boyfriends

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My fans (both of them) keep asking me about my upcoming high school reunion. (Read earlier updates here and here.) Like, did I ever find anything to wear? No. How am I doing on my to-do list? Surprisingly, I haven’t been able to accomplish a single one of those tasks. Plus, I realized I didn’t include anything about my face, so I actually need to add a half dozen other treatments/surgeries to the list.
It’s enough to make a girl pretty depressed. But then, in what I like to think of as a sign from God, I stumbled across some old pictures. I think His message was, “Hon, look how you looked back then. Do you really think you could possibly look any worse than this?” And I have to hand it to God, He really makes a good point. Let’s take a look.

There are so many things wrong with this picture, I hardly know where to begin. First off, why am I wearing bright yellow? Because I knew I would be the only one in yellow (because most everyone else has the good sense not to wear yellow satin).

What’s up with the hair and make-up? You mean the beehive? I want to say it just looks bad in this picture, but the truth is it looked awful even back then. That’s what I get for having the old ladies down at the local shop do my ‘do. I’m embarrassed to admit that when I found this picture, I found that I’d pressed my lovely yellow babies’ breath (worn in the back of my twist) with it. PURDY!

The make-up was/is awful. We were told to wear heavy stage make-up. I want to strangle whoever told us that, as we all look like hookers in the pictures.

But I thought you said you were scrawny in high school. Yes, I was. At 89 lbs, it would have taken great fashion engineering to make me appear chubby. But with this shiny rouchey thing, I think my dressmaker did it with her hands tied behind her back.

Who is your cute date? HANDS OFF, LADIES. He’s MINE, MINE, MINE!!! [regains composure and realizes it's 20 years later] Oh, he’s no one you’d know.

Stay tuned next week for the Christmas Prom dress. It’s super-fine.

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The Subourbon Family is headed to Augusta [cue banjo music]. Husband M grew up on a golf course but has never been to Augusta National, so this will be some kind of golfgasm for him. His beautiful bride has never been to a major tournament, but has managed to drink her way through the beer tents of many minor ones. I always say that golf tournaments are loads of fun, except for all the golf. (Silence is not really a virtue of mine.) Now that I’m on the wagon, maybe I’ll actually watch some of the action, instead of creating it. (“Well, hon, you know the fastest way to the 19th hole is to buy me another drink!” HAHAHAHA snort!)

Being from a state where Auburn is our, ahem, 2nd best team, I am a football fan myself. I am aware that we have other sports there, because my college boyfriend once made me go to the LSU basketball game because “this Shaq guy is going to be huge one day.” The only other sport that could possibly compete with football over there is hunting, and then only because the season is longer.

I managed to marry into a golf and basketball family (from NC), and my husband has never fired a gun nor hit another person – despite my constant threats that he will kick your ass – and he isn’t even a football fan (unless you count the ACC as football, which I hear some folks do). Well, that’s not really true anymore. During football season, you can now hear him cheering for “Bama”, as only a person who didn’t attend Alabama will tend to do. (I’m just telling y’all this so you don’t look like tourists in front of your Southern friends.) Since meeting me however, he has been fishing on several occasions, and has even caught some throw-back stuff that we all made a big deal about. Fishing (deep sea, not bass) is actually a favorite hobby of mine, if you don’t count the part about baiting the line, watching said line, and reeling in whatever is flipping about on the end of it. I’m more into the flirting with cute mates (“Wow, you’re really good at that. Would you call yourself a master baiter?”) and sunning myself in a deck chair.

But I have to hand it to the in-laws – they are some good golfers. When we were first dating, I volunteered to keep the scorecards for M & his dad, only to have to pull M aside to help me with my math since his dad’s numbers didn’t even add to 70. “That’s right,” he told me. WHAAAAA? That means the old man could smack around you, me, and probably everybody we know. And, although he rarely plays due to the high demands of his wife and daughter, M is a pretty good golfer himself. This gives me hope, because maybe little G will inherit some of her daddy’s athletic genes. Unfortunately, she has already proven that she got some of them from me – we practiced on her tricycle again today for the big Trike-a-thon on Friday and it appears that we should just fake a tummy ache that day.

In any case, GO GOLFERS! GO BRAVES! GO SHOPPING! And have a fun day!

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This blog has a couple of primary purposes and I feel that I’ve neglected one of them lately, namely to air grievances against old boyfriends and make them feel generally miserable about having not married the girl of a lifetime (unless, of course, you aren’t into self-centeredness or chicks who need to be validated every 5 minutes or so, in which case I would not be the girl for you). But this post has a happy (read: vindictive) ending, so I hope it cheers your day to know everything in life has its purpose, whether you realize it at the time or not.
So after having dated my boyfriend Chris for a couple of years, we cooled off and broke up. Or maybe it was that he cooled on me and I read the writing on the wall. Anyway, this all happened during my young cute years so, rather than sit around hating him, I just hated him in my spare time while not out on dates. One such date was the son of a Coke executive, so we had excellent seats everywhere we went – including a particular MLB game in which we were televised on the Jumbotron. (My computer is telling me that’s not a real word, but y’all know what I’m talking about.) So here I was with this new guy, and when I got up to go to the ladies room, I ran into Chris sitting several rows behind us with his buddy. I must say that I was initially embarrassed, but that quickly faded as I saw the jealousy rise in his face. HA! And HA HA! That will teach him to dump the greatest girl he’s ever known! (Okay, maybe not the greatest, but surely in his top 200 or so.)
Anyway, sometimes I like to kick a man while he’s down so I remind him every so often what a big dummy he was. I know this doesn’t make me a very big person, but I can only work on one character defect at a time and “learning to let things go” is not on my Top 10 list. Sorry, guys.

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T Minus 6 Months

This is the first installment of what is sure to be many in the ongoing saga of preparing for my 20th high school reunion. My first instinct was to decline the invitation, so everyone would think I had something better to do (although I really don’t), but I’m afraid they’d cancel the event altogether if they found out I wouldn’t be coming, so I guess I’ll go. It’s in July, so I have less than 6 months to accomplish the things that need to happen for me to feel good about myself seeing these people for the first time since 1990. (We had a 10-year reunion, but I was married to a jealous type who thought I’d just want to go to see ex-boyfriends, so I didn’t go. The real reason I wanted to go? To see ex-boyfriends, of course. DUH.) I’ve got quite a to-do list:
1. Become rich & famous
2. Make an appearance on Oprah, 2nd choice Ellen (back-up plan necessary as don’t want to set unrealistic expectations)
3. Marry hot young stud, 2nd choice just rent one for the night (M is okay with this; I think he said he would gladly pay for an escort if he didn’t have to go.)
4. Get butt lift and breast augmentation (note to self- ask surgeon re: inject butt fat into boobs?)
5. Grow 2 inches in height, 2nd choice get teased hair piece
6. Cultivate friendships with famous types and integrate into cocktail conversation, i.e. “Just the other day, when Gwyneth and I were doing yoga, she said the funniest thing about our mutual friend Madonna…”
7. Develop cure for cancer, 2nd choice be named Time Woman of the Year
8. Secure grand transportation, helicopter or yacht preferred, 2nd choice Ferrari
9. Buy The Greatest Dress Ever Made (note to self: electricity required?) with perfect shoes
10. Learn to dance from John Travolta, 2nd choice Kevin Bacon
As you can see, it will be a busy 6 months for me. Don’t worry, though, I will keep you abreast of my progress. And beginning the day after the reunion, I can then begin the second-guessing, self-flagellating dissection of how I was perceived, if people were appropriately jealous or if they just thought I was desperate, if my stories were witty or trying too hard, and if all the guys who never asked me out were wondering (as well they should) what the hell they were thinking when they overlooked the scrawny chick with braces.

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Today’s is a serious post and one that is close to my heart. As you may have gathered from reading my blog, I am sometimes a neurotic, confused mess of a woman (but only on my good days). My friend Jennifer, whom I’ve known since I was 15 or so, recently asked me when I became so insecure, that I was never like this in high school. This caused some reflection on my part, and I can only say that I think I began to hate myself when I started trying to be someone I am not. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I always have the dirtiest jokes and had cultivated a sailor’s mouth since about the age of 12, until I cleaned up my language after little G was born. No one – and I mean NO ONE – who knows me well would describe me as being demur, sedate, sophisticated, or elegant (these are all wonderful qualities, I just don’t happen to possess them myself). I have always been able to drink (out of the can, bottle, keg tap or what-have-you) with people double my size. (That may be because I’ve been drinking since I was 13.) I have a redneck streak about a mile wide and have been described by numerous people as being a “guy’s girl” (mainly because it is really hard to offend me). When no one’s looking, I listen to country music and dance around my house in the buff. I am lazy as sin and only shave my legs when absolutely necessary – usually when the stubble starts to curl.
Having said all of that, most people who know me well will also concede that, if called upon, I can act like a lady, an intellect, a professional, a snob, or anything else you want me to be. And I have done that for many people for many years. I have hidden boyfriends who wouldn’t meet approval; I’ve hidden my personality, my alcoholism, and my desperate struggle with depression in which I almost lost myself completely.
But now what I want to say is that the ME I really am is worth being. You may not like it or approve; you may think I’m tacky – and that’s fine. That’s why this blog isn’t mandatory reading for anyone. By all means, if you don’t like me, please don’t feel obligated to read what I write. But you must understand that I’m not trying to be someone I’m not; for the first time in 20 years, I am actually trying to be who I AM. I’m no longer going to think people wouldn’t like me if they knew the real me, because I’m going to be the real me and you can choose whether to like it or not.
The people who have always known me have loved and liked me just the way I am. My husband and friends and probably my brother wouldn’t be shocked by anything I do. I can’t live like 2 different people for the sake of gaining everyone’s approval. Some people are just not going to like me. Period. And I am finally okay with that.

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