Jim Bob Cooter

Nashville Knucklehead just sent me an email* alerting me to the existence of one Jim Bob Cooter, a football player for Tennessee.

I think it goes without saying that Jim Bob Cooter is now the official football player of Tiny Cat Pants.

Thanks, Knucklehead!

* Okay, honestly, he could have sent this email one million hours ago, for all I’ve been able to get Yahoo to work this weekend. But that’s not important. The important thing is that I have the email now.

Hurray for Not Making Too Big an Ass of Myself while Drunken Blogging!

Before we start, I should just go ahead and admit that I let the dog eat a bunch of spicy queso even though I could see it turning her nose pink and she did that thing when she curled her lips back like it was too hot but she kept licking it anyway, even though I know it means she’s going to drool all over me in about five minutes, because I am a bad dog owner.

So, yes, heh, let’s return to last night’s post of drunken love.

I’d like to say that being around me when I’m drunk is much different, but, except that it lacks my usual trying to get everyone in the back seat of some car to grope me only to discover that, instead of having the hands of three different people rubbing all up on me, I just continually am forcing the Professor to feel me up, what you saw from last night is pretty much how it is (oh, and I didn’t pass out in a ditch someplace).

I get drunk and love everyone.

Anyway, thanks to John H., though he doesn’t know it, I got hooked up with this theater-y person who wants me to help put together this summer program for girls. Last night was a get-together of some of the women involved and we sat around and bonded and brainstormed and watched the performance the girls gave at the end of the program last year.

It was really amazing. I’m going to work on putting together a website on the deal, because I don’t really feel like I can talk about it coherently other than to say “wow” and that I’m really glad and inspired to be a part of it.

I’ll tell you more about it as it progresses, even though it probably means dropping the anonymity a little more than I’m currently comfortable with. (Though, shoot, if Sarcastro’s going to go around telling everyone how to stalk me, I guess it doesn’t matter if you know my name or not.) And, Christ, I tell you guys about my cooter and my boob freckle. I guess if a day comes when you know my name and face, it won’t be the end of the world.

It just won’t be today.

Anyway, I do love you all. I’m just embarrassed you had to find out like this.

Hurray, Drunken Blogging!

Too much wine. But it’s okay, I’m delighted for the first time in ages* because I’ve been so down for so long. You know, when most people drunk blog, they seem more coherent. Not me. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.

Ladies, let me lay one on you. Are you ready?

“I’m glad to be a woman.”

Have you ever said this to yourself?

I’m glad to be a woman.

Frankly, I have not. I’ve been proud to be a woman. For sure or I wouldn’t be a feminist. But glad?

Not “I’m glad I’m not a man.” That’s something entirely different, involving a different kind of post.

But “I’m glad to be a woman.”

That blows my mind. I want to talk about what that might mean, but I’m not even sure.

Have I ever been glad to have this body?

I don’t know.

Probably not glad enough.

But y’all get that, right? That all the talk about my slick warm inviting cooter and my round soft tits topped off by the elusive, yet alluring, boob freckle are not some way of seducing you so much as trying to come up with a way for me to talk about myself that loves me?

No, probably you don’t get that.

That’s okay.

I love you anyway. I love me anyway.

I’m glad to be a woman, anyway, even if you think “slick warm inviting cooter” and ” round soft tits” are for you and not for me.

What do I care? You always misread me. But your sweet kisses, your awkward grins, your shaking hands (what? you think I didn’t see that? I did.) when you’re sitting next to me, it makes your inability to see me for who I am and love me anyway okay.

I delight in you. I delight in you when you delight in me and when you’re put out with me–“Am I in trouble for taking sides?”–and when you think you can do better than me–“I could be with any woman (prettier, smarter, taller, whatever)”–and when you’re afraid that you can’t–“But you’re not like other girls. It doesn’t matter what you want.” I find you delightful anyway.

And I wish you read more Whitman, who loves himself and loves men. And maybe he could reassure you in a way that I can’t that you’re so beautiful and worth loving and worth being good to and worth being good for. You. You should be good because you deserve it.

I’m sorry I don’t know how to convince you of that. But, if I could sit near you and give you soft kisses on your scruffy faces and my lips against your lips until you knew your inherent worth, I would. And not just because it would be fun for me.

Y’all are worth it. Even though you so clearly hate yourselves. Even though you think feminists hate men. Even though you’ve not even heard “hate men” until you’ve been standing by the kitchen door in a house full of anti-feminist women, listening when they think you aren’t. Even though your hating yourself leads to you eviscerating me and my kind, I love you anyway.

I guess that’s why you still read. I guess you know that, that I love you.

Tonight, I sat around a table with three other women and we talked about how to take a handful of girls at an age when I was sitting in a bedroom with the music up loud to drown out my screams slicing a blade against my wrists and then when that failed to do the job, taking hands full of pills only to live and find myself moving to a worse hell than that**, finding a handful of those girls and teaching them that they are sacred and worth being here.

Maybe we are lone individuals at the whim of the free market, but I’d rather not think so.

I’d rather count on you and have you count on me.

I’m dog-loyal to the people I love. Come take from me what you need and I’ll gladly open my house and self to it.

I’d rather live that way than be isolated. Isolation has no mercy.

Y’all, tonight I watched six girls young enough to be my kids dancing around a stage and it made my soul ache. It made me feel brave enough to have girls. It made me feel an obligation to nurture children.

Which made me laugh at the anti-abortionists, who think that they have to cut off all access to abortions to keep women having children. Little do they know that seeing girls thrive can make you want to have thriving children.

So, yes, I’ll sober up and tell you what I’m up to. And some of you will roll your eyes and scoff. But some of you will say, “Hmm, ‘I’m proud to be a woman.’ That sounds like a cool end result of anything.”

*Not counting when the Wayward Boy Scout tries to throw my own words in my face, which delights me on principle, no matter how depressed I am. He’s so clever. Did I tell you that only the Wayward Boy Scout keeps it from being the Gay and Libertarian list–the list of men who will never fuck me–not that I expect him to; I just keep the list limited to gay men and Sarcastro based on my delight at the Wayward Boy Scout continually delighting me with his delightfully misguided ways. Or maybe ? I think there needs to be a ? in there. Anyway, I’m glad to have met him once.
**I guess I’ve never told anyone that before. Surprise. Sorry.