LITMIR.BIZ

      For Niles and Lindsey, who opened and

      occupied new pockets of my heart.

      Contents

      Lessons from the Staircase: An Introduction to Life

      The Other Taco Bell Dog

      Going to Pot

      The Grumpy Vagina

      Looking for Some Hot Stuff

      Reeling in the Altar Chickens: How to Get a Stubborn Man to Propose

      Men Who Have Maytags and the Women Who Love Them

      Mama’s Bridge Biddies

      Bebo

      The Uterine Comptroller

      The Perfect Mom

      In Sickness and Health, and Trips to the Goodwill

      Marrying Ma Ferguson

      Little Miss Ungrateful

      Die Rear

      Not Tonight, Hon: Wait ’Til I Get My New Boobs

      The Ultra GrindZapper Treatment

      Miss Glorious Priss Pot

      When One Elvis Is Not Enough

      Field Trips from the Edge

      The Worthalots

      I Wanna Sang!

      Smiling from the Pool Table

      Eye Cues

      Gooooood Miiiiiiiilk!

      Leasing Life’s Blessings

      The Unglamorous Girl of “Camp Am Not”

      My Old-Lady Swimsuit

      Nobody Wants a Bone But a Dog

      The Reinhardt Diet: The Unconventional Way

      Someone’s Knockering on the Door

      Up and Grade: My New Best Friends

      Growing Older with Grace and Merlot

      Acknowledgments

      This book would not have been possible without the sacrifices of my husband, extraordinary father and jazz musician, Stuart “Tidy Stu” Reinhardt. His unselfishness with domestic duties allowed me the time and energy to create this book, assembling memories and stories often into the wee hours of the morning after the kids had gone to bed.

      High on the list of people to whom I owe a huge debt of gratitude and maybe even a few internal organs are my parents, Sam and Peggy Gambrell, particularly my mother who “pre-edited” the book and made me take out all the cussing and really mean parts. Her heart beats a rhythm of goodness.

      Other relatives to give a big fat thank-you or part of my Kate Spade purse collection, are my sister, Sandy, her husband, Internet Dave (for being a good sport), my wonderful in-laws, James and Jean Reinhardt, and the dear friends—especially Lisena Moss—who bravely allowed inclusion of their stories.

      I can’t say thanks enough to longtime and former beau William Holliday, who told me when I was just starting out that he spotted talent and encouraged the emerging gift.

      Thanks to the members of the “Read It or Not, Here We Come” book club, formerly known as the “Not Quite Write” book club, a group of great women who didn’t kick me out for not reading the selection a time or two. They give me a monthly Monday respite—each woman shining with her own unique gifts of the heart and tummy. Talk about fabulous cooks.

      Others without whom this book would have never seen the gray of type include all those who told me, “Write a book,” including and in no particular order, the great Cheryl McClary, who is an author, a lawyer, a professor, marriage expert, wife and mother.

      Add to McClary’s court author Ronda Rich who served as a wonderful and unselfish mentor, and those who gave me praise in the early days of the manuscript: Julie Cannon, Karin Gillespie, Laurie Notaro, Celia Rivenbark, Jill Conner Browne—all wonderful writers and women.

      I’d like to thank the Dixie Divas for inviting me to travel with them and the fabulous women at www.implantinfo.com, including j.b.—a woman who proves that intelligent career women can—and sometimes do—get boob jobs.

      Thanks to the incredible staff at the Asheville Plastic Surgery Center who packed my “Hope Chest” with two priceless treasures.

      A big part of the project’s coming to light can be attributed to the flexible scheduling allowed by the company that runs my columns, Gannett Newspapers. Thank you Gannett, and especially the Asheville Citizen-Times’ editors and publishers, along with more than a few coworkers who had to hear about this thing night and day, particularly John Boyle who said, “Go for it. Make it a tell-all! Don’t hold back a thing!”

      I’ll always be thankful to the many readers and supporters of my newspaper columns. You gave me unconditional support, confidence, inspiration, love, and many lasting friendships.

      Perhaps the biggest thanks should go to my patient and hardworking agent, Ethan Ellenberg, who epitomizes excellence and professionalism and refused to give up—even after a pile of rejections landed on his desk for my first novel. And of course, mountains of thanks to Kensington Publishing and the thorough and expert edits of Audrey LaFehr, as well as the fine staff at this house who made this a better book.

      One person I never want to forget is my grandmother, the late Jessie Mae Gambrell. I’ve got plenty of secrets keeping warm for when we meet again.

      Another special woman who recently came into my life as if sent by angels to make me and others better people is Judy McLean, someone who shows in her every move the joy of giving to others, even if you have little to give. Judy makes true the following phrase: “Friends are the gloves God wears when he touches us.”

      Oh, I almost forgot. What self-respecting girl can dare leave out sheer gratitude for the man who photographed her for the book? A man who spent three hours air-brushing away zits and wrinkles. Photographer John Whittington could turn back the clock on a centenarian and make her look forty. He’s quite simply, the Magic Man.

      Thank you most of all my dear and precious children, Niles Landon and Lindsey Hope Reinhardt. You are my reason for being and not only filled my heart when you came into the world, but filled my world as well.

      Lessons from the Staircase

      An Introduction to Life

      Lying facedown on the top stairs, I could hear them. Smell their perfumes, a random mingling of different florals sprayed with the heavy-handed intentions of being noticed.

      Their laughter was high, almost operatic, and with it the accompanying percussion of tinkling glasses filled with gin or vodka for tonics and Bloody Marys.

      Cigarette smoke, like the funnels of tornados, rose up the stairs and into my nose, but I didn’t care.

      I wanted to see them, smell them, hear them. Be them.

      The bridge ladies. Mama’s bridge club.

      I must have been twelve or thirteen, lying against the stairs, peeping. The blood filled my inclined head as I listened to their stories and heard the shuffling of cards, collapsing into hands

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