Several vehicles ago, I drove a gray BMW wagon. It was my rite of passage gift to myself when my daughters and I moved out of the mini-van. The wagon’s name was Peppi. She was low to the ground, a challenge to handle, a nice round rear end with lots of trunk space, a bit of a rough ride. We were perfect for each other. I LOVED her.

Once when driving 220 southbound, my girls and I came into a storm and wham, hail started pounding us about the hood and fenders. Big hail. Armageddon style hail. Peppi’s glasses fogged like a smoke stack inside and out. I could see nothing. I had to roll down my window and stick my head out into the storm as vehicles scattered for parking across median and shoulder.

I think about that incident sometimes when I am churning through life. Often the weather is clear and then suddenly out of nowhere I am flying like a bat out of hell into the smokestack fog. Much of what happens is going to happen. It is up to us to consider our perspective, even stick our heads out into the hail storm. Most of life, brothers and sisters is in the view.

I am a chick. I am too old to be a girl and have too much fun to be a lady. To me a woman is someone who wears Maxi-pads, drinks Maxwell House, and shops at Cold Water Creek and a female is someone who has to go to the doctor because the antibiotic salve isn’t working on that rash "down there."

I was raised by chicks. My mom had six sisters. That crop of seven southern women brought 23 kids into the space called our family. We were interchangeable, my cousins, siblings, and me. I am not sure that my mom or aunts always knew exactly which among our herd they were hugging or whipping. And they were interchangeable too. You could run to any of them to kiss scraped knee skin or tattle a transgression. They were all in some way, those daughters of my grandparents, Calt and Myrtle, those daughters, they were my mamas.

My mom and her sisters raised husbands, raised hell, raised children, raised tobacco, raised glasses for toasts, raised swords to dragons, raised flags for freedom, raised hands with questions, raised voices with prayer, made apple pies, made casseroles, made biscuits, made promises, made music, made mistakes, rolled their hair, rolled cigarettes, rolled in laughter, rolled the dice, rolled their eyes, rolled through life. I learned from watching these seven mamas of mine that it is possible to do it all alone, but why would you want to? Alone is lonely. It is at their feet that I learned to do what I do best ... be a chick.

Depending on the day and hormonal barometric pressure, I mostly consider myself blessed to have two daughters. My house is littered with Barbie carcasses, makeup, and panties. I sparkle with body glitter. And, although this remains an unexplained phenomenon, I have nail polish stains on my ceiling. But we DO smell good. My friend, who has four boys, leaves a lingering scent of topsoil and gym socks, bless her heart.

I have chick friends. They are amazing. They are the people in my life who don’t stroll over when shit goes down; they come running. They are equipped with Bactine, take-out, and a good Merlot. It is good to have chicks, and if you don’t have any, go out right now and find yourself some!

Before you make any conclusions, I am not running a she-chick men hater's club. I love the penis-clad too. My smokin’ hot love toy John is the ONE, my ONE. My brother Andy has and always will be part of my close inner circle. And my dog, Winchester, is the greatest pet I have ever owned, plus he endures the constant torture of Fergie, the chick dog. (It has been pointed out (by Neill) that I omitted Neill from this paragraph.) Lo siento mucho. Neill...lucky number 11... I love you!

So here’s to thoughts, lessons, musings, regrets, inspirations, and the great comedy of this journey called life. Remember that it is all in the view. Welcome to my view ... it is humbly and openly yours for the reading .... welcome to A Chick’s View!