"Almost twenty-six, Belle," my cousin intoned, downing the last of his Busch beer. He looked out over the stone terrace, to the hills of Vestavia and let out a long, hollow belch. "When are you gonna pop out a few babies for the family to enjoy?"
Back down South for a long weekend... I've crossed the Mason-Dixon and, once again, been relegated to the status of a walking uterus.
Back to the Big Apple on Tuesday...
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
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