 There is nothing under my Christmas tree this year.
That’s sounds melodramatic, doesn’t it? Yes, I’m verklempt, but it’s not because I’ve fallen on hard times or anything like that. I have a great life, a successful business, and I can afford to share a bit of my wealth. The problem is, there is nothing for me to buy for the first time in 20 years. See, the adults in my family suck at gift exchange. Christmas consists of me shoving gift certificates or cash in clever cards for my parents and brother. They almost always do the same for me. I don’t know if it’s because we’re lazy or not very creative, but we are collectively OK with that. There is no doubt we love each other, and we’re not concerned about expressing that love through material things. We show it in other ways throughout the year.
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 I’m not a competitive gambler, but I am pretty big on ritual and tradition. One of my favorites is an annual Derby Day party I have attended for the past 12 or so years. It didn’t happen in 2013 because Carolyn, the hostess and bookie, had to work, but she revived it this year … much to the delight of her regulars.
There is never a shortage of things to do around Derby. On the day of the big race, I generally receive two or three other party invites, plus the occasional opportunity to go to the track. I turn them all down in favor of this one get-together. As far as I am concerned, it is THE thing to do on Derby. I met Carolyn in 1998, when I started working at Business First. She was my managing editor. It didn’t take too long for us to become good friends, and she extended the invitation to her Derby soiree.  It’s getting green out there, thankyoubabyJesus. And I don’t mean drive-a-Prius-and-recycle-gum-wrappers green. You’ve probably noticed that spring weather is finally starting to transform the browns and grays of winter into emerald hues and colorful blooms.
It’s about friggin’ time. I may have mentioned once or twice how much I loathe the cold. So right now, I seriously feel like a grumpy bear coming out of hibernation. This ol’ bear is hongray — for the sun on my shoulders, the warm pavement beneath my bare feet and the scent of peonies wafting under my nose. I’m SO ready to dig out my straw pool bag, fluff the beach towels and inspect my raft for leaks. Some of my happiest memories from childhood are set against the backdrop of sunbeams and sticky summer weather, so I always get a little nostalgic at the first chance the temps allow me to hang up my winter coat. Perhaps even a little over-eager, but what the hell.  I put on a Halloween costume for a party this weekend. What’s significant about that statement is that I dreaded the aforementioned party for two weeks, right up until the moment I applied a final swipe of glitter to my cheeks and sauntered my sequined ass out the front door.
When it was all said and done, I looked fabulous, danced my ass off and had a wonderful time, but getting there was daunting. For one thing, I have not, historically, been particularly creative in my sporadic bouts of costumery over the years. The last costume I donned about four years ago was Sookie from True Blood, and I chose her because she was easy. I ordered a Merlotte’s T-shirt and apron from the online HBO store, added black shorts and tennis shoes, put my hair in a ponytail, slapped a plastic fang bite and some fake blood on my neck and called it a day.  I was part of the rapt audience in Freedom Hall at the Kentucky State Fair yesterday, all of whom paid good money to listen to a certain Southern family sit up on stage and tell a few funny stories over about an hour and a half.
Yep, I am one of thousands of obsessed fans of the hit reality show, Duck Dynasty, and I am not ashamed to admit it. QUACK! A friend turned me onto it last year, and I quickly became enamored of the Robertson family. I have not laughed that hard at a TV show since the Cosby kids were on NBC on Thursday nights in the 1980s. If I loved this silly show before I saw Willie, Korie, Miss Kay and Si Robertson live and in person, now I adore ‘em even more. As they each addressed the enthusiastic crowd, it was evident that not a one of them puts on a pretense or a “character” for the show. They are who they are. What you see is what you get. How friggin’ refreshing.  On this lovely Monday, I’m recovering from my annual trip to the mountains of Eastern Kentucky for the 28th annual Tacky Lawn Ornament & Pink Flamingo Soiree. I camped, hiked, laughed ‘til I cried, ran around in the pouring rain and got a total of about six hours of sleep in three days.
And I can’t stop smiling about it. The Soiree is a festival of sorts, except it’s not. In fact, it’s impossible to adequately explain its appeal to those who have never been to that area of Pine Mountain in Whitesburg, Ky., for this particular weekend event. It’s an invitation-only shindig, and admission is $25 and a tacky lawn ornament. Another $10 will get you the event’s T-shirt, which is quite possibly the best souvenir EVER. This year’s Soiree was unique for me for a couple of reasons. One, I made the trek without my usual camping buddy for the first time — my wingman, my BFF, Whitney. And two, this is the first year in which my one and only vice was caffeinated iced tea. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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