KENSINGTON BOOKS

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

       For my family.

       No one could ask for more

       humor, love and understanding.

      Contents

       Acknowledgments

       Author’s Note

       Richmond, Tee-tee, and a Can of Lysol and Hollywood

       Atlanta and the Dumpster

       Hollywood and the Mee-Maw Panties

       Erma Bombeck Country

       Four Teats to the Wind

       Not Junior League Material

       A DWI on Horseback and a Showdown with a Snapping Turtle

       Give Me a Tag and I’ll Give You My Uterus

       Hooking Up With David Sedaris

       Fishing for a Date

       Ode to Bald Men, Precious Thangs

       If It’s Not in His Kiss, Could It Be in His Boxers?

       My Eggs Are in Wheelchairs

       You Can’t Clone Decency

       When the Bough Breaks

       The Cradle Will Fall

       A Symphony of Seasons

       I’ll Love You Forever

       Whatever God Sends

       Rediscovering My Father’s Love

       Wings and Ass Bangs

       Would You Like a Waffle with Those Shoes, Ma’am?

       Sister Sandy and the Family Jewels

       In My Sister’s Former Life—Where the Living Is Easy

       The Nuttiest Preschool Teacher in the World

       They Call Him Flipper, She Calls Him Hubby

       Forget Muskrat Love

       Doggy Liposuction and Humpathons

       Ten Toddlers and Girls Gone Wild

       Parenting Tips You Must Never Tell the Pediatrician!

       The South Be-Otch Exercise Plan

       Hair It Is

       The Gambrells in Europe: A Four-Act Comedy

       Career Day Including a Skull in a Stomach

       For Sale on eBay: My Husband

       Acknowledgments

      Nothing would be possible without the help and love of friends and family, as well as my talented agent, Ethan Ellen-berg, and the fantastic staff at Kensington.

      I’d also like to thank all the writers who supported my work, generously offering to read the manuscript, as well as friends and family who served as early readers.

      Special thanks to the Read It or Not: Here We Come Book Club, and all the humor the women in the club provide.

      As always, my beloved children bring me the gifts of love, expansion of heart, world, and mind. Nothing is possible without them.

       Author’s Note

      For the record, I once loved a Bubba. A man whose real name I don’t know to this day. He was charming, handsome, funny, and had great teeth and a laugh that still rings in my ears and heart. He did not fit the stereotypical Southern-boy Bubba who awakens drunk, terrorizes cats, gets mean on liquor, chews, 4ts, totes a gun and drives a Ford F-150.

      Well, he did have a truck. But that’s about all.

      When I say, “Don’t sleep with a Bubba.” I’m referring to men who are bumpkins with bad attitudes. It’s nothing against the name, which Mama says is a nickname for “brother.”

      But we all know that Bubbas, while they can fix things and drink a case of rotgut beer without throwing up, just aren’t…well…marriage material.

      And if you sleep with one, and he’s good (if sober, chances are he will be), you may get all mixed up emotionally, as women are prone to do, and actually think you love him and end up marrying him.

      As for all of you who’ve married Bubbas and are happy, I’m delighted.

      Maybe if my own Bubba hadn’t dumped me after the first date, the book would have a different title. Then again, maybe not.

      In the words of my wise neighbor, who’s African American and a doctor at the Veteran’s Administration Medical Center, “Bubbas need love, too.”

       Richmond, Tee-tee, and a Can of Lysol and Hollywood

       V irginia is for Lovers…and fools like me.

      My very first national book came out a couple of springs back, and I was to fly to Richmond, Virginia, to promote it, staying at the ultrafancy Jefferson Hotel, a five-star place nothing like the Econo Lodges I have always found pleasant enough or the Motel 6 where I’m almost certain my son was conceived, bless his heart.

      Days prior to my departure, I read up on how to give the perfect book signing. When you’re new at this type of thing, you want to make sure everything’s perfect. This is your chance, your one shot at the big leagues, and if the author of How to Climb the Bestseller Ladder: The Secret Is Grooming and Hygiene tells you to chew 60 Tic Tacs before opening your mouth, well then, you’d better damn well do it. If they say body odor will send potential customers flying out the doors, then, by God, you wear out a stick of Secret Solid. Whatever you do, the author warns in giant letters: DON’T BURP OR FART. Well, okay, she says, “DON’T ALLOW BODILY EMISSIONS TO HAVE FREE REIN.”

      I had a friend who swears on a stack of Bibles she was at her favorite author’s signing and the writer continued, quite unabashedly, to fart herself into a cloud of sulfur, sending customers fleeing for the door.

      For this first book-signing adventure, I packed two sticks of deodorant, half a dozen boxes of Altoids, those “curiously” strong mints that could kill small animals, and lots of perfumes and lotions. I was going to smell so good, for heaven’s sake, that everyone would want my book.

      First, though, I had to prepare mentally, remembering the few grouchy-faced people during my public talks over the years, to discuss life as a columnist. I also knew that a tour in various cities, which included air travel or being in the car with Mama, would require medication or else…Well, it’d be ER time. I would hit the floor, crack open my skull and never again write another book.

      I rushed to the doctor, in need of something to calm my nerves. “They can be so mean, a few of them,” I explained as I beseeched the old doc wearing his white coat and stern expression. “The rest are wonderful. You know how it is giving speeches. You try to pretend they’re naked and then you wonder how big their willies are and all of a sudden you’re getting hot in the face and the old heart does the long jump from its anchored position and death is imminent. It’s not