Free Belle Weather by Celia Rivenbark Page A

out.
    “Mommy, why are those girls kissing?” I heard at my elbow.
    “Oh, they’re just happy to see one another,” I said, looking helplessly to hubby who, by this time, had done what any right-thinking American male would do and pulled his beach chair closer and proceeded to stare, trancelike.
    The romping in the surf kicked up a notch as one of the lesbian rugby players emerged without her bathing suit bottom, giggling and sprinting about as if she thought this was Club Med instead of possibly the most uptight Republican beach in seven states.
    My jaw dropped, y’all. But I had no idea what to do.
    Thank God for a good vacationing Yankee grandma. There are just times when the soft-spoken, magnolia-mouthed approach to uncivilized public behavior just isn’t going to get the job done.
    The Yankee grandma jumped up, knotted her gray hair into a quick ponytail, lit a cigarette, and stormed into the surf to boldly confront the bottomless lesbians.
    “Hey, you guys!” she hollered, each syllable clipped and loud enough to be heard over the noisy waves. “I got my grandkids out here for crap’s sake. Knock that nasty shit off before I call the cops uh-ready.”
    Whoa. That sure trumped the half-formed plan in my noggin, namely bribing them to stop and get dressed in exchange for the thirteen-by-nine-inch Pyrex dish full of luscious homemade banana pudding in my cooler.
    Southern women generally despise confrontation, particularly with very large, toned women who could snap their necks like a Captain’s wafer and laugh at the bloody stump.
    And then something amazing happened.
    The girls hung their heads and apologized . One of them placed her hands over her bidness and said, “My bad.”
    Well, yes, your bad, missy. And, no offense, but get to a hair removal expert pronto. That thing’s gonna block out the sun, bless your heart.
    Part of the reason we don’t know how to handle things like this in the South is that we’re bred to be sweet. We send our children to cotillion classes so that they will know how to behave in society but nobody ever tells us how to confront naked lesbians on a public beach.
    Cotillion classes are a big deal in the South. The Princess announced that she wanted to take them a while back but I haven’t enrolled her yet.
    The truth is, they don’t seem all that relevant anymore. There was just something kind of odd about the goals of the cotillion classes being held at our local snootiest country club.
    By the end of the six weeks, each child would learn restaurant manners, school etiquette, proper use of silverware, and line dancing.
    That’s right. Line dancing.
    Apparently these days, it is just as important to know how to execute an impeccable electric slide as it is to write a pretend thank-you note to “Peanuts the Polite Elephant.”
    I hate to quibble here but the elephants I’ve seen at the circus and in the zoo are anything but polite. They roll around in the mud and stuff straw up their noses.
    Still, I didn’t want to discourage Sophie. After all, wouldn’t it have been wonderful if those rugby lesbians had taken cotillion? I’m not saying we need to raise a generation of Little Lord and Lady Fauntleroy’s but, just think, if Paris Hilton had taken cotillion, I’m sure she would’ve learned that posing for pictures with your tongue down another’s larynx is considered distasteful. Ditto crooning crotch-grabber Usher.
    But line dancing? What are these little kids supposed to do after they finish the dance? Retire to their tables at the club with Bunny and Sissy and debate the relative merits of their small-, mid-, and large cap holdings?
    Still, there was more to like about cotillion than not. The cotillion teacher made the kids recite “When at the store with Mom to shop, I must not run or skip or hop!”
    Or, as the Princess did when she was three, loudly announce as we wheeled by the beer and wine aisle that I shouldn’t forget my “mommy juice.” Thanks ever