Like Pot Roast to Pop tarts: An excerpt from Mouthfuls of Magnolia and Mint Juleps

Menu:

Breakfast

French Toast/Scrambled Eggs/Turkey Bacon/Biscuits

What he eats:

A bowl of cereal

Lunch

Meatballs/Homefries

What he eats:

A Turkey sandwich

Supper

Pot roast/baked potatoes/onions/peppers/carrots

What he eats:

Pop tarts

Southern women don’t come unglued. We’re programmed not to. We swallow whole lumps of wrongs and pain, letting them razor-edge their way through ourselves and catch the trickles of blood that drip from our lips on needle-point monogrammed cloth napkins before anyone notices. We swish our mouths with bleach and swallow it so that the smell does not linger on our breath. We are brought up to be wives. Not to sass back because no man wants to marry a slick-mouthed woman. What they didn’t prepare us for, one of those lessons that have to be learned hands-on, is the never being IT for our husbands.

Wives are not fantasies. We are the ones who wait with our hands in our laps after long days of keeping house, bearing and raising children, to get the dismissive forehead kiss, when we get a kiss at all. We are the ones who are on their arms not in their hearts or loins. Yet we are the ones who work the hardest. Desire the least. Beg for nothing. Contradict even less. We are the ones who are still there when the fantasies have moved on to better suitors and the men realize that someone has to bring forth their offspring.

Wives get the missionary position. We are not craved in lingerie.