Several years ago, in the early days of my adult life, I was home visiting from Indianapolis, where I had a sports marketing job.

Mama doesn’t want anyone to call me sexy.

Not that anyone wants to call me “sexy” but just in case.

“I think it would degrade you,” she declared suddenly. I could tell by her tone that she had put a great deal of thought into the matter. It seems to me that she would have more important things to worry about like how much food she can possibly get Dixie Dew to eat in one day.

A friend of mine, who is a successful television writer, called one day about a writing project we were working on together.

Somewhere along the line, in addition to all my other responsibilities, I have gained a new one — that of being Dixie Dew’s agent.

More often than not, I turn down dates for New Year’s Eve because I have my own tradition that makes that evening one of my favorites of the year.

Christmas has become so commercialized that it has lost a lot of charm. Over the past few years, I have looked for charm over expensive gifts.

Patt, a good friend, wanted my feedback and feeble professional guidance on a writing project that she’s working on. She sent the pages with a sticky note attached that said, “Give me your Mama treatment. Be brutally honest.”

The other day, my quarterly issue of the trendy, glossy magazine Wild Turkey Hunting Strategies arrived. It was lying between my monthly issues of Vogue and InStyle. I took it from the mailbox then took it to the trash.

Excuse me while I kick off my high heels and stomp up on my soapbox.

I have resisted the urge to write about this for a very long time but it is becoming so rampantly rude that it is time to defend the business of good manners.

I’m scaling back on Thanksgiving. Not on the giving of thanks for my many blessings but on the giving of food to people who have already had way too much to eat before they get to my house.

I have a sister who breezes into town two or three times a year and freely dispenses advice. This, of course, is akin to going to the Graduate School of Mama.

Sometimes you just know. You can actually feel the knowledge crawling around in the marrow of your bones, so deep is the way you know it.

It is what I like to call a country courtesy. It is a gesture of goodwill recognized by farmers and rural dwellers across the South.

David Smith is not only an old friend of mine, he is an important friend of mine.

He is important for many reasons: our friendship has endured for 20 years, we have many memories together, he is there for me through thick and thin and, best of all, I can count on him to pray for me.

I’m going to have to stop throwing parties. I get too upset over people who fail to RSVP.

I get so upset over such inconsideration that I think unholy thoughts and then I have to pray for forgiveness and work through all of that. It’s more trouble than preparing for the party.

Mama was sternly lecturing me the other day about how spoiled Dixie Dew is and how I should correct the problem.