The DWI Construction Company and a Masters in Underworld Education

We all have our gifts.  Some of us—not me—can sing.  Some of us—also not me—can dance.  Some of us—I can’t draw a straight line with the assistance of a ruler—are artistically inclined.  Some of us...well...some of us have talents that aren’t strictly...kosher.  What does that mean?  It means we don’t get to brag about our abilities and show them off like the singers and the dancers and the artsy fartsies.  Well, I intend to rectify that unfairness a touch today. 

It’s all about what you know...

I am the granddaughter of a homicide detective, the niece of an FBI agent and the daughter of an attorney.  Let’s not forget that I’m an attorney as well.  When I was young, my father allowed some of his criminal clients to work off their attorney’s fees by doing projects or repairs around our house.  My brother and I called it the DWI Construction Crew.  There were some seriously sketchy characters.  For example, Dad forgot to tell Mom that he had a guy coming to the house to chop down a pine tree in the back yard.  Mom opened the front door, took one look at the Harley riding dude with his axe and other tree cutting paraphernalia and screamed while slamming the door in his face.  Awkwaaaaaaard.

I have worked in some capacity at a law firm ever since I was about fourteen years old and it was an education equal to none.  I actually consider myself very fortunate:  I got the Southern Belle upbringing with a little underworld spice to make things interesting. 

Many of my unorthodox skills were born of necessity.  My gentle readers may or may not be familiar with this scenario, but teachers at my elementary and junior high schools made a practice of sending tests and papers with grades lower than a “C” home with the student for the parent to read, sign and return the next day.  Of course, the practice was intended to put the parent on notice that a little more work might be required in certain areas, but all of us kids merely made the connection of Bad Grades = Punishment and...well...we did what we had to do.

I like to think of myself as a Signature Reproduction Specialist because “Forger” sounds pure common.  One morning when I was in fourth grade, my Dad caught me signing his John Hancock to a less than stellar math test.  Of course, I got into trouble, but I learned later that Dad was so impressed with my exact replication of his signature that he actually struggled a little bit about punishing me.  Since that time, my skills have been admired and employed in numerous practical jokes.  I am particularly well known for my Ralph Macchio, Anna Nicole Smith, Rupaul and Kato Kaelin, but my Kardashians are a work in progress.

Another skill born of necessity?  I am an above average lock picker—that’s what happens when you go to college at a girls’ school with a curfew.  It’s also what happens when you share a dorm suite with inconsiderate individuals who lock you out of your bathroom about three times a day.  The first time I ever successfully picked a lock occurred when I found myself locked out of my dorm room.  I half jokingly borrowed a paper clip from someone and fiddled around with the lock in a fairly half-assed fashion.  Imagine my surprise when it worked!  After that, it was off to the races.  Upon reflection, I could and should have charged a substantial fee for my services during my tenure at Peace and Chapel Hill.  Oh well...

My other talent is that my brain is a vast storehouse of useless information.  My husband calls me the female Sheldon Cooper for those of you familiar with The Big Bang Theory.  Like Sheldon, I tend to recite random facts at random and often inappropriate times. 

The first time I met my husband’s family was particularly bad.  We somehow got on the topic of TV shows and crime dramas (probably spurred by the fact that I am a lawyer’s daughter) and somebody wondered why the bad guys always licked the cocaine when they bought great piles of the stuff to presumably sell elsewhere.  Well, I happened to know.  Accordingly, I enlightened them as to the fact that the “lick test” is for quality control purposes:  If the tongue goes numb, it’s cocaine and the faster the tongue goes numb, the higher the value of the product.

What did my future in-laws think about my trivia knowledge?  Close your eyes and picture six faces that looked like deer in the headlights with the only noise being the sound of crickets. 

A gal picks things up when she works with clients who have extensive expertise in...um...pharmaceutical brokerage.

My last talent?  I can spot a hooker a block away.  Okay, maybe that isn’t such a talent as the fact that I’ve represented most of them, but you’ve got to give those of us “talently impaired” a break every now and again.

Confessions of a Teeny Bopper Belle

Childhood crushes.  We’ve all had them and 99.9999% of them are or were totally embarrassing.  My personal feeling is that Southern Belles are more susceptible to crushes because we are trained in manners and chivalry at an early age so as to expect a valiant knight to come galloping down our driveway holding an American Express Black Card, a dozen Krispy Kremes and six-pack of Diet Sun Drop. 

What I didn’t realize is how terribly stressful childhood crushes can be for parents.  As Baby Belle 1 hits “that age” where deeply disturbing members of the entertainment world start to appeal to the over-targeted pre-tween market, I quickly realized that I either needed to lock her in a convent or betroth her at the age of 5 if she continued down her path of highly highly questionable choices of male idols. 

Sweet.  Baby.  Jesus.

What’s the worst?  I hesitate to even tell you because it’s just that horrific.  Ick, ick, ick:  Michael Jackson.  Ickickickickickickick!  To be fair (and hopeful), I don’t know that ol’ MJ inspired any romantic notions in my child’s warped little brain, but there exists a troubling zeal with regard to his music and videos.  I’ve often thought of stabbing myself in the ears rather than endure listening to Man in the Mirror one more Godforsaken time.

After seeing the movie that the Jackson family released for as much profit and tacky publicity as possible, I will [a touch grudgingly] admit that the man was talented and a very hard worker.  I also feel very sad for him being forced to live his life the way that he did—everyone should be able to have an actual childhood.  Nonetheless, have you seen pictures of him?  God rest his soul, but damn...how could anyone find that appealing?

We’ve been fighting a heated battle in an attempt to get Baby Belle 1 to sleep in her room all night.  Scott and I asked if anything might help her if she got scared and she said that she wanted a Michael Jackson poster.  BB1 picked a Michael Jackson “Bad” poster.  We put the thing up and I took a good look at it. 

“Bad” was when MJ started to look a little overdone in the plastic surgery department.  If I rolled over in the middle of the night and caught a glimpse of the dude in the conservative S&M wear with those freaky eyes, ghastly complexion and weird chin, it would scare me so shitless as to hack 10 years off my life.

In response to as much parental manipulation as is legally possible, we’ve steered Baby Belle 1 at least a little bit away from the MJ onslaught, but I’m not resting easily as I know that very next drive-a-parent-to-drink obsession is right around the corner.

Case in point...

I spent Saturday evening with a lovely 13 year-old young lady and her family.  I’m always very impressed with this 13 year-old’s maturity and intelligence which is why I was floored with horror and shock when I learned the object of her latest crush:  Justin Bieber.  I make an effort to stay as ignorant as possible when it comes to the Tween Wave, but I don’t live under a rock (although the notion is under serious consideration), so I am sorry to tell you that I am more familiar with The Biebs than I care to be.  The dancing.  The high pitched and girly singing voice.  The hair.

OH MY GOOD GOD--the hair!. 

I don’t care for long hair on boys under 21 years of age.  I’ve spent impressive spans of time sitting in Court and staring at my clients and other defendants who suffer from Shag Syndrome.  I daydream about tranquing them and whacking off the offending locks with a weed eater.  Among hygiene questions and a host of other problems, it just seems disrespectful to me.  Mind you, I didn't come into the distaste of long, luscious man tresses until I was in my twenties—possibly because of the wealth of nonstarters I dated in the early years who had hair longer than mine.*

Imagine my dismay—if you will—at the latest trend in adolescent male coiffures:  Brushing all of that mess forward so that it frames their delicate little boy faces.  One of the many things I intend to teach my Baby Belles is to never evereverever date a boy who spends more time and product on their hair than the Belles do.  Absurd.

I will note that I saw a clip on the news proclaiming that Little Precious cut his hair.  Good for him [or his handlers], but I still don’t know why it trumped the news about Japan’s nuclear crisis.

It is hypothesized that little girls almost always crush on celebrities who appear to be “safe.”  I furthermore gather that “safe” translates to men that give off a [slight or not] feminine vibe.  Raging towers of masculinity and hormones quite rightly freak out the younger sets of girls out.

When I look at the Biebs—although I try not to make a habit out of it—I totally see the “Safe Factor” with the carefully done hair, utter lack of 5 o’clock shadow, the occasional zit here and there and the girly pitched voice.

Of course, when I think of Michael Jackson in that respect, all I want to do is pour bleach on my head in a desperate attempt to wash the traumatizing thoughts from my mind.  Despite all of the biting of the lower [collagen filled] lip and the crotch grabbing, the fella was asexual at best, although he might have aesthetically appealed to the alien visitors that allegedly frequent Roswell, New Mexico.

Okay, I have to stop now lest I go even more insane.  I simply can’t dwell on the point overlong.

Suffice it to say that I now fully comprehend the extent of the trauma I inflicted upon my parents in regard to adolescent idols.  I shall now humbly confess my sins and respectfully ask for ablution:

1. I am so very, very sorry about my early childhood crushes on Erik Estrada, John Travolta and Gene Simmons of Kiss (in full makeup, no less).  Although I do still enjoy the occasional Travolta movie and Kiss song (not together, mind you), I avow that I am now cured of Ponch, Danny Zuko  and the dude in the aluminum foil costume;

2. I am furthermore sorry for my “Junior High Phase  where I thought that George Michael and Tom Cruise were the be-all-end-all of masculine perfection.  We all know what happened with George Michael and the public restrooms.  As for Mr. Cruise, I happened to run into him at Walden Books when he was in Wilmington filming a movie and the fact that he was about three inches shorter than my 13 year-old stature caused me to cast Tom to the wind;  and

3. High school was no doubt a wee bit stressful for my parents in that I dabbled with a hair metal phase.  Although my love for Jimmy Buffett and Sam Cooke music didn’t wane, my attraction to Axl Rose and Sebastian Bach was rather powerful.  As a matter of fact, Sebastian did a stint in Jekyll and Hyde on Broadway a couple of years ago and I would have walked on glass to get tickets, but—alas—they eluded me.  I got a chuckle out of the opening night footage on the news:  There was enough Rave No. 4 Hold in that female audience to cause a catastrophic explosion upon the lighting of one single match.

These days, I only have eyes for my own knight in shining armor who saw fit to marry me almost 16 years ago.  Yes, I look back on my past crushes and cringe, but thank God we’re allowed to be stupid in our youth.  If we didn’t act like hormonally charged dumbasses, we would never learn from our mistakes and we wouldn’t be nearly as appreciative of what we have now...

NONETHELESS, boys and belles, I’ve come clean with you and misery loves company.  It’s time to make your own sacrifices of dignity.  Who did you have a crush on?

*I also don’t have a problem with men over the age of 21 sporting long hair.  If they work and pay their own way in the world, they can do what they want to with their haircuts.

Transplant Magnolias

As I’m sure I have established by now, Diamond Magnolias are a force to be reckoned with.  They face tremendous adversity without breaking a sweat, they are incredibly resourceful and they can respond perfectly to even the most shocking situation.  To put it in the vernacular of Baby Belle 1:  They totally rock.

I hope you’re not still reeling from the little bombshell I dropped about the North having their very own born and bred rednecks, because you may need to sit down for this one as well:  There are some women so amazing that, in spite of the location of their birth and upbringing, we Southerners will adopt them and bestow the title of Diamond Magnolia upon them.

When I went to law school, I met all sorts of different folks from all sorts of walks of life.  There were the fresh faced tykes who checked out of undergrad and went directly into post-grad, there were folks—like myself—who took a little time off in between schools in order to get married and/or seriously assess what we wanted to do with the rest of our lives and there were folks who pulled themselves up from the burning rubble that had been their previous life in order to get a new start for themselves and their families and maybe even help those that really needed it.

The red-headed lady who I ran into on the front steps of the law school while she had a cigarette dangling from her lips was decidedly in the aforementioned category three—although I didn’t realize it at the time.  No, at the time I didn’t really know what to make of her and I really wasn’t sure that I liked her all that much.  She was loud, she smoked and she had a habit of saying whatever came to her mind regardless of the consequences. 

I got to know her a little bit better over the years and I learned that she was from Michigan, in her thirties, had two children and was a single mother.  I didn’t even know the whole story yet, but I was blown away by the little bit of information I did know.  I only had a husband and a dog and it was all I could do to keep up with them and learn to be a lawyer at the same time. 

As I discovered later, she got pregnant and married at a young age and she dropped out of high school.  Her family struggled financially for a while until her husband got into the Army.  While they moved all over Hell and half of Georgia for the Service, she raised her children, worked, studied like a mad woman and received her GED.

As most Army folk do, they ended up at Fort Bragg in Fayetteville.  Unfortunately, she and her husband decided to split up.  Most people would do well to simply maintain the status quo during such a situation, but she enrolled in and put herself through Fayetteville State University.  After that, it was on to Campbell Law where I met her.

She never did learn to hold her tongue, but I came to appreciate the way she steadfastly refused to cater to the politics that unfortunately went on at the school.  I was also impressed by the fact that she put her children first and defended them fiercely like a mother bear.  It was clear that she was trying to better herself for her children and I couldn’t think of a more noble cause.

She worked just as hard as everybody else—if not harder on occasion—and we established a bond like comrades tend to do when they hunker down in the trenches to avoid enemy fire.  We managed to make it through to get our diplomas and we somehow managed to pass the Godforsaken Bar Exam and then we went out into the world like little tadpoles into the great big ocean.

As tends to happen, we lost track of each other, but I heard over the years that she stayed in Fayetteville to practice law.

This past Sunday, I was sitting on the floor of the bathroom watching my Baby Belles’ valiant attempts to relocate all of the water from the tub out onto the bathroom floor when I got an email on my little electronic doohickey.  One of my other classmates who had done a much better job of keeping up with our schoolmate informed the rest of us that our schoolmate was dead. 

I was reeling.  In spite of my mathematical retardation, I managed to figure out that she couldn’t have been past her mid forties.  The notice stated that she was preceded in death by her daughter in 2009 and my heart broke into little pieces.  Even before I was a parent, I was impressed with her mothering, but since then I’d had my own precious bundles and I couldn’t fathom the type of pain she must have experienced...and I didn’t even know.  To borrow a term from our contracts and UCC professor, I was lower than whale spit.

It didn’t matter that the funeral was the very next day and all the way in Fayetteville.  I had to go.  It was a pitiful offering for all hadn’t done while she was alive, but it was all I had. 

When I arrived at the funeral home, I was glad to see that lots of other people respected her as well.  There were a lot of folks.  I learned that she devoted her legal career to watching out for all children that came across her path.  She was a legal mother bear and—from what I knew about her personality—I had no doubt in the world that she was formidable at her job.  As a matter of fact, a clear majority of the mourners were the parents and children that she helped.

After losing her daughter, my friend learned that she had lung cancer.  As was her character, she fought it valiantly, but she suffered greatly.  When she became too sick to work, someone suggested that she place her law license on disability status and she said hell no—she’d worked too hard for the damned thing and she wasn’t giving it up even a little bit.  It was just like her and I know exactly how she felt.      

Nope, it doesn’t matter where someone was born—a gal that tough is a Diamond Magnolia regardless.  I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s still looking out for children and that you still don’t want to cross her.  Rest in peace, darlin’.

The "Hell No" Clause

The notion of a general law practitioner is wheezing toward its inevitable demise.  Why?  I don’t really know.  If I had to guess I would say that the rules and nuances of a great many laws have become so numerous and intricate as to require a lawyer to focus strictly on one area of the law in order to stay current.  There are criminal defense attorneys, personal injury attorneys, tax attorneys, domestic attorneys, real estate attorneys...the list could go on for days. 

What does that mean?  Well, asking a criminal defense attorney to represent a party in a bankruptcy action is akin to asking a gynecologist perform brain surgery.

Of course, leave me to cast my lot with those tilting at windmills.  Still, those of us that carry the GP mantle can’t do it all.  If you ever hear someone ask a GP what type of law they practice, you’ll likely hear, “Everything except...”  “Anything but...”  I call them the “Hell No Clauses.”

What are my Hell No Clauses?  Anything but...wait for it...real estate closings and domestic law.

Law school provides more than ample opportunities for nearly terminal boredom.  Uniform Commercial Code, Jurisprudence...gads, I could fall asleep just reciting the names.  Real Property, though—man I had several out of body experiences sitting through that class.  I telepathically went to the mall, the spa, Disney World, the Bahamas... 

Of course, if I’m being honest, law school wasn’t my first brush with real estate law.  I worked at my father’s old law firm for several summers and I had the opportunity to spend each summer working in a different section of the firm.  The summer I worked in real estate law had me seriously considering trashing the whole deal and becoming an employee of Chuck E. Cheese. 

I guess I hoped that all of the forms and tedium that I dealt with during my internship would be magically explained in my Real Property law class.  I was totally deluded.  If anything, the quagmire got thicker.  How exactly do you perform at title search?  Dunno.  Why does a buyer have to sign 985,000 pieces of paper saying the exact same thing at the closing?  I’m guessing that banks hate trees, but that’s all I’ve got.  If there are land disputes or easement issues, I’m your gal, but if you need to close on a piece of property and work with a lender and real estate broker, you would be better off hiring the dude handling the cash register at McDonald’s. 

The scant few closings my firm has handled have literally shut the office down for two days while we got all of the documents together and dealt with the bank and the buyers and the real estate agent who I strongly suspect had a legion of bats in her belfry.  Nope, we’re just not one of those “Closing Factories” and we can’t get it done, but more power to ‘em.

Domestic law.  Sweet baby Jesus. 

Let me just preface by saying that my father has practiced law for 43 years.  At times, his work has placed him in some seriously nasty situations.  The man has tried capital murder cases.  He doesn’t blink easily.  The one time in 43 years that my father has been afraid for his life was in a domestic case. 

Dad was meeting in his office with a husband and wife who could no longer stand the sight of each other.  The husband was getting quite agitated and his movements suggested that he might have been packing.  Thankfully, Dad never had to find that out—I’m not saying that they all joined hands and sang Kumbaya, but they went their separate ways physically unharmed.

Much to the joy of the entire office, Dad quit doing domestic work, but every once in a while he would dip a toe back in for special exceptions.  Trust me when I tell you that there was a great hue and cry and gnashing of teeth from his employees when he told us to open a domestic file and every single time he would hold his hands up in defense and said, “It’s a simple divorce!  Open and shut.”

Uh-huh.  Let me clue you in on a little secret:  There is no such thing as a simple divorce.

It’s an amazing phenomenon:  Take two perfectly mature and stable adults and insert an affair, money issues or general spouse fatigue and you suddenly have two snarling, rabid junior high schoolers.  They will not stop at spilled blood—they will simply demand more.  Of course, I can’t sit here and honestly tell you that I would take the high road if something like that happened to me, but I can tell you the things that I won’t do:    

*I would never call my attorney at 3:00 AM demanding the immediate filing of a Restraining Order because Ex 1 ran into the 24 hour Harris Teeter and saw Ex 2 and Ex 1 “gave Ex 2 a funny look in the Produce Department.”

*I would never demand that a warrant be issued for child abuse because Ex 1 took the kids to the beach and they got their noses slightly sunburned. 

*I wouldn’t attack the other woman’s car and sign my name on the hood.  I mean, Jesus!  C’mon!

*I would never call my attorney at 3:00 AM (again) and demand that she bail me out and have assault charges immediately dropped because “she knows what an asshole I married.” 

*I probably wouldn’t take out a page in the town newspaper claiming (truthfully or otherwise) that the other woman had a communicable disease and that her multitude of sexual partners needed to be tested...but I would daydream about it.

Yes, divorce attorneys earn absolutely every single dime they get and tons more.  They have the patience of Job.  Of course, I guess that line of work can sometimes be gratifying.  When we lived in Smithfield, Scott and I went to eat at one of the restaurants right off of I-95.  There was a motor home/ginormous bus thing that easily cost a million bucks.  What did the license plate say?  “WAS HIS.”

If a Belle Leaves Wilmington at 4:32 Driving 65 MPH...

I am mathematically retarded.  There’s no nice way to put it.  I am a reasonably intelligent individual, but if you put a row of numbers in front of me, everything runs together and I start banging my very hard head on the table.  Numbers are my Kryptonite. 

Why am I so astronomically crappy at math?  I have a theory.  Over the years, I’ve thought back as to exactly when my numerical disdain reared its ugly head and I keep going back to one point in time:  First grade.  I would love nothing more than to tell you the name of my first grade teacher because she was an absolutely rotten individual in every single way, but alas, my infernal moral compass won’t allow stooping to that level.  Suffice it to say that I can’t imagine that reasoned adults put her in charge of innocent, defenseless children.

Ms. Ratched would assign our math problems and then she would call us up one by one to check our work.  If we got the math wrong, we got a spanking.  That’s a frigging lot of pressure for a little kid (particularly one with a very low pain tolerance like myself) and I can assure you that, if some teacher tried to do that to my Baby Belles, they would never find the body.

At first, my inability to add 1 and 1 together completely vexed my parents.  I don’t really know why—it’s not like mathematical ability is in my genes.  In college, my dad thought he wanted to be an electrical engineer until he showed up for his first class.  The professor came into the classroom and started writing an equation across the front chalk board.  The aforementioned equation continued across to the chalk board on the side of the room, to the chalk board at the back of the room and back up the chalk board on the other side of the room.  Dad immediately got up, walked to the Registrar’s office and said, “Put me in something I can talk my way out of.” 

Math certainly isn’t the favorite subject of my mother, but she can at least use a calculator when push comes to shove.  As for Grandma Willie, it’s possible that she hates math even worse than her granddaughter. 

In spite of my genes, the early stages of my inability to cipher completely vexed my parents.  I went through math tutors like Kleenex.  My math homework was usually turned in with tear stains from my frustrated meltdowns.  If, by some miracle, I figured out an equation or process the night before a test, I would stare at the blank paper that was handed to me the next day and with a mind that was equally blank.

Once the inevitable truth that I was a mathematical lost cause dawned upon my parents they switched their efforts to downplaying my deficiencies for college reviews.  Physics, trigonometry calculus and chemistry were completely avoided and my math curriculum requirements were filled with the easiest possible classes that would qualify.

Unfortunately, nothing could get me out of taking geometry for my sophomore year of high school.  I realize that other mathematically disinclined people state that geometry was actually the one math that they could wrap their heads around.  Not me.  As my luck would have it, there was a standardized geometry test where every student had to complete a geometric proof.  I stared at the page for a while and then wrote “I don’t have to prove it, I trust you.”  Strangely, my tactic was not warmly received.

College?  Well, I quit about halfway through my math placement test at Peace College because I was bound for super remedial dumbass math regardless and there was no point in belaboring the issue.  I managed to survive Algebra, but the dude might as well have been speaking Mongolian in Trigonometry and my dad actually had to talk to the professor to let me out of the class with an Incomplete.  I took statistics in summer school to atone for my sins.  I also made sure to get the economics professor who was famously known for raising grades for no other reason than to get crying females out of his office.  I went ten kinds of tragic and got out with a B+.

Imagine my trepidation and despair when I faced tax law in law school.  Tax law was a requirement and I had to pass if I was interested in validating all of the money borrowed, time spent and blood, sweat and tears sacrificed to get a law degree.  I decided to ruin the summer between my first and second years by taking the class with the intent of focusing all of my energy on getting through to the other side.  There was much crying, wailing, gnashing of teeth and rending of garments as I studied harder than I’d ever studied before to gain at least one iota of comprehension.

Thank God for my wonderful husband who knows how my cloudy mind works and therefore undertook to explain things to me in ways that I had a better chance of understanding.  I got a B in that class and I wish that Campbell sent out actual report cards because I would have framed that sucker and hung it proudly by my law license. 

Today, the people that know and love me have precautions in place for my number oopses.  On the very rare occasion that I have to cipher in my work, my math is checked by at least two people.  Furthermore, I went to school with the manager of my bank and he thoughtfully instructed his tellers to double check anything with my account that involves a column of numbers, be it deposits or withdrawals. 

Furthermore, you probably don’t want me around your children as I make it very clear that, no, they don’t use trig or calculus in their every day adult lives.  Ability beyond addition and subtraction and the most rudimentary multiplication and division may be necessary, but it is nothing that can’t be accomplished with a calculator.  As you can imagine, I’m very popular with the younger set. 

What is my worst case scenario?  There is a Far Side cartoon that has been posted on the fridge for decades at my parents’ house titled A Math Phobic’s Worst Nightmare.  There is a picture of a gentleman arriving at the Pearly Gates.  St. Peter comes down on wings and says to him, “Okay, before we let you in, you have to answer this correctly:  A train leaves from New York at 6:54 AM driving at 200 miles per hour and a train leaves from Chicago at 2:34 AM driving at 198 miles per hour...”

The Recent, Recent Unpleasantness

I have heretofore expressed my deep disdain regarding the all too human practice of preconceived notions.  Yes, the captain of the cheerleading squad could be the biggest Star Trek nerd you’ve ever seen and the quiet boy who made a habit out of hiding in the shadows at school could turn out to be the world’s most successful stand-up comic.  You miss a lot of amazing people if you don’t take the time to find out what’s under the surface.

Of course, I could sit here and preach until my face turns blue (I’ve done it before), but even the most vigilant can get caught with their guard down.  Truth be told there are two assumption so large as to be on a national scale.  These assumptions could very well be the end of us all if they aren’t dealt with:  Not every person who lives below the Mason-Dixon Line is a redneck and not every person who lives above the Mason-Dixon Line is the love child of Tony Soprano and Pick-a-Ho from Jersey Shore.

Rednecks first?  Allrighty then:

We all know them.  Their wardrobe consists of a different shade of cammo for every occasion.  Those novelty hats with two holsters for beer cans and a straw contraption for easy access to the mouth aren’t funny—they’re a way of life.  Most of them have names derived from the “Ooter” suffix:  Cooter, Scooter, Shooter...you get the idea.  They can more than likely tell you what a possum tastes like and whether it tastes better when killed on asphalt vs. concrete.  Their houses are mobile, but their garage-mahals are not.  Their front yards are such a mass of rusted metal and weeds that just looking at it puts one in need of a Tetanus shot.  The number of hound dogs they own is roughly equivalent to the human population of a small African nation.

Get the idea?  You’ve heard the crap jokes before. 

I’m not going to sit here and tell you that we don’t have rednecks in the South.  As a matter of fact, we have quite a few “Ooters” among our populace.  If you are born and raised below the Mason-Dixon Line, there is a very strong possibility that there is more than one redneck sprouting on your family tree.  We love them as we would love our crazy Aunt Ina who sits in a duck blind in the front yard of her suburban home, shooting at squirrels. 

Yes, we all know about the carbon copy redneck character that Jeff Foxworthy idealizes in his stand-up routines.  Now, I’m going to tell you a few things you might not know about rednecks:  You will never come across someone with bigger hearts than the majority of rednecks I know.  They would give you the camouflaged shirts off of their backs, no questions asked.  They aren’t all out in the swamp marrying their cousins, either.  No, they’re not all dumb hicks by a long shot:  Some of them own million dollar corporations, hold medical degrees and law degrees—they just like to have their own special brand of fun.

I’ll tell you another little thing about rednecks that might come in handy:  In the event of an invasion or the Apocalypse, you are going to want a redneck around because they are survivors and—in spite of being the objects of other’s ridicule and disdain—their aforementioned big hearts will compel them to take you in.  Finally, those individuals above the Mason-Dixon Line who revel in casting aspersions about rednecks are missing one point that they need to think about:  The North has rednecks too, but ours are classier.

With regard to matters North, I have to admit that hearing a Yankee accent hasn’t, from time to time, been music to my ears.  Nonetheless, if Northerners can take a more cautious look at rednecks, the least I can do is return the favor.

Previously, my thinking was that if the South is so backward and deplorable, then why in the hell do all of the Yankees keep moving down here?  I mean, they practically flock in like refugees from a war zone, but the complaints—oy—they just keep pouring in. 

In the legal arena, there is a law called “Coming to the Nuisance.”  For example, zoning laws may state that a strip joint can’t open up within one mile of a home, church or daycare/school.  All well and good—Thou shalt not display bosoms for profit near impressionable adults, Jesus or children.  So let it be written, so let it be done. 

...But, if a strip joint is already open and working full steam, someone can’t come and build a house, church or daycare/school and retroactively claim the protection of the law.  In other words, a person can’t “come to the nuisance” and bitch about it.  The Yankees hath come to the nuisance. 

Okay, okay, I still believe that to some extent—I’m a work in progress.  I will say that I’ve had a lot more interaction with folks from the North with Baby Belle 1 attending St. Mary Catholic.  After getting to know some of them, I can tell you without hesitation that they are loving and devoted parents with God in their lives and good in their hearts just like us Southerners, so we can’t be that different.

Southern Belle v. Dougie Howser

Regardless of where a person is born and raised, nobody likes getting older.  Some folks go to elaborate lengths—such as fudging the numbers on birthdays—to keep the myth alive.  Some folks also take an “ostrich in the sand” route by completely ignoring anything and everything having to do with how old they are.  Birthdays?  Don’t have ‘em.

Unfortunately, Time waits for no Belle regardless of whether or not it is being studiously ignored.  Yep, even the ostrich has to pull its head out of the sand in order to read the invitation to its 20-year high school reunion.  One also must pull its head out of the sand in order to attend the graduations and weddings of the little tykes they babysat.  A friend of mine mentioned the other day that, when her former charges have babies, she actually feels a little bit like a grandmother.  Not untrue...sigh...

Yes, it’s the classic case of a youth thinking that 30 is the pit of despair/the point of no return and that 40 is positively elderly.  Great.  So what are we supposed to do when we find ourselves staring at 40? 

It’s the little things that get us.  It was a very, very dark day when I suddenly realized that I didn’t understand one single thing broadcast on MTV and that I preferred Retro VH1.  Scott got bummed when he turned 36 because that meant he was out of the 18-35 demographic targeted by media and advertisers.  (My tastes kind of run toward the quirky, so I was already used to being ignored in the popular demographic arena.) 

Rather than sit back and enjoy the ‘80’s weekends on the radio and I Love the ‘80’s I just get kind of self-conscious and bummed.

In my line of work, it actually does help me to stay tuned into what “kids are doing these days.”  Although I will probably never understand why my younger clients do what they do and think what they think, I can at least get an idea as to some of the predominant thinking at the time such as the latest trend of “murdering cars out.”  I don’t get it, but at least I know what it is.

I also don’t think I’m exaggerating when I tell you that the younger kids I work with speak a completely different language.  As I’m sure you can imagine, it helps greatly to be able to converse with a client.  It also helps when I don’t have to spend any preciously earned cool points by having to ask what in the hell “they jacked him up on the down-lo” means.

I remember when Bill Clinton first got elected and my dad was kind of taken aback by the fact that, for the first time, he was actually older than the President of the United States.  I can relate, but on a less global scale.

I think the thing that gets me most are the doctors.  I had to take Baby Belle 2 to the pediatrician and I apparently babysat the doctor that saw us.  Of course, I don’t have to know the doctor personally in order to get completely depressed.  I always get nervous when the little Doogie Howser types come into the exam room looking like they should be playing dodge ball in the high school gym rather than checking out my asthma flare-up. 

If I hadn’t had a chance to stare at all of the “Top Surgeon in the Universe” awards while waiting for my doctor, I very likely would have hauled ass out of the room when he came in looking not a day over 12 in his cute little bowtie.  (Want some lederhosen to go with that look, doc?)

Yeah, it’s scary as hell when little whippersnappers go and get medical degrees and such, but sometimes the jobs that your contemporaries fall into can be even more scary.  When it comes to your contemporaries, you know where the bodies are buried.  That guy that did the keg stand at the summer party on Masonboro Island?  Navy SEAL.  The dude that fell off of his own deck during a college party?  Nuclear Engineer.  I can’t even get into the number of cops I know from my youth—I mean, somebody actually gave them a gun? 

Get yer’ bomb shelters ready, folks.