carter, Martie Proffitt, Bobby Parker, Dave Ennis, and Gwen Fowler from newspaperland, and the divine Jennifer Enderlin at St. Martin’s Press.

I’m also grateful to my simply smashing literary agent, Jenny Bent. I am now, and always will be, Lana-Turner-discovered-at-the-soda-fountain lucky that she found me.

Thanks also to David High, a very brave and very funny Southern gentleman who knows all about “Crusmus sweatahs.”

And, finally, long overdue and heartfelt thanks to Trey Wyatt, my former personal trainer, current comic inspiration, and one of the five people I hope to meet in heaven. Just not any time real soon.