yesterday might have reaffirmed to me why Southerners get such a bad wrap at times. I’m here to tell you every single slack-jawed redneck was at the Bay Minette Judge of Probate offices yesterday. A balding older man who looked to be about 34 months pregnant with overalls, sandals with socks and one of these babies:
I was impressed… he did seem to have most of his teeth.
We waited well over 20 minutes for a couple to finish getting their marriage license before us. e joked it looked like someone lost a bet and this was the result. The next couple? The guy was pretty darn banged up… I’m wondering if his lady friend co-erced him into it? NEITHER couple looked happy. Like… at ALL.
Then the girl that did our paperwork? Let’s just say she admitted the office kept a pool on how long before she married again. And that she told her momma her goal was 5 marriages and divorces before age 40. She seemed to be joking… well, sorta.
About then I started having an intense longing for a very large ice cold martini. Just saying…
As we completed paperwork the subjects ranged from Botox injections for eye twitching (mine was on triple overload at this point) and tattoo coverups.
I actually enjoy hearing people’s stories about their tattoos (when they have them… Jenn still disappointed me 😉 ) but by the time this girl was finished… well, I think I might not ask for a while. A very long while.
Rooster Fish. She has a story about a Rooster Fish tattoo on her hand. About 45 seconds into it I’m afraid I’m going to fall out laughing remembering one of my favorite funny blog posts EVER.
Fate sealed it when flipping channels last night e hits a commercial for fishing. Fishing for Rooster Fish. THAT’S IT.
e, baby, I’m here to tell you… the only appropriate first anniversary gift for us at this point is a large metal rooster. Nothing else will do.
PS Yes, we managed to get the marriage license along with strict instructions (even highlighted!) that only a black pen will do for the preacher to complete the form. Er… okay, then.