Ronda

Rich is the author of "What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman

Should)" and "My Life In The Pits." She lives in Gainesville,

Ga.

The pressure's on.

We're talking the kind of pressure that has my head jiggling like that little do-dad that sits on top of Mama's ancient pressure cooker. The one she should replace with a modern, less scary one but since that one works fine and dandy, she sees no reason to do so.

I'm simmering in this pressurized state because Miss Virgie, the icon of Southern woman perfection, is coming to my house for Thanksgiving.

Miss Virgie, you may recall, lives in Carson City, Nev., after having being raised into genteel glory in Pascagoula, Miss. She sets high standards for all women but she is unyielding in her expectations of those raised in the South.

To say the least, I'm nervous.

"Whew," my sister, Louise, whispered in a tone that I would expect her to use if she learned I had spilled bleach on a new cashmere coat. "You've really done it this time."

Since Miss Virgie and her "precious, darling Bill" live across the country, it's for certain that they aren't just dropping by.

I invited them for a few reasons: I love them; it was the Southern thing to do; it's been over a year since I last saw them and, most importantly, I couldn't bear the thought of them spending a blessed day of Thanksgiving in a Charlotte hotel room.

They own a prominent business that manufactures rods and pistons for high-end racing teams (read: teams that can afford the kind of quality they produce) so they had planned an annual trip to Charlotte to visit clients. Then, they discovered that they would be stuck there because they couldn't get a flight home until after the holiday.

During a phone conversation where we were discussing racing people we knew who had perished in a plane crash, the talk segued into the Charlotte trip.

Casually, she mentioned that they would not be home in time for Thanksgiving. To her, it seemed so insignificant compared with the loss of lives.

I couldn't have that. And, though, it was more love than bravery, I sputtered, "You must come to my house. You must."

And, so they are.

"You've really set yourself up this time," Louise warned.

I know. This year will call for fresh flowers, silver polished to a beautiful shine (especially that which have been gifts from Miss Virgie), linen, not paper, napkins and a homemade Key lime pie because that's Bill's favorite.

After my soulful pleading, Louise promised that they'll all pitch in to keep me from looking bad to my beloved mentor.

Thanksgiving is always stressful to me anyway since I'm more career-oriented than home-inclined. Louise and the other women in my family are Southern Living personified while I only practice it sparingly.

So every Thanksgiving, I face their teasing scrutiny as I am judged unmercifully for food, arrangements and overall decor of my entire house.

It was not fun the year that someone spotted a cobweb clinging to a silk poinsettia in the ledge below a Palladian window in the foyer. That little incident revealed two things: I'm not a good housekeeper and I had left the poinsettia out all year long.

See, why I'm nervous about Miss Virgie coming?

But come to think about it, I really shouldn't be. After all, I've been in combat training for years for this Thanksgiving. Miss Virgie cannot possibly be more scrutinizing than my own family.

Besides, this year, at least, I'll be sure to dust off the poinsettia before she gets here.