“Anybody want this kid?  How ’bout dis one?”

My mom was adopted. She never found out who her real parents were before she died at 43.  So my brother and I did.
Biological Grandma was dead but we met several of her brothers and sisters.  They were all either old or dead already.

On mom’s birth certificate, the line for the father’s name was blank.  I questioned the aunt and she claimed ignorance, with a shoo of her hand.  She mentioned that it could’ve possibly been an army man coming through town, she wasn’t sure.
Aunt told me that bio-grandma ended up marrying an Italian guy.  Had “izzo” at the end of his name.  Said they adopted a seven year old boy from Italy.  None of them have a good relationship with him now.  They don’t know where he lives.

So Grandma gives her baby up for adoption, and then adopts another kid.

I took a DNA test from Ancestry.com.  That test led me to discover the name of my biological grandfather.  MY MOM’s DAD.  The name on that line.  I am positive that this is the man that knocked up my mom’s mom.  I canNOT believe it, AND I’m totally convinced I’m a genius.

I was satisfied with my discovery, so my interest in the subject was put to rest for awhile.  Fast forward a year or so.

It was a couple of weeks ago.  My son and I are going on a tour of the British Isles in June.  I thought it would be cool to see if any of the places in Ireland and Scotland are going to on our trip, have any connections to our ancestors.  So, I renewed my ancestry.com subscription and I’m obsessed and living in my computer again.  I was enjoying myself so much, I decided to make an ancestry photo book for my brother.  
I finished that, but I’m not ready to put it down, so I decide to make a a genealogy book dedicated to my mom.  I could fill in her missing father’s, grandmothers, and aunts and cousins that she never had a chance to search for herself. 

I pull up mom’s bio-dad on ancestry.com. I knew a little about HIM, but nothing about his life, or his family.  I start clicking on birth certificates, death certificates, and census records.  I found his name on every one.  Checked all the info, where he was, how old, blah, blah.  I made notes of his parents names, where the were born, the age at the time the census was taken.  Census records were taken every ten years.

I got to the third census record.  He was seven years old, it said.  I saw his mother’s name, then father’s….finally found his name.  I scrolled my eyeballs carefully to the right, so I wouldn’t lose the line I was on.

There was a category in the census for your status in your house, or who you were.  You fill in whether you’re, “Head” of household, or “Wife,” or maybe, “boarder” or “servant“, “mother-in-law.”  Of course “Child” or “grandmother.”  Back in the early days there’d be fifteen people in one household taking up the half of the page.

When I looked at the household status line where my biological grandfather’s status was, it said in black cursive handwriting , “Child. / Adopted.


Sushi.  That’s what we were picking up from my Aunt’s house.  Missy and I were driving over an hour to pick up my aunt’s Japanese Chin dog, Sushi.  Patricia said she didn’t have time for the dog, and it was so cute and good and she hated to neglect such a sweetie.  She told me he was pedigreed with papers and she paid $1200 for him.  I happily agreed to take him.  From the pictures, he was a cute little guy.

Missy only met my aunt one other time, so I was excited for her to get to spend the evening with her.  She was one of my oldest friends, so I was happy that they could really get to know each other.  Patricia was a hoot, and if you couldn’t have a good time with her, something was wrong with you, not her!

Aunt Pat was what I usually called her, and she was my deceased father’s sister.  She was five years older than he was, and was definitely the black sheep of the family.  Despite that, she launched a new company all by herself, and was very successful.  The house we were going to, was her new home out in the country, just outside of Nashville.  It was gorgeous inside and out.  We spent that evening out on her back patio that overlooked a beautiful koi pond. The pond was expertly landscaped with stones and plants, it had a waterfall, and at night, strategically placed lights gave it an intoxicating glow.

We met Sushi, and he was a cutie.  He was black and white, like an Oreo cookie.  He wagged his tail and said hello, then he was off to his little bed in the corner.  It didn’t take us but a few minutes to make it out to the patio.  We all smoked, we all drank, and we all liked to talk.  That’s what we did, for hours!  It was fun and I was tickled that Missy liked Patricia.  I knew she would.

Missy and I had been friends for so long, she knew almost everything about me.  She heard all of my family drama stories over the years, so she knew what the deal was with everyone.  Including Patricia.  But of course, when Aunt Pat talked and told stories, she pretended she had never heard them before.  After a couple of hours had gone by, it was obvious to me that Patricia had crossed over to “officially drunk.”  Besides the tell-tale slurring, she started talking about her father, my grandfather.  He was emotionally and physically abusive to her throughout her whole life.  To that day, he refused to acknowledge any of her accomplishments, he would only point out her shortcomings and bad decisions.  Which, granted, she had made some mistakes.  Boy, he would not let her forget them.  One of the biggest ones was that she had been married nine times in her 65 years.  Left home at 18 to marry the first one.  She was not good with men, obviously.  Each of her three sons had a different father.  She was abused by a couple of them, abandoned by a few, and it just didn’t work out with a few.  By this time, she hadn’t been married for a while, which she had decided was best.  I agreed with her!


Drinks with the girls


Her dad did not agree with most anything she ever did, and he made no secret about it.  He would not tell her that he loved her, even when she would look him right in the face and ask him, “Do you love me?”  He would just look at her stone-faced, and not say a word.  She acted like it didn’t bother her, but as soon as she had a buzz going, that façade quickly melted away.  This 65 year-old woman with three sons, two grandchildren, a beautiful home, and a million dollar company, would start to cry and ask why didn’t her father love her?  It was so sad and it broke my heart.  It wasn’t my first night of drinks with her, so I wasn’t surprised she brought it up.

My dad, on the other hand, could do no wrong.  It was awkward as a young child, because even then I knew that my brother and I were being treated better than Patricia’s boys.  My grandparents always wanted to have separate Christmas’s so they could give us more presents than when we all got together with them.  They were much more involved with my father and his life than Patricia and hers’.  To her credit, I never saw her act out or be ugly to my dad, our mom, or us kids.  Even though she had to have known.  Even I knew when I was five.


After we talked about what an asshole my grandfather was for a while, she indicated that she wanted to tell me something.  I was confused by what she was saying, because she would say she wanted to tell me something, and then she would say that she wasn’t going to, and to just forget it.  Back and forth, back and forth.  Missy and I were laughing, Patricia was obviously just about as drunk as Cootie Brown.

Then, “All right, fuck it.  I’m just going to tell ya.  Bill’s been married before.”  Then she sat back in her chair and sighed, like she had been holding that in for decades.  She had been.

I just looked at her.  I was dumbfounded, frozen.  What did she say?  Bill, my father had been married before our mother?  That couldn’t be true!  They got married as soon as my mother graduated college.  He had just graduated from college too.  I never heard about any other marriages!  I wasn’t mad or anything, I was just surprised!

“Tracey, Grandmom and Pop made us swear not to tell you kids.  I’ve wanted to tell you this for over twenty years!  I mean, what’s the big fucking deal?  So, Bill’s been married before?  Who gives a shit?”

“No, I understand!  I’m not mad, I just have to wrap my head around it.  Let it sink in for a minute.  I just never, never expected you to say that!”  I tried to be nonchalant.”  I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.”

Holy shit, our dad was married before and everyone’s been keeping it a secret from us!  Why would they do that?  I don’t give a damn if he was married before!  Hell, I’ve been divorced!  Their son, my brother has been divorced!  Half the people I know have been!  I remember grabbing each side of the sink, and looking at myself in the mirror.  I felt like I was in a dream.  Secrets?  Why the secrets?  That’s what I don’t get!

While I’m in the bathroom, Missy has been out on the patio with Patricia the whole time.  She told me later that Patricia was torn all to pieces.  She’d go back and forth from “I shouldn’t have ever told her.  Oh my God.  I messed up so bad!” to “Well, hell!  It’s her right to know!  They’re not little kids anymore!  My God!”  then back to “Lord, they’re never going to speak to me again.  Daddy made me swear I wouldn’t tell those kids about their dad.”

I’m back on the deck, having fully refreshed my beverage, and Patricia filled me in.  She said that right out of high school, he married some girl from his school named Linda.  It was no big deal, they were only married a couple of months.  But, at mom and dad’s funeral, Linda showed up to pay her respects.  Grandmom and Pop threw a fit and made her leave!  They wouldn’t let her sign the register, and they wouldn’t let her come anywhere near my brother and I.  They also tore up any pictures of Linda or of the two of them together, so we would never find them.

“What’s the big deal?” I asked.  “What do we care if he was divorced before he married mom?  We don’t care!  The only thing that bothers me is the great lengths everyone went to keep it a secret!  Good Lord!”

“I don’t know, Tracey.  I’m telling you, they are crazy.  I mean, I’ve been married several times, and they don’t mind telling everyone in middle Tennessee about that!  But I reckon, cause it’s Bill, they didn’t want to risk putting a blemish on his reputation.  Honey, I’m sure that your mom and dad were planning on telling you, they just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.  If they had known that they were going to be gone…”

I stopped her there, and got up and gave her a hug.  She had black mascara running all down her face from crying.  It was obvious this was a huge burden for her.  She told me then to tell Grandmom and Pop that I knew and that she was the one who told me.  She said, “I don’t give a shit anymore.  They don’t love me no matter what I do, so what the hell?” then she chuckled.

On the way home Missy and I could hardly take a breath, we were talking so fast about what Patricia told us.  Sushi the dog was wandering around the back seat of my car, then he’d hop up on the console, then down to the floorboard where Missy’s feet were.  We were coming up with different scenarios that would explain why my grandparents did what they did.  We knew they were from a different generation, but to go to such lengths to cover up a three-month marriage didn’t make any sense!

We finally pulled into Missy’s driveway so I could drop her off.  We were both exhausted!  As Missy is reaching around to grab her purse, her cigarettes, and stuff, she noticed there were M&M’s in the floor.  I had one of those big bags of regular M&M’s that we snacked on during the trip to Patricia’s.  I turned the interior light on, and to our horror, we discovered that Sushi had eaten all of the M&M’s!  That was a lot of chocolate!  We both thought the same thing, “Won’t chocolate kill dogs?”  Oh Lord, I’ve killed Patricia’s $1200 dog.  She’ll be devastated!   Turns out, chocolate was no match for Sushi.  She was just fine!  Patricia lied about Sushi, though.  He wasn’t housebroken, good, or sweet.  She just didn’t want him anymore!  Dammit!  I really shouldn’t have been too surprised…I loved her, but I knew my aunt could be a real heifer when she wanted to!

I Just Wanted a Dog

A man with a white hat was standing in the crowd, holding a sign with our last name written on it. My husband and I walked over to him and we all gave introductions. He said he was Winston, and he would be driving us to our rental house. He led us to a van, helped us get our luggage in, and politely opened the door for me. After he was seated and buckled up, we were off. We were in Eluethera, a small island in the Bahamas. It was our second trip to the island, because we had fallen in love with it two years prior.

This time our rental house was close to the little village of Gregory Town, on the northern end of the island. Last time we were more centrally located in Governor’s Harbor. Winston talked a lot on our van ride to the house. Right away, he explained that Phillip was our caretaker for the house. He said that usually Phillip would have picked us up, but unfortunately, his sister passed away, and he was at the funeral. We were saddened by this news, but Winston assured us that Phillip would take care of us on the island while we were here. When we arrived to the house, Winston showed us where everything was and then gave us our keys and left. Phillip’s business card with phone number was on the table.

We were finally at our destination! We were exhausted from traveling, but excited to finally be on our vacation at long last. Obviously, the first thing we did was attempt to christen the couch in the living room. More accurately, the futon. My husband was planning on having sex at least twice a day, every day, and he wasn’t wasting any time!

After only a few minutes into vacation sex, someone started knocking on our door! Our house was practically in the middle of nowhere, there was only one house anywhere close to us. I ran into the bathroom and closed the door most of the way, open enough so that I could hear. I couldn’t hear anything however, but the man that was knocking was a masseuse looking for the client that hired him. What!? Ugh, wrong house, dude. Ok, that was weird, but he was gone.

We stripped down to our birthday suits and were determined to capture the mood again. We made sure all of the many windows’ curtains were closed before we proceeded. The futon was right next to the door, and it was sitting under three windows. Hell, there were windows all the way around…it was the beach! Five minutes later, someone was pounding on the door again!

I grabbed a throw blanket that was laying there and wrapped it around me, and ran to the bathroom again. My husband quickly yanked his shorts up before he opens the door a second time. Well, it’s Phillip! He wanted to introduce himself and tell us if there was anything we needed to give him a call. Now he had to go to his sister’s funeral.

That was nice of him to do. But, to say that the mood was over is putting it mildly. No way, no sir, let’s try again later when we’re pretty sure no one will come knocking on our door. We decided we’d unpack and get settled in before we ventured out.

We rented a car from the same guy who rented us the house, so a little later after we’d rested, we decided to drive around and see exactly where we were. Eluethera is a poor little island, and Gregory Town is one of the poorest. The little roads in the villages run this way and that way. There are run down houses that have barely withstood hurricanes, but lack of funds prevented their total resurrection. There were chickens and cats running around everywhere. Two years, and nothing had changed in Gregory Town as far as we could tell.

We topped a hill and when we headed downward, there were people standing around everywhere. We slowed to a crawl so as not to hit anyone, and we noticed that there were people filing out of a church building on the left side of the road. Everyone had on their best Sunday clothes, and we figured it out, “It’s Phillip’s sisters funeral!” Oh, man, that’s unexpected. We drive around on the skinny little road, trying to be respectful of the funeral goers. There were people in little groups and clusters all over the place, talking and visiting. Little girls with bows in their hair twirled around in their pretty dresses. Boys chased each other across the patches of grass that grew here and there.

We crept along, and I look up and notice, to our left (which is the side you drive on over there), there was a light-skinned black man with dread locks talking to three white men. He turned his head and casually glanced over at us as we slowly rode by.

“Oh. My. God. That’s Lenny Mother Fucking Kravitz.” I said incredibly.
“Are you sure?” my husband asked.
“Yep. I’m positive.” I said.

He had on pants that were blue, but not blue jeans. They were skinny, so they had that tight fit. He wore ankle boots that were a light leather, almost yellow-ish in color. His dreads were loosely secured in some kind of wrap or band, and he had on sunglasses that struck me as Hollywood style, if that’s a thing. I have no idea what kind of shirt he had on, I didn’t get to look long enough. He was talking to the only three white people in the whole place. They looked like some kind of music people, you know, agents, managers, etc.

We drove on by and decided that turning around and going back so that I could get a picture would be in bad taste, especially since it was a funeral.

“Lenny Mother Fucking Kravitz. I cannot believe we just saw Lenny Mother Fucking Kravitz.” I said an annoying amount of times throughout the day. But I couldn’t! This island was tiny and poor and the last thing you’d expect to see is a celebrity like him!

I did some looking, and apparently Lenny’s mother was from the Bahamas, though it didn’t specifically name Gregory Town where I looked. Also, we found out that there’s a nude beach on the island that you can only get to by boat. Guess what it’s called? Kravitz Beach! No, we didn’t go there! Ew!

When our vacation was over, Winston showed up to take us back to the airport. We chatted on the ride there, and eventually the subject of Phillip came up. We inquired about his well-being, since we hadn’t seen him since he knocked on our door and messed up our…well, you know. Winston said, “Oh, well, he be doing fine, yes. But he at funeral today. His cousin died.” Holy shit! Sister then cousin in the same week! That’s terrible! Maybe we should drive by and pay our respects? My husband narrowed his eyes, looked at me and mouthed, “No.”


Tourists at a Funeral

Every morning on my way to work, I stop at the same convenience store to get my drinks and snacks for the day. Four out of five of these days I participate in the dance of the swinging doors as I enter and exit the building. I imagine that all over the country, people hold doors for other people who are coming in or out of a building. But, us southern folks have turned it into a public display of not just manners, but character.
I don’t care how much crap you are holding in your arms, whether or not your feet hurt, or if you have a killer migraine. If you get to the door first, you had better push, or pull, and hold that door open for the person you spotted heading that way. Sometimes a door opener happens to have a lot of items in their hands, but this doesn’t excuse them from their civic and moral obligation to hold the door so that other people can go through the door in front of them. This means that sometimes they have to push and hold the door open with one arm, and they have to balance on one foot, because the exit door opens away from them! Finally, after all the people exit, this selfless individual will still attempt to one-arm hold the door for you. Unfortunately, they are now probably unintentionally blocking the doorway that you are trying to enter! It’s super awkward and everyone shuffles around and chuckles politely and apologizes. But, the most important thing is that they held the door! They are good people!!!
It should go without saying, but unfortunately it needs to be said for some people. If someone holds the door for you, you better say “Thank You” loud enough for them to hear. It is better to also look at them, make eye contact and smile! Nothing pisses me off more than when I stand somewhere holding the door for somebody when it’s 45 degrees outside because I have fucking class, for a person to just breeze right by me and not look at me or utter a word. They are just straight up trash! You want to scream at them, “You’re welcome, bitch!” Always thank the door holder!
The rules are pretty plain until you are in the situation of “Should I hold the door even though they are pretty far away or is it okay to let the door close?” I know we’ve all committed to holding that one door somewhere for someone, only to think a few seconds later, “Damn, I should’ve let the door go…they’re pretty far away and now I feel stupid standing here so long. But I can’t let go now cause then that’d be weird and rude. I’m just going to have to stand here and hold the damn door until they finally get here.” That person better really better say thank you in that circumstance! They usually do!
I think I’ve figured out a way to maneuver through this awkward open-door conundrum. When you reach the door that you are about to open and enter, and you look around and see a person coming who is a questionable distance away for door holding, follow this one simple rule: If you and the person walking towards the door make eye contact, you should hold the door. They’ve seen you. They know you could wait if you wanted to and if you do you are a really good person. However, if you look back and that person is looking down, or doesn’t make eye contact with you, you are free to enter the building and let the door gently close behind you. They were too far away! You are free of any guilt, obligation, and your integrity and good name are still in-tact.
My next post, I plan on discussing some other southern traditions/etiquette. If anyone wants to ask me anything about how we do things around here, I’d love to chat about it! I love how different parts of the country have their own unique and sometimes quirky way of doing things!

Hold that Door!


IMG_3070I was having some pretty intense pains in my shoulders one Saturday, so when I got off of work I decided to get a massage. I never get massages, so I don’t have a therapist. I didn’t have many options, and I was desperate, so I went to the little Asian massage parlor in the Kroger shopping center in town. I’d never been to one, but how bad could it be? And I was dying! I was thinking they had one of those chairs in the front that you could see through the glass window, so my plan was to get a chair massage, and they could work on my shoulders.
I enter the shop to find two Asian women standing behind a counter. Indeed, there were two massage chairs right in the front of the shop where you could easily see out into the parking lot. The older woman asked if I wanted massage, and I indicated to her that I wanted a chair massage. She spoke very little English, so we did a lot of nodding and pointing. I straddled the chair as she instructed, and leaned forward, putting my face into the padded hole. It felt good to just sit in that position. I pointed to my shoulders to let her know where the pain was. She nodded several times.
The massage therapist came over to me then with a brown paper towel, like the ones in public bathrooms that come out of the dispenser. She wrapped the paper towel around her hand and proceeded to clumsily rub my shoulders. The paper towel made the massage awkward because she couldn’t get a good grip on my shoulder. It was also making an irritating scratching sound as she attempted to squeeze and rub back and forth. I noticed her making sounds under her breath, like sighs and little grunts, indicating she was struggling and having a hard time. I looked up at her, feeling a little confused because I had no idea why she was using the damn towel in the first place.
Oh! So she could upsell me to a full massage! Very clever, Asian lady! She blew a piece of hair that had fallen into her face and shook her head back and forth, indicating, “This is not very good massage for you.” She asked me in broken English if I’d like a full massage and motioned to the rooms down the hall. I knew what their game was, and yes, I would like a full massage. Thanks!
She led me to the hall and the first room on the left was our destination. There was no door, just a large, red curtain. She led me inside and pointed at me, at a hook on the wall, and then at the massage table, and lastly said, “you can keep panties on.” Then she left. I was standing in the dimly lit room thinking, “Oh my god, oh my god. I can’t believe I’m doing this. This is so weird, there’s only a curtain, holy shit, but it’s kind of funny too, hee hee.” I stripped off all my clothes except my panties, with one eyeball on the curtain the whole time. I hung everything up and scurried into the bed under the sheets, pulling them up to my chin. As I’m lying there, I glance over at where my purse lay on the floor next to the wall, and I imagine a little secret door silently opening up, and a hand reaching out and carefully grabbing my purse, then quickly and quietly closing the door. I then notice that my feet are directly facing the curtain. If someone came in, they would first see the bottoms of my feet. The curtain definitely made me uneasy. Especially since I was the first room right next to the front lobby where customers came in. I had a little talk with myself to quit being a pussy, that I’m sure this is very common and I’m just not used to it. I needed to chill out and enjoy myself.
My massage therapist finally came in and we gestured and one-worded our way to what I wanted her to do. Work on my shoulders and back. Yes. Yes. Just shoulders and back. Thank you. She instructed me to turn over onto my stomach and put my head in the face hole, and she pulled the white sheet down to the bottom of my back. Then she got to work. Wow could that woman rub, knead, dig and squeeze with those strong little hands and short fingers. She even used her elbow to loosen up those muscles. It did hurt, but not so much that I made her stop. I figured it’s what my muscles needed. Not very relaxing, but I wasn’t there to relax. When she finished with my back, she rolled the sheet down further, exposing my panties. With no warning, she took my underwear and yanked it down below my butt cheeks, revealing my entire ass. Then she crawled onto the table, and straddled my body, squatting like a frog. I can’t see what she’s doing, I can only feel and hear. I’m thinking, “Is she on top of me? She’s on the table. Ok. This is ok, I think I’ve seen this on tv.” Her arms reached up and she grabbed my shoulders, then she worked on my back some more. My eyes widened and I stiffened, my only thoughts being the red curtain thinly veiling my nakedness. Then I got tickled, and the thought of me laying there, bare ass was just too funny. I reassured myself that this is how the big city people got massages, this was the real deal. She hopped off the bed and focused on my butt. She rubbed my ass cheeks like she was making biscuits, not missing a single inch of skin.
She stopped after fifteen minutes or so and with wide eyes asked if I would like the bottom half done. “Yes? Yes?” she nodded up and down eagerly. “Only ten more dollar,” she said. Well, hell, I was already practically naked.
Now the leg work. I felt the sheet lightly graze my back as she slid it up towards my neck, revealing my legs and my bottom. I felt a sense of relief as she gently pulled my panties back down over my exposed rear end. All of a sudden, her fingers slid down the sides of my underwear and two fingers expertly yanked the sides up and in, giving me a gigantic wedgie! As an additional treat, she grabbed a leg in each hand, and picked them an inch of the table, and pulled one leg to the right and one to the left. She then laid them back down about two feet apart on the table. To say I was in shock is an understatement! I didn’t know what to do! I was frozen!
I hear a little chime that signaled someone had entered the front door. The younger woman was out front and I could hear her and a gentleman talking. He was asking about a massage. A few seconds later, I could hear the swoosh of the red curtain and the other employee speak to my lady. The view from the doorway was me laying on my stomach, my underwear crammed into the crack of my ass, legs spread apart exposing skin between my legs that only my husband and my gynecologist get to see. Of course, my masseuse stops what she’s doing with me, and goes over to the doorway to speak with the girl, and then leaves the room. Unbelievably, by this point I am over being scared as I have decided to just ride it out. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m in control, the little woman isn’t going to rape me, and if someone sees my wedgie, who cares? My face is in the donut hole at the front end of the table, so it’s an anonymous ass when you think about it. If I feel a finger go where it doesn’t belong, I will shut it all down and put my clothes back on. It’s as if I’m watching a comedy, and I just have to see how it ends!
Little Hands comes back into the room and gets back to work. She starts with my feet and works her way slowly up to my naked butt cheeks. Yep, she rubs the shit out of them. Only this time, she’s getting close to the area between my legs with her hitchhiking fingers. They’d stroke up, and my whole body would stiffen. They’d dive back down, only centimeters away from private property. Each downward motion she took, I would mentally prepare myself to hop up and throw out some kung-fu action in case she crossed the line. It was probably the longest three minutes, or five minutes, or I have no idea how long it actually was, in my life. But, she never touched anything she wasn’t supposed to, and I was not violated that day. Well, not too violated anyway lol.
She finished up and I saw her grab a towel and wipe her face. She was sweating like she had run a marathon. She left me to get dressed and I noticed my purse was still there where I left it. Good thing, cause that’s where my money was so I could pay her. I thought about how sweaty she was, and really, how hard she had worked. I bet she wasn’t five feet tall, and she had the smallest hands and fingers. But if I was blindfolded and didn’t know who my masseuse was, I’d swear it was a big, strong guy. The massage lasted an hour, and she had worked her ass off! If I did it again, I think I would enjoy it more, because I would know what to expect. I think I would tell her to not only leave my underwear on, but to not yank it up my ass crack either. Or maybe, I just wouldn’t wear underwear!

My husband and I got divorced when I was 22 years old. Our son was two. We stayed apart for four years and then remarried. During these four years, we both dated other people. When this story happened, I was dating a guy named Shane.
One weekend Shane and I didn’t have anything to do, so we decided we would head up to my Aunt Pat’s house and surprise her. She lived in Goodletsville, right outside of Nashville. It was about an hour drive from my house.
Patricia had no idea we were coming. I never just showed up at her house unannounced. But she was super cool and I wanted Shane to meet her. Aunt Pat was in a category all her own. She was in her 60’s, and she owned a successful company that she started from scratch. She always wore blonde wigs, a ton of makeup, false eyelashes, fake nails, big jewelry, and loud, colorful clothes. She was almost six feet tall, had big boobs, and with all that stuff she had going on, you couldn’t miss her. That’s the way she liked it. Patricia had smoked most of her life, so she had the smoker’s cough. She always had a cigarette in her hand. She also loved a good drink, and she loved to laugh. She was great.
It was dark by the time Shane and I got to her house. She was out in the country a little way, so there were no street lights to give us away. We headed to the front door and I noticed it was cracked a little as I was about to knock. I looked at Shane and smiled an evil smile, waving him to follow me into the house where we would really surprise her! We tiptoed into the foyer five or six steps when we stopped to assess the situation. I didn’t see or hear anyone, but it smelled really weird in the house. “She’s smoking pot!”, Shane said with a laugh. What?! No way! Well, he was right, it did smell like pot. This was an area that I was not very familiar with at all, having only smoked a little bit of it maybe once or twice.
About that time, my cousin, Chris comes bounding down the stairs. He gets about halfway there and stops short when he spotted us. He was in utter shock to see us, and you could say that he looked like the cat that ate the canary. Chris was Patricia’s youngest son, and he was almost exactly my age. He always considered me a goody-two-shoes, and I guess compared to him, I was. I looked at him and squinted my eyes, grinned and said, “Are ya’ll smoking weed?” He knew they were busted, so he just laughed and said that they were. “Well,” I said, “give us some!”
Next thing I know, I’m getting high with my aunt and first cousin for the first time ever. Patricia remarked several times, “I can’t believe you’re here smoking dope with me. I wonder what your daddy would say.” He was deceased, so I think she was trying to decide if he would be mad at her or not. I don’t think he would’ve been. We were laughing and having a good time!
After we smoked all the weed, she led the three of us down into the kitchen to make drinks. We were going to have White Russians. It had Vodka, Kahlua, and heavy cream. We had milk instead of heavy cream. They were so good! I have no idea how many I had. Needless to say, I was one messed up niece. I wasn’t used to drinking a whole lot, and adding White Russian to the weed was a mistake.
Instead of driving back home like we had planned, we decided to stay the night. Shane wasn’t completely wasted like I was, but I wasn’t in the mood for an hour-long drive home. Patricia showed us where we would sleep and then bid us goodnight. I was beginning to feel sick and Shane ran out to find me a trash can.
What happened next was one of the top three single most embarrassing moments of my life. Normally I like to be alone when I puke my guts out, but gentleman Shane was going to hold my hair for me. I had been laying on the bed when the first wave hit me. I felt it come from the depths of my body. I vomited fiercely and angrily into the trash can. Then, to my horror, the uncontrollable wrenching of my stomach forced a large man-sized amount of gas out of my rear end. I made the sound that a loud ship makes when it’s pulling out of the dock, its’ captain honking the horn for all the waving bystanders on the dock. I was shocked and humiliated, my eyes opened as wide as they would go as I looked up at Shane. I could see the amusement in his face and I was immediately pissed! I started to say something, but instead I leaned my head towards the trash can to again, let my innards shoot out of my body like a cannon. Simultaneously, the loudest fart I have ever created came out forcefully out of the other end. I couldn’t stop it! I was throwing up and trying to slam my ass cheeks together to stop the air from bursting out, but it was too powerful! Shane was trying to cover his mouth so I wouldn’t see him laughing, but I was powerless to control any of the things that were happening in that room. I vomited, I farted louder. I puked again, I farted longer. I have no idea how many times it happened, but it seemed as if it would never end. I was in tears from embarrassment, I was seething with anger, and I was sore from all that throwing up.
It was finally over, thank God, and I passed out til morning. Shane drove us home and I went to bed. A couple of months later, I broke up with Shane. I do have to admit he was a gentleman. Not only did he hold my hair for me that night, he never mentioned it to me again. I’m sure he mentioned it to other people, but that’s to be expected. He’s only human after all.


What did you just call me????

Is this just a southern thing?

I am called names by strangers every single day and I don’t think twice about it. Here are the most popular names in no particular order:

1. Honey, or Hun       2. Sweetie     3. Darlin        4. Baby      5. Sugar

Older women use these names for anyone younger than they are. Most of the time it’s just a habit, and they don’t even think about it. They’re motherly or grandmotherly words. My mother-in-law uses two of those words all the time.

Would you like a refill on your sweet tea, Darlin?”

“How ’bout some pie, Hon? We have cherry and chocolate fudge“.

There are a few men who can get away with using these words, but they have to be at least 80 years old. Or blind. Or in a nursing home.

Then we have:

5. Girl     6. Chic     7. Woman     8. Bitch

These names are used by my closest friends and it’s how we greet eachother. ” Hey Woman”! “Hey Bitch“. You know, normal names like that that show affection and respect for one another. “Hey girl” is the most widely used friend greeting. Oh yeah, I have one friend who is Slut. “Hey Slut“! High class stuff.


9. Babe

That’s my husband’s name for me occasionally. Not very creative, but whatever.

Hey Babe, will you stop and pick up some milk on your way home”?

“Babe, there’s a glare on the tv screen. You gotta turn that light off“.

Everyday. No biggy. My word for him is also “Babe”.

“Babe. No. I told you I have a hemorroid. You cannot come within five feet of my body“.

My favorite liquor store in town is conveniently located right around the corner from where I work. I love how clean and open it is, it’s always well stocked, and most of all, I love how knowledgeable the staff is. Especially the owner.  He knows everything about anything that has a drop of alcohol in it, from Moonshine to Pink Rasberry Wine Coolers.

Except. One. Thing.

Hey Doll. How’re you doing today”?

“You need any help, Doll”?

“Whatcha lookin’ for, Doll?”


Really?  Every single time I go in there. The thing is, he’s not creepy. I don’t feel threatened or hit on. He’s a clean cut, respectable looking, business owner in his 40’s.  So, why does a guy who looks like he has some sense, think it’s okay to call women, “Doll”?

We were talking about it at work one day, and my co-worker said, “He’s never called me that. But I think my husband is usually with me when I go in there”.

AHA! So he DOES know it’s not cool to say that to a woman! If it was okay, he would say it in front of somebody and their husband or boyfriend.

Yeah, I know I should say something to him. I’m usually fine doing that sort of thing, and I can do it without sounding like a redneck. But for some reason, I haven’t done it yet. It has kept me from wanting to shop there, but dammit, I like the store!

Maybe I just don’t want to be that person. That touchy, too sensitive person that makes a stink out of dumb shit. I know it’s not cool that he says that, and it kinda makes him sound like an asshole…but ok, maybe he’s an asshole.

But I like his store, and if I say anything, it’ll be awkward after that everytime I go in there. He may even do the “Hello there, Is there anything I can help you with today, MAM“? and totally exaggerate the Mam part to make it clear that he’s abiding to my wishes, but obviously thinks I’m overreacting because the fact is,  he is still the same asshole.

The word “Doll” conjures up images of womanizers and sexist men from the 50’s and 60’s. Who the hell says “Doll” anymore anyway? If you’re going to be a male chauvenist, at least be in this century and say, “Baby” or one of the names old ladies get to use.


What’s the male equivelant of Doll? I could respond to him with that and maybe he’d get the point without me really “saying” anything.

Hey, Big Boy, are you all out of those little four-pack bottles of Pinot Grigio”?

“Thanks, HotRod, I’ll let ya know if I have any more questions”.