Courtesy of my cousin in Birmingham, Alabama...
A girl from the South and a girl from the West coast were seated side by side on an airplane. The girl from the South, being friendly and all, said, "So, where y'all from?"
The West coast girl said, "From a place where they know better than to use a preposition at the end of a sentence."
The girl from the South replied: "So, where y'all from, bitch?"
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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