The official biography that KSEA sends out reads:
Georgia Fulton, popular host of Seattle Girl, says she got into talk radio because, “I have a really big mouth and I could never find any other job where my boss appreciated that skill.”
But while I’ll admit that I rarely do shut up and that I can’t keep an opinion to myself even if it’s gonna get me lynched, the simple truth is that I got started in talk radio because of a guy.
Six guys to be precise.
(Hey! Watch who you’re calling a slut. It’s not like that, I swear. Well, mostly not like that, anyway.)
And if I ever get the chance to write my biography, it’ll read more like this…
* * *
When I was a little girl my mother told me repeatedly, “Georgia, boys don’t like girls who talk too much.”
I think she got her greatest pleasure from making proclamations like this during breakfast. Really, who wouldn’t?
Later, when I was living at home one summer in college, she announced, “Georgia, boys don’t pay for the cow when they are getting the milk for free.”
So much for the great strides of feminism.
And that was when I figured out that it’s not the establishment holding us down.
It’s not the Man holding us back.
It’s the Mom.
But after giving it some more thought, I can see that since my mother endured twenty hours of excruciating labor to push me out into the world, suffering the indignity of a ripped hoo-ha while she was at it, she very well might feel that giving me such charming motherly advice is only her due.
And that I should listen to it.
Thanks Mom, I’ll be sure to file that beefy black and white farm animal tip away. Pass the Fruit Loops, would you?
I don’t mean to give you the wrong impression. It’s not that my childhood was particularly bad. My parents certainly didn’t beat me or anything. We were comfortably middle-class in a nice suburban neighborhood and there was always enough food on the table and a trip to Disneyland every summer.
My childhood was sort of weird, that’s all.
Like we lived just down the block from normal.
To be fair, though, I think I’ve always been a bit of a freak. Take my brother, for instance. Same parents, yet John is a perfectly normal high paid executive, white picket fence in the suburbs, great wife, two kids, and golden retriever kind of guy.
But me, I’m a whole different ball game. And the fact is that no matter what anyone ever said to try to get me to quiet down or button up—and kids and teachers and parents said a whole lot of stuff, like “Shut up,” and “Don’t be so loud all the time,” and “How many times do I need to tell you to settle down young lady?”—I was never the kind of girl who came in a neat little package.
You remember those neat, little, perfect girls from high school, don’t you?
No? You’ve spent thousands of dollars in therapy to block out the pain of your blissful school years? Lucky you. Well, I’m happy to refresh your memory.
They had perfect little bodies, they wore perfect little T-shirts tucked into perfect little jeans, and they walked around in perfectly white tennis shoes.
I was never one of those girls. Thank God.
Okay. Settle down, you. I can hear you giving me shit already. And yes, maybe I did envy them some, but I’d like to think that I’m the one that’s happier now.
I love, love, love bumping into fellow ex-geeks from high school so that we can trash on all of the Barbie cheerleaders from our past. So we can say things like, “Oh my god, have you seen Susan from high school lately? You’d die if you saw her—she’s really fat now and has three snotty kids!”
I like to think that girls like me are having the last laugh and that God’s big joke is that pretty girls from high school get uglier and fatter as the years go by, while the rest of us get infinitely more gorgeous.
Oh, who am I kidding? Certainly not you. You can see right through me.
We all know that I would have given my left arm to be one of those perfect girls.
Or even to have let one of them cheat off my math test from time to time.
But I ask you this: Who wouldn’t have wanted to be blonde and blue eyed and thin and cute and giggly, given that originality and uniqueness are completely over-rated from ages five to eighteen?
And for those of you who were perfect, I’m dying to know, was it as good as it seemed? And are you fat and ugly now with a bunch of brats driving you crazy? I sure hope so…
Just kidding. I’m happy for you, really I am.
Excerpt from Seattle Girl, copyright 2013, Lucy Kevin