Christmas Memories

Southern Fried Divorce
by Judy Conner

The hilarious account of one woman's marriage and divorce - Big Easy-style

Set against the colorful backdrop of New Orleans, Southern Fried Divorce raucously recounts the author's divorce from "That X" -a classic bad boy and the unpredictable roles he plays in her life afterward.

The book opens with his showing up on her doorstep, in mid-Spring, covered in red and green ribbon, smelling of Jim Beam, and bearing a belated Christmas gift - a home security package in the form of a .38 revolver and a brown puppy. After wondering what kind of ex-husband gives his wife a gun, she gives the puppy back and the adventures with that ex-husband and the brown dog, who are soon inseparable, begin.

The hilarious vignettes that ensue include: the rules to Redneck Roulette; post-divorce sex ("Smurfing"); a divorce settlement that includes a bar tab for life; how to teach a dog to drive a Cadillac; getting mugged with her own cutlery; wearing a keg into a football game; instructions on how to cook the best Christmas roast south of the Mason-Dixon line and other fine Southern recipes; and the antics of her infamous ex and the brown dog - two cohorts mythic and so inseparable they performed naked synchronized swimming together at the 1984 World's Fair. Conne

Not long after I became his ex-wife, that ex-husband brought me a .38 blue steel revolver and a brown fuzzy puppy. His unannounced arrival at my new bachelorette maisonette was not a complete surprise. He'd always been fond of barging in where not invited. So I didn't really expect him to stand on ceremony and wait for an invitation that might be delayed indefinitely.

I barely heard the doorbell over the sound of the Carrollton Avenue streetcar as it passed, headed for the nearby car barn to be watered and fed. I opened the door of my shotgun double apartment to greet my former mate, beaming with goodwill and Jim Beam. He was festooned with red and green ribbon and carrying a couple of intriguing items. Belated Christmas offerings, I guessed, since we were pretty deep into spring.

"Surprise!" he bellowed. "And seasonable greetings! Here, I've brought you a new home security package. You can learn how to shoot this gun and this puppy'll grow up to be a fine watchdog. Lookit how he's watching you right now."

"Well, how thoughtful," I murmured.

After his fifteen years of quasi-husbanding, I guess he was finding it hard to quit at least musing on my welfare. Crime in New Orleans at the time was common as mildew. Just part of the landscape. One of the downsides to the endearing openness of the locals is that they might open your door as readily as they open their own. What's yours is theirs. They just don't have well-defined boundaries.

I toyed with the five bullets that accompanied the gun and wondered what kind of fool gives his ex-wife a gun. Especially one who sometimes has the disposition of a wolverine. And why'd he get only five bullets for a six-shooter? Perhaps for a game of Redneck Roulette? It's similar to Russian roulette, just a whole lot more daring. Your average redneck will rarely resist a dare. That probably helps account for their historically out-of-proportion representation in the wartime military. They've always figured prominently in the body counts too.

For Russian roulette, they use one bullet and five empty chambers - because of the Russian economy. Shortages of everything but vodka, so I hear. The redneck version is just the reverse - five bullets, one empty chamber. Much more efficient. Anyhow, a gun was not something I'd have chosen for myself. However, I didn't already have one and this one appeared to be a nice, sturdy model and not at all cheap. It's the thought that counts.

"What made you think to get me a dog?" I asked him.

Now that ex-husband got all fired up. "It was just pitiful," he said. "I was over by Franky and Johnny's picking up some hot crawfish when I saw a bunch of kids there on Tchoupitoulas Street. When I drove closer, I saw that they had a hold of this puppy's arms and legs. They were teasing him and pulling on him. I just whipped my car off to the side and jumped out and starting hollering and slinging kids. I snatched this puppy and took off. As I was driving along, of course, I thought of you and how you just love puppies."

It was, of course, true that I love puppies. And pie. And Mother and the flag. And assorted strays of all kinds.

My glance shifted from the puppy to the broad, usually guileless face of that ex-husband. The innocent look was gone, replaced by that other one. He lied about stuff that didn't matter at all as regularly as he did about stuff to save his hide. He was a sport-liar and a real enthusiast of writer Dan Jenkins' "Are you going to believe me or your lyin' eyes?" And to a lesser degree, "That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!"

"What's the real deal on the dog?" I snapped.

"Well, I was over at Joey K's eating a shrimp po'boy with Clay. You know Clay is the guy who bought Joey K's from Joey K."

"Yes, I know that, I go there all the time. What does that have to do with this dog?" I wondered if very many people lie about their lunch.

"Joey K was in there too, eating a po'boy with Clay. And having a beer in one of those big ole heavy iced-tea glasses Clay uses. Joey K's brown dog, Betty, was there, and her puppies - just the right size for giving away. As you can see," he answered.

I could see a light-brown fuzz ball about the size of a cantaloupe with dark eyes and nose and eyebrows. Mighty cute. How many ugly puppies have you seen? I'm pretty sure there are way more ugly babies. If this one took after his mother, Betty, he'd grow up to be a medium-sized, medium-haired, medium-eared, medium-brown, medium-hound - type dog. Generic dog. But the eyebrows were a redeeming factor. I purely love a dog with eyebrows.

So, I bedded the critter down in the laundry room at the very back of the shotgun - as far from the bedrooms as possible. I was hoping that the pup would let me and my new housemate get some sleep.

I had lately opened my heart and my hearth to that ex-husband's nephew. I could not do otherwise. Whenever I got ready to fly that ex-husband's coop, that nephew said, "You're not going off and leaving me here by myself with my crazy uncle." I didn't mind. I was used to the teenager. He'd been with us for several years - ever since his mother had run off and joined the circus or the itinerant preachers or something. I forget. But the nephew was pretty different from both his mother and his uncle, who acted like they'd been raised by wild dogs. He was just as sweet and smart and talented as could be. He showed a very early flair for the dramatic. During a visit to our house, he came into my bedroom as I was blabbing away on the phone. Three-year-olds can't stand for you to get on the phone or in the bathtub. I was barely aware of him there at the foot of the bed. I focused a bit and saw that he was gesturing mightily with three fingers of his right hand and madly raising his baby eyebrows up and down. "Three?" I mouthed at him. He nodded vigorously and began wildly bobbing and weaving. Then he raised his left hand behind him, lunged toward me flapping his right foot on the floor, and pointed his right hand in a brilliant feint à la Errol Flynn. Abruptly, he stopped and again was stabbing the air with the three fingers. I got it, I got it! He wanted one of the Three Musketeer candy bars I'd squirreled away in the kitchen. Hiding things up high never worked; he could climb anything. But he never thought to stick his grimy paw into the cannister of dried red beans sitting innocently on the counter. I ended my phone call and gave his charade my full attention. He got a hearty "Bravo" and the candy bar.

Really, the only way he was like his family was that he was mighty messy. All them people were like pigs. We had an agreement whereby he'd keep his mess hemmed up in his room. So the common areas looked pretty good.

We had plenty of stuff because I had taken most of the furniture and every last knickknack. I think I left that ex-husband the king-sized bed, the TV, the refrigerator, and an easy chair. To his credit, he had insisted that I take everything.

I wasn't too sure about this new puppy business. My confidence in my housebreaking abilities had been badly shaken by the failure of my marriage. I had put just about every scrap of energy I could muster into getting that husband to behave - with virtually no effect. Impervious. Based on my recent track record, I guessed I'd very shortly be knee-deep in puppy poop. Although I guess if I wanted to, I could claim success at keeping that ex-husband from shitting on the floor. Of course, in a couple of weeks, my laundry room looked like the launching area for a school paper drive - lots and lots of nice clean newspaper. Not so the floor. That puppy had carefully, precisely shat betwixt the sheets of paper. I had scooped about four or five hundred piles of puppy poop off the floor and was past ready to quit.

I rang up that ex-husband and I said, "I love my new gun, but I'm fixing to take this brown dog to the pound."

Naturally, he came thundering over to intervene on the dog's behalf and call me names. "This is just plain heartless! You are the meanest woman in the world," he declared. "Not to mention ungrateful. This was a Christmas present!"

"Oh, it was not either. You just wanted to show off. And since you're so crazy about being the big hero, you can just rescue this!"

"I don't have time for a puppy."

"I don't either, but I do have time to take him to the ASPCA!"

"Well, dammit!" he countered brilliantly.

"Yeah, dammit all," I declared. "You've got yourself a new brown dog!"

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Copyright © 2004 Judy Conner

About the Author

A Renaissance woman, Judy Conner is passionate about many things. Her prizewinning roses and camellias delight the many visitors to her home, "The Snuggery." She began reading her "Brown Dog Tales," the basis for this book, at the Sunday Salons in the French Quarter of New Orleans, and several were featured in the Faulkner Society Double Dealer. She is the older sister of Jill Conner Browne, author of the bestselling Sweet Potato Queen series. Raised in Jackson, Mississippi, she now lives in New Orleans, Louisiana, with her brown dog.