Out of the mouths of handsome gentlemen and babes of all ages

A couple weeks ago Audrey was home for a visit -- I told you about it! That was the day I looked like a Hallmark Card! -- and on our travels about town, in the interest of keeping body and soul together, we stopped for a snackie.

(We shared an order of Rip'n Chick'n at Popeyes Louisiana Kitchen, yeah y'all. Tore that biscuit right down the middle.)

Anyway, when Audrey reached the door of the restaurant to go inside, she held the it open for an older lady (no, not me) who was leaving.

Said lady, without stopping and hardly looking at Audrey, muttered in her direction: "Cute dress."

My lovely daughter gathers compliments like some people collect coupons. She's used to it. "Oh, thanks!" she said, looking down at the Daisy Fuentes frock she bought two years ago at Kohl's, on sale.

This happened mere moments after we'd been chatting with Becki at World Market, so as we munched our lunch Audrey and I marveled at the way practically everywhere we two birds go, together or separately, strangers seem compelled to converse with us.

(To be fair, in my case I am often the one to start the dialog. My mother has been known to declare that I would talk to a dressed-up dog. I take great umbrage at that because the truth is, no way does a dog have to be dressed up in order for me to engage him in convo. He can be stark naked. But many times the dog speaks to me first and what do you want me to do, be rude? To a pooch? Nevah.)

Goodness me. Now we know.

Fast forward to today. I was shopping at Stein Mart and on my way into the fitting room -- also known as wardrobial purgatory -- I stepped aside for a petite, attractive lady of about sixty to clear the door.

She was wearing a simple, plain black summer dress, a trifle gauzy, very flattering. Sort of fit and flare, if you know what I mean.

So naturally I complimented her. "What a pretty dress," I said in passing.

And you will not BELIEVE her reply.

(Gentlemen, please avert your eyes.)

Cool as a slice of refrigerated July watermelon she turned, looked right at me, and TMI'd: "Why thanks and guess what, all I've got on besides this is my underpants."

Mmmmkay.

(I am guessing she does not cotton to that old saying about reticence being the sine qua non of gentility.)

I don't remember what I stammered in reply to the step-ins-only revelation. Suffice it to say, within five seconds of the conclusion of that exchange I had locked myself into a fitting booth.

A love note to America.

Speaking of starting the dialog, or in this case the lyric, I must tell you what my darling TG did in church on Sunday. In order to appreciate the story you need to know that while by no means is my man shy, he is definitely the archetypal strong, silent male. Tall, dark and handsome too. Don't be jeal!

Anyway, an emotional Nine Eleven tenth anniversary service was just wrapping up and our pastor in closing mentioned that he felt like maybe we should sing God Bless America or something.

I mean, he didn't say, "Now folks, before we go home let's just haul off and sing God Bless America." It was more like he was thinking out loud that maybe singing it would be a good idea at that juncture.

For a space of about two seconds nobody did much of anything. We were thinking. Then, plenty loud, clear as can be and right on pitch, TG began singing in his very respectable baritone.

He got out the word "God" by himself and everyone else joined in on the word "bless" and we sang the song as a congregation, and it was awfully nice.

TG. One of the good guys. They broke the mold et cetera.

When life gives you lemons, do the math.

On the way to church that same morning, TG pointed to a street corner near our house. He then regaled me with a story about a couple of little girls who, the day before, had set themselves up a lemonade stand in that spot.

Their father was sitting with them, keeping watch. I don't think they had a permit. The hand-lettered sign read 50 cents a glass.

TG, out in his truck running errands, pulled up and gestured to the kids that he'd like to buy some of that lemonade.

One of the girls dispensed the refreshment and trotted over to the truck. She handed TG the cup and he held out a dollar.

She stared, then asked: "Do you want two glasses?"

TG chuckled. "No, honey. You can keep the change."

Told you. Does Jenny know how to pick 'em or what?

No sub for cake.

Last story. For now.

Stephanie had a birthday last week. Since she's eating for two and it shows, she was looking forward to showing up at Firehouse Subs, where if you show them your driver's license (or long-form birth certificate, I presume), you get a free medium celebratory sub.

On my birthday I go to Frank's Car Wash and get free deluxe auto ablutions. Perhaps it's time I changed my strategy.

At any rate, as lunchtime approached and Allissa became antsy for vittles (Melanie was at school where she gets two squares a day), Stephanie assured her that very soon they would go to Firehouse and get a sub.

"Why?" said Allissa.

"Because it's Mommy's birthday and I'll get a free sub," Steph explained. More than once.

Allissa remained perplexed. Finally she said what was on her mind: "But aren't you having a cake?"

That's right, baby girl. Don't ever hesitate to ask where the next piece of cake is coming from.

You only get to live this one time.

Celebrate.

Have a sweet day!