Advice to the Lovelorn

Now, y'all know I'm Himmarshee's fashion maven (that's a word I learned from one of my aromatherapy customers who moved to our little burg from New York City. It means expert.) Did you know I also dispense romantic advice? As someone who's  pranced down the bridal path a time or two (or five), I can tell when your would-be beloved does not pass the smell test. A couple of my exes stunk like the dumpster out back of Skipper's Seafood Shack, so I know what I'm talking about. I just got this letter, and I was happy to set this gal straight:

Dear Mama, 
My fiance is about to pluck my last nerve. I've been planning our wedding for the last six months. He's had zero interest in what we're serving, how we're dressing, or who all's coming. Don't even ask about his response the one time I put some pictures of cakes and color samples on the kitchen table to get his input. 
His eyes rolled back in his head and he pushed up out of his chair. 
"We got any more beer?'' 
You see what I mean? 
About all I expect of him is to show up on time and make sure the fly is zipped in his tuxedo pants. 
Now, with the wedding less than two weeks away, he's suddenly taken an interest. A buddy of his brought his wedding album by the trailer. My groom's now brimming with ideas. He wants a camouflage theme, just like his buddy's big day. I don't mind some camo accents here and there, maybe for cummerbunds or the bunting in a bouquet with yellow carnations. But he's talking a camouflage tsunami, with everybody from the minister to the flower girl garbed up like deer hunters. 
What do you think, Mama? Should I change everything just to make him happy? 

Signed, 
Not a Happy Hunter

Dear Not Happy,
Peeee-yew!
Run for the hills, honey. This man is not marrying material.
I don't have a thing against camouflage clothing (in fact, I have a sexy outfit in pink camo that Sal thinks is adorable!) What stinks is a selfish nature, and your groom has that in spades.
First, he lets you do all the hard work, acting like it's beneath him to help plan what's supposed to be the happiest day of your lives. Then, at the last minute, he expects you to toss out everything in favor of his harebrained idea. (How many of those beers did he drink anyway, mooning over his buddy's wedding pictures?)
Selfish, selfish, selfish.
Break off the engagement. Cut your losses. Then go out looking for a man who cares about your feelings. C'mon by and see us at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow beauty parlor. We'll do a pick-me-up makeover, and I'll even let you borrow my pink camo get-up for your manhunt.

You can see what it looks like, in the picture just above. 

Love,
Mama

Dress for the Weather

I thought I'd sit down and jot a few words, since the rain has all but spoiled going outside today. It's so gloomy and overcast in Himmarshee, Fla. The only living creatures who aren't sick to death of this weather are the dabbling ducks and the gators.

When the day is this gray, I like to cheer things up by dressing in lots of color. If you've read anything about me in one of those mystery books Ms. Author writes, you already know I like anything in shades of sherbet. I've got my sherbet-colored pantsuits, of course, but I've also got slickers and boots and rain hats in every hue in the ice-cream rainbow. I've been on the look-out for a cute raincoat for my sweet Pomeranian, Teensy. Maybe something like what the cat's wearing in that picture, above? I just know Teensy could rock that little cloak, but it'd have to be in lime-sherbet green or raspberry, to match my foul-weather gear. You let me know if you see anything, hear? Teensy wears an XXXXSmall. My new husband, ''Big Sal'' Provenza, on the other hand, wears an XXXXLarge. Not that I'd ever get that man into a sherbet-colored rain cloak.

Well, thanks for letting me bend your ear for a moment or two on this dreary day. If it was already September, I could sit down with a copy of MAMA SEES STARS. I like to take out my red pen and mark up all the parts of my story Ms. Smarty Pants got wrong. But the book won't be out until then, so I have to find something else to do in the meantime.

Tell me, what do you do to cheer yourself up on nasty days?

Love, Mama

Honey, You're too Pushy!

Well, the shoe's on the other foot again, y'all. I need your advice, and fast.

I know this author, let's say her name is Deborah S., and she is just the pushiest thing ever. A little while back, she took over this advice column of mine, here on the Wide World of the Web. Normally, I address the pressing concerns of folks needing help with all sorts of problems. But there she was, yammering on and on about some award or the other. She put up a bunch of pictures (The Monkees??), and made up all sorts of lies. Honestly, I stopped reading after the first three or four paragraphs. That poor gal is just plain boring without the wonderful source material provided to her by a certain matriarch from Himmarshee, Fla.

Anyhoo, she's at it again. Now she wants this space to announce that she's running a contest on April 20 over at the blog of an author friend by the name of Deb Baker . (That raises another question. Do all these author gals have the same name?) Deborah S. wanted me to let you know that all you have to do is comment on her post over at Powered by Books, and you'll be entered in a drawing to win a copy of MAMA RIDES SHOTGUN. She's pushed her way back AGAIN into announcing the winner here, on MY spot, on April 23.

Well, I'll go along, since I happen to know that book is a rip-roaring mystery starring yours truly. But somebody tell me, please, how do I get this pushy author out of my life? Y'all, she's just about to pluck my last nerve! I'd appreciate any advice you can offer, short of committing murder myself . . . Help!

Signed,
Mama

Somebody Needs a Good Slappin'

Well, hello friends! I'm not that great on the computer, and I don't talk directly too much to all my readers. But listen, y'all, somebody is going to have to speak to that author gal, Deborah Sharp.

She's supposed to be working on my fourth story -- MAMA SEES STARS. It's all about how a Hollywood movie company comes to Himmarshee, and I get myself a speaking part. There was a spot of trouble over a murder, and a couple of near misses, too ... but I absolutely nailed (that's how the Hollywood actors say it: Nailed) my role as Ruby, a beautiful dancehall gal. You can ask anybody. And wait until you see me in Ruby's red dress. I don't look a day over 50. (Mace: erase that 50 to say 40, would you honey?)

Anyhoo, this is the problem: Miss Fancy Pants Author is not working on my latest story. Oh, no. Says she's too busy promoting the first two books. Oh, she had to take off time from writing about me to go all the way to New York City and be on TV. Maybe you saw her on the Today Show? That Natalie Morales is cute as a button, but Miss Too-Big-for-her-Britches barely mentioned ME. She's been flying off to Chicago, then to something called Killer Nashville (I'd like to kill something, and it ain't Nashville!), and then she's going to Vero Beach, and then north to Indianapolis.

And, 'promoting??' Hons, my stories sell themselves. That's how good they are. She makes it sound like she's having to coerce the Baptists to serve beer in their fellowship hall.

I want y'all to show up at one of them signings or talks or panels or whatever it is she has scheduled and give Miss Big-time a talking-to. I wouldn't even mind if you speak forcefully, if you get my drift. I've always thought she could stand to have a little sense slapped upside her head.

You tell her she better get back to work on STARS. There are thousands upon thousands of people (well, a hundred or two, at least) on the edge of their seats to see what's gonna happen next in Mama's life. You tell her authors are a dime a dozen, but there's only one Mama. And since that's me, Mama, I just might find me another scribbler to finish up properly what Litte Missy started on MAMA SEES STARS.

(Mace, you'll be sure to fix that typo about looking 50 before you mail this to the Wide World of the Web, won't you?)