I am a Bubba Magnet

Yes. It's true. I am a Bubba Magnet. It's a sad, scary affliction that I've had since childhood. Nowhere, it seems, am I immune from my appeal to all things Bubba.

I first noticed my affliction when I was fifteen. On summer vacations with my parents on Lake Gaston in North Carolina, the Bubbas would come out of the woodwork. The local boys thought I was right purty and it went downhill from there. When I was 17 and off to college in rural Buies Creek, NC, the Bubbas could spot me from a mile away. Most locals didn't have anything to do with the college students except lucky me. I had a sheriff's deputy take a fancy to me. So, not only did this deter any other Bubbas from bothering me (which I appreciated after my first month of continuous Bubba pursuit) it also prevented any of the nice college boys from pursuing me (which I didn't like as much.)

Now at this point, you might be asking, "what does she mean by Bubba?" Well, let me tell you.... some uses of the word Bubba are quite nice (it's what quite a few brothers are called from childhood, which I think is sweet.) However, in this context, I am referring to the Bubba Stereotype. And while I hate stereotyping, in this case, it's just and true. The Bubbas of this story are generally persons of lower economic status and limited education and/or one who is a "good ol' boy." The Bubbas from my younger days as described above weren't that bad...they were somewhat cute, but not my type at all. I was never fond of the mullet hairdo (which Bubbas seem to adore) nor of skin tight jeans and plaid flannel shirts with the armsleeves cut off. Although, to be fair, the sheriff's deputy didn't have the mullet and he was almost always in uniform. He did, however, live in a trailer with his mother.

The Bubbas of my younger years were sweet and fun to hang out with as were the Bubbas of my working years.  In my working years, I worked with lots of Bubbas (more of the country boy variety) and I thought them all very sweet and endearing. But they all asked me out constantly and I had no desire to "go to the races" or "go see Travis Tritt or Kenny Rogers" (or whoever it was.) And they were not deterred by my refusals....they kept on asking. And trying to impress me with things that just didn't impress me (no, thank you, I don't need a mounted deer for my wall.)

After getting married, I thought I was finally free of the Bubbas. And I was for a short while. That was...until our house started needing repairs. Then the Bubbas returned. Only this time they weren't so sweet. Through some sort of psychic Bubba network, they must have known of my refusal of the other Bubba's courtship offers and were out for revenge. For now, it seems, I am at the mercy of the home-repair/maintenance Bubbas. And they like it...they love the Bubba power they have over me.

They'll come into my home or stand over my car and remove their caps (Bubbas ALWAYS wear caps,) scratch their greasy hair (ugh...still in that awful mullet cut usually...) and hitch up their too often sliding down pants (they give a whole new meaning to "plumber's crack") and tell me some long story about how broken my whatever is, how hard it will be to find the parts, how hard it will be to install said parts, and how they "reckon" it'll "set me back a little." But, "because they like me" they'll knock a little off the top. All I really wanted was for them to fix the problem and fix it right, but noooooooo, that almost never happens. The Bubba wants to make sure he gets to see me again, so it's never fixed right.

For a while, I was so fed up with the Bubbas that I declared a NO BUBBA repairman policy. Only I haven't found a repairman yet who wasn't a Bubba (please email me if you have a non-Bubba repairman.) So, as my aging house needs repairs, I suppose it is my fate to remain a Bubba Magnet...sigh...