(Not So) Simply Anita

Everyone needs something.

Anita Merlot.

When it’s really crazy? Anita Preauxzach.

When it’s -9 degrees?  Anita Vaekay.

God knows, Anita Schpanken.

And a damn Merlot. Helllooo?!?

 

As a cultured woman of the South, I was taught to simply hold my empty stem up with a helpless, limp hand and it would automatically be swept away and refilled accordingly. Preferably by my significant other, but if he’s too slow (or perhaps distracted by some blond bimbo’s stem), there was always a chivalrous gentleman ready to accommodate my needs. Wine-wise, I mean.

 

My first clue was when I tried that move with my future husband. No go. I waggled the glass in the air. I even tossed in a perky little pout. Nothing. Really? Anita Rhett….

 

His business partner, a beautiful silver-haired Southern Man, who was on his fourth or fifth wife, quickly took my Iowa preacher’s kid of a fiancée aside and gave him his first lesson in how to accommodate his little Scarlett O’Thirsty. He did this while holding his own wife upright so she didn’t collapse into a puddle of perfume and Pinot Grigio.

 

Seventeen years later, my now husband is affectionately known as “Sir Pours Alot”. He’s a good learner. He’s dangerously chivie. Ask my friends, Sharon Chardonnay and Ivana Shiraz. They’ll confirm – Anita Leesh…

 

So, in answer to the burning question you didn’t ask, yes, there are many faces of Anita. Don’t fret; I’m not going all Sybil here. There’s not a nine-year-old boy lurking in my psychic corner waiting to peg you with a spitball or anything. But there is definitely more to Anita than Merlot.

 

I, Anita, am a complex, multi-layered Vidalia onion of a woman. Sweet and juicy, but I’ll still bring you to tears if you cut me wrong. If I seem simple on the outside, it’s because I am a teeming mass of emotional depth on the inside. If “teeming mass” brings to mind a Medusa-like tangle of neurotic baggage, then you’re on the right track. We grow ‘em like that in the South. Granted, it’s mostly due to our mother’s fondness for gin and Salems during pregnancy. Or, maybe the fact that we are taught from birth how to gaze adoringly at whom ever hands us a bottle. Milk to Merlot – it’s not a big leap.

 

Right now, for instance, Anita Peddie. See, that’s not scary-deep. Harmless, in fact. Its just toes. Better than say, Anita Strangleyew.

 

Right?

RIGHT???

 

That’s what I thought, darlin’. You’re just the cutest little thing….

 

Now, where were we? Oh yes…. Anita Merlot.

Article Comments

4 thoughts on “(Not So) Simply Anita”

  1. I saw your nome de plume for what it is the instant I saw it! I’m more of ‘anita bee-uh’ sort of guy. But to each his own. I happen to be one of the few northerners who learned to not have an accent when I was 5-years old, and still have the ability to revert to it many decades later. I also know and use the plural form of Y’all, which is something many can not do. I hope we meet sometime.

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