True Story











{November 16, 2010}   Roll Tide!

True Story:  I got to go to an Alabama game… Finally!

RMFT! Yes! I finally had a weekend this football season where I didn’t have any plans and was able to slip off to T-Town (Tuscaloosa, AL, Home of the Crimson Tide). The MIL came back in town after a month and wanted to have G Monkey for the weekend. I scored some tickets and headed North.

I invited my sister B to join me, since she is just an hour a way from T-Town and used to be a Roll Tider. (I think she has been slipping since she married an Aub).

So excited… I had a blast Friday night with some old friends.

It was a night game on Saturday and I wanted to see all the tailgating fun, so I had my friend drop me off on campus early Saturday afternoon. I had learned the night before that you can not park within 25 miles of campus on game day without some government issued certified top-secret parking pass.

True Side Story:  The night before, my old married/mother friend and I tried to go out on “the strip” like we were back in undergrad. At the end of the night we had to come up with some cash to get this jackass to take a boot off her car. I’ll spare you the details of my cussing him.

So, I was meeting B at a game day condo a block from the stadium where we could drop off our stuff and begin the revelry. Well, about the time I get to campus and call her, expecting to meet her in just a bit, she tells me that she hasn’t even left her house yet and doesn’t feel well.

I told her to buck up and get in the car. Now, the only problem with the extra few hours I had to mingle around campus by myself was that I was toting a large purse containing some PJs and a toothbrush (for crashing at the game day condo), my jacket (for later in the evening) and all my game paraphernalia (shakers, huggers (coozies) and such).

It just happened to be that kind of Alabama fall weather where you need 25 layers. It’s 100 degrees in the sun and 50 in the shade. So I am intermittently sweating, cussing. getting hot, switching purse shoulders and so on.

It was nice to walk around campus and pretend I knew where everything was after leaving that school 45 years ago. It was a gorgeous day and I partook in a fabulous blackened ribeye sandwich with french bread on the quad. They didn’t allow tailgating on the quad when I roamed the halls of that campus, so I was enjoying myself.

FINALLY… My sister shows up complaining of nausea resembling a stomach bug. We went to PUBLIX (They actually have one on the strip now). When I went to school there if you couldn’t live off gas station food you would have perished.

I bought her a bottle of Emetrol and told her to work through it.

I’m going to skip ahead to the game and tell you the funnies later.

True Story:  My sister is a hot mess sometimes.

Example:  1st she makes me walk around the entire stadium to get to our gate (I have already burned 10,000 calories today and pulled a muscle walking all over this campus while carrying the “throw away cooler” she insisted we buy).

We finally make it to our seats in the upper deck. We settle in, eating our raw peanuts. I get a few rooooooollllllllllllllll…. Tide Rolls out with kick-off and punts, before B decides to use her shaker (pom pom) stick to stir her LARGE cocktail…

All of the sudden, she looks up at me with panic in her eyes and says, “It’s gone”.

Me:  What’s gone? (all the while shouting Ju! Ju! Ju! for Julio Jones).

B:  My drink. It’s gone.

Me: What?!?!

I look down and about that time see vodka and sprite spreading across the backs of the people 2 rows below us. They  stand up, shake their wet clothes off and start looking around. Even I can smell the stench of vodka.

Me:  Let’s go.

I stand up and immediately bolt 7 flights up to some empty seats. Seemed like the right thing to do to me. I wasn’t going to stay there getting dirty looks with people yelling at me for the next 3.5 quarters.

B, in denial, remains frozen in her seat. She just looks around smiling like it was all going to go away. At least 6 people were soaked.

Finally, she catches my eye, and I give her the universal symbol for “what the hell are you doing? Get the EF out of there”.

She joins me and we decide we can’t sit here anymore. We might as well be Cam Newton surrounded by MS State fans at this point.

We head off to find another section. Brilliant as we are, we go down a staircase that leads us out of the stadium. Guess what???

No one will let us back in. The End.

Naaaaaa. But if B apologizes about this one more time it’s going to be “the end” for her.

So we go to Phil’s (wing joint) to see the rest of the game. Which was quite fun, as I got to see Maze run a punt return all the way to the end zone which ended up being null and void, only to see Ingram do it again right after him. Roll Tide!

At Phil’s, where getting a table during a game requires divine intervention,  we somehow score a large table with a great TV in front of us. A fun couple joins us and we have a good laugh about how “smart” our server is. Don’t worry, she is a gorgeous blond that I am sure makes a mess of money there. But she is not at Alabama on an academic scholarship I assure you.

Our nice couple leaves and “Genius” comes back over to ask us if a man and his young son can sit with us. “Of course” we say. Well apparently they changed their mind, or… Dirty old man beat them to it, because a dirty old man sat down at our table.

He has clearly drank about 64 of the Miller Lites he is swizzling at our table because immediately the BS starts flowing.

Dirty old man to me:  I tell you what now, you’re my type. ..Your partner over here (pointing at my sister) is not my type but whoo lawdy, what I would do to you.

True Side Story:  This never happens to B and I as she is clearly most men’s type: 4 years my junior, taller, thinner, blond and gorgeous.

Me:  Why am I your type? You don’t know me.

Dirty Old Man:  Your face and your crazy hair… I like it.

We spend the next few minutes trying to avoid eye contact with him and answering his questions with questions while waiting for “Smarty” to bring our bill.

I decide that I can’t wait any longer and stand up, to which “Dirty Old Man” replies, “Ooh, and I like your boobs too”.

Me:  And on that note, we are leaving. Good Luck Buddy.

I tell B on the way out, “If that’s what it’s like to go out single, I’ll be wearing my wedding ring every where I go”.

True Story:  Tuscaloosa funnies:

“War Cam Eagle”!

“Bo knows Banking”

Bo knows Cheating”  This after both alleged college football cheaters, Cam Newton and Bo Jackson, hug on the sidelines of Auburn.

The ROAR of the tailgating crowd on the campus quad when Georgia, who is playing Auburn earlier in the day, scores.

My sister’s cell phone is a little flip phone from 1998. When she gets up from her bar stool to go to the bathroom, our friend says, “please take your phone with you. We don’t want anyone to think it’s ours”.

Standing in line at a store for a red bull at 4 in the afternoon, a young frat pledge behind me says he just woke up. “Don’t worry”, he says, “I’ll make it to the game”.

Discussing with our friends the many ways we tried to sneak alcohol in the stadium as undergrads, our male friend tells us how they used to rig up a douchebag with a straw to hide under their clothes. Which leads to a hilarious conversation about douchebags and whether anyone uses them anymore.

True Story:  Douchebag is one of the only words in the English language that needs no other explanation when using it to describe a human being.

Example:  He’s a douchebag.

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{November 7, 2010}   Single Life

True Story:  It’s like learning to walk again.

Lessons so far:

1) You can’t cook like you used to. If you try to your freezer will be crammed full of spaghetti sauce, chili, taco meat… Wow, I need to eat better.

2) You lose weight. Who’s going to make a big fat dinner for themselves? A handful of turkey pepperoni ought to do it.

3) You do everything yourself:  Take out the garbage, pay the bills, clean the house, put washer fluid in your car, attempt to drain the pool, check the pot plants… Wait a minute… I did all that before.

4) You can watch WHATEVER you want to on TV. You don’t have to constantly listen to Sportscenter or sporting event commentating in the back ground all day/night.

5) The bathroom is available and doesn’t require a gas mask.

6) You re-discover heels, and think twice about not brushing your hair and putting on make-up for that quick errand, which turned into stopping by the office, several more errands, then drinks with friends, all the while apologizing to everyone you see that you look the way you do.

Mom, close your eyes.

True Story:  I have really done that.

6) Put the thermostat where you want it, always have hot water, spread out all over the bed… The list goes on and on.

This is starting to sound pretty good, right?

Well, before you head to your attorney’s office, let me say… All of this can be accomplished as well, with one good weekend home alone. No need to go breaking up the family now.

I don’t think I need to mention the downfalls  of the newly single life. I mean we’ve all been single before right?

True Story:  Some of you hotties may have to think back to the 6th grade before you got your first boyfriend.



{November 2, 2010}   Me and My friend, My GYN

True Story:  We go way back.

For some reason my male GYN is the only doctor that operates on me. Not sure why all my “problems” are in his jurisdiction. All I know is he and I have no secrets anymore and here’s why…

Yesterday, he had to have 2 nurses hold my, for lack of a better word, butt cheeks apart, while he cut and stitched. (No worries, just some benign something or other to be removed.)

True Story:  The “non” surgical nurse had to leave the room twice due to feeling faint.

I tried not to take it personally, but it was hard not to as I was face down and ass up.

I might have cared more if this man hadn’t already performed many pap smears, breast exams, and other investigations on me, as well as, cut my baby out of me. 

I did still care enough to go ahead and take the pain medicine before hand, not so much to block pain, but to soften embarrassment.

You see I opted for a cheaper, in-office version of this surgery, since the hospital wanted to charge me $14,000 to cut a piece of skin off.  

Health care reform??? What health care reform? We’re fine. That seems like a perfectly logical price for skin removal to me.

True Story:  If  I don’t post too much this week, please forgive… I have ass stitches.



et cetera