There are several reasons why I wasn’t planning to attend Stephen King’s closing address at the Savannah Book Festival last Sunday.

My father–in–law called me up last week in the middle of the day, which was odd. First of all, he usually avoids me during work hours lest I chase him down with a request to carpool a gaggle of yammering Girl Scouts. Second, ever since he bought a Droid he has become an obsessive texter. But even weirder than hearing his voice on the line was his request: “I want to take you to lunch ...

Excusez-moi, but my tongue seems to be tied. This always seems to happen when I encounter a French person. Fortunately, Antoine Gedroyc is trés patient. The head of the French Savannah Forum greeted me with a hearty "Bonjour! Comment ça va?" at Foxy Loxy Café last Thursday evening and smiled encouragingly while I searched my addled brain for the formal translation of "I am fine, and how are you today?" All I seemed to come ...

There are a few things that a certain faction of Savannah holds sacred: Wild–caught shrimp, St. Patrick’s Day and the absolute faith that the Savannah Harbor Expansion Project (SHEP) is our collective economic salvation.

If happiness in your shopping cart equals a tub of dark chocolate–covered edamame beans, a box of truffle–infused risotto, a cluster of organic sunflowers and a case of Two Buck Chuck, then you know Joe.

I try hard to brand myself as a tough lady, a woman of valor, a working mama who feeds backyard chickens in high–heeled boots.

In my first installation as Savannah’s self–appointed anti–society columnist four months ago, I promised to cover every fancy party I could, as long as everyone was invited.

Last year, as I was stumbling around the first days of January with wrapping paper still stuck to my head and digging Chanukah candle wax out of the carpet with a butter knife, I made a promise.

MUCH LIKE A cranky old cat, my most unfavorite thing in the entire world is be cold and wet at the same time.

THE FOLLOWING ADMISSION probably makes me a socialist by somebody’s standards: I just watched It’s a Wonderful Life for the first time. I don’t know how I managed to skate through 40 Decembers without being roped onto the sofa to watch the cinematic tribulations of poor George Bailey. I guess in its ubiquity I’d assumed I’d already seen it. Or maybe I dismissed it as an outdated tearjerker shown around the holidays by lazy t.v. ...

IT’S THAT TIME of year when for some of us, food starts appearing out of nowhere. Fruitcakes left on the doorstep. A pile of powder–dusted cookies in thebreakroom. Fourteen kinds of cheese at the neighborhood open house, not including whatever is in those logs showered in chopped walnuts. Yesterday I found myself running away from a nice lady in the hairnet handing out ham samples at Publix, only to be confronted by fudge at the ...

From a distance, it looks like total madness. In the middle of Forsyth Park, a group of grown–ups are running wildly back and forth, carrying giant letters. Shrieks of “Peel!” and “Dump!” pierce the afternoon air, and there’s more maniacal laughter and skipping than at a playground serving free Red Bull. Closer observation reveals that this is not in fact ...

JUST SO THERE ARE no unnecessary tears, I’m going to tell you straight up that this tale does not end with a dead dog.

It’s almost three o’clock on a recent balmy autumn afternoon, and Susan Giddens is fretting over the sweet potatoes.

It really didn’t matter what I said, I was no match for the Chihuahua. When Carla Cantrell, the ebullient guidance counselor at Charles Ellis Montessori Academy, asked me to be a guest speaker at Career Day, I didn’t consider the competition. I could only think, “Wow, this woman thinks I have a career? That’s amazing.” I’ve been hanging around newspapers for a long time in the hopes that I would never have to figure out ...