By Florence King
Confessions of a Failed Southern woman is Florence King's vintage memoir of her upbringing in an eccentric Southern relations, informed with all of the uproarious wit and gusto that has made her some of the most widespread writers within the kingdom. Florence could have been a sadness to her Granny, whose dream of rearing an ideal Southern woman could by no means be relatively fulfilled. yet in the end, as Florence reminds us, "no subject which intercourse I went to mattress with, I by no means smoked at the street."
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Extra resources for Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady
Then we snuck around the back of his building and hoisted each other through his office window. Once inside, we bee-lined it for the fridge, with Ed instantly taking charge of the sandwich making. “Salameee! Salameee! ” he said, quoting Bugs Bunny. After pigging, we got right down to the business of rummaging through Dad’s mothball-scented closet. ” “Nope, not yet,” Heth replied. “Wait! What do we have here? ” I begged. “Lemme see. ” It was a Polaroid of Eleanor lying naked with her legs spread wide as the Grand Canyon.
The result? We frequently stared down the barrel of an empty fridge. As the noose tightened, Mom scurried around, maxing out credit cards and borrowing money from relatives, all the while looking for a better-paying job and a car that didn’t break down every other week. Thankfully, after we applied to the School Lunch Program, the great state of New Jersey stepped in with meal cards— one for each of us kids. At least on weekdays we were guaranteed a hot lunch. Kind-hearted, hair-netted lunch ladies heaped extralarge portions of mac’n’cheese onto our Styrofoam plates while other kids looked on enviously.
But it was hard to judge sound. Noises were forming shapes. ” Ryan commanded. A neighbor must have called the cops. We heard one more garbled walkie-talkie transmission and that was it for us. We grabbed our loot and bolted down the plush shag-carpeted staircase at full speed. With feet wobbling out from underneath us, we all piled out the back door, shooting past the pigs like a pack of psychedelic gazelles, then disappeared into the familiar terrain of St. Phil’s woods. Snoopy must have been with us, because not one of us got caught, but Jed and I stayed up all night tripping out and worrying.