Coyote Ugly

Luckily, I am worn out.  So, rather than spend the whole day fuming that my car is looking more like an entrant in a demolition derby than the car I know and love, I spent it watching the Coyote Ugly show on CMT with the Professor.

I spent a lot of time just staring at my television in confusion.  But finally, about half way through the second hour, I realized what bugged me.

I really don’t give a shit if women want to stand on a bar and flaunt their tits and shake their asses to make some money.  It’s not going to win any of them Feminist of the Year, but, if that’s your thing, who gives a fuck?

No, what bothers me about Coyote Ugly is that everyone on the show seems to just unquestioningly believe that this is a job women should aspire to.  Not just a job that a woman might get because it pays the bills and is somewhat amusing, but a job women should want so much that they’re willing to compete for it like it really matters.

I just find this ludicrous.

The job is to be an entertaining bartender.  Fine, that’s a cool gig if you can get it.  But it’s not something worth aspiring to.  And yet, the whole premise of the show is that it is.  That just blows my mind.

Don’t Ask Why

How much do you think it’s going to cost to replace my car door?  Is there a website where I can look shit like that up?

Awesome Things We Ate

“Healthy” jelly beans at the marathon.  Wow.  They were very good.  They were from Jelly Belly.

Onion rings from South Street.  Also very good.  Though, in all fairness, it’s hard to fuck up onion rings.  And our waiter was nice and funny.

Brisket at Judge Bean’s.  Good god damn, that was yummy.

French toast at the Hermitage Cafe.  The french toast is made from just plain old white bread and sprinkled with cinnamon.  It is my favorite food in all of Nashville, and I love me some chicken fried steak, so that’s saying something.

Pie for breakfast dessert.  Who knew you could even have breakfast dessert?  But at the Hermitage Cafe, you can have breakfast dessert and no one thinks that’s weird.

My Hair Smells Like Brisket

Y’all, here’s what I realized tonight.  First, I am cute.  So, fuck y’all if you don’t want me.  I am cute and I am nice and I am smart and what I’ve got going for me over all your overly made up thin beautiful put together women is that I’m alive.  I mean it, really alive.  And I don’t take an hour and a half in the bathroom in the morning.

Any of you motherfuckers would be lucky to have me.  If you don’t know that, fuck you.  I’m fun.  I have a good time whatever I’m doing and I’m loyal like a dog and I’m wicked and smart.  And my hair smells like brisket.  Which smells damn good.  You’re lucky to know me.  You’d better start acting like it.

Sarcastro, stop your stupid fucking boycott, right this minute.  Yes, you’re a fucking oaf, so what?  There truly is a middle ground between ‘I’ll say whatever mean ass thing I can think of’ and ‘I’ll treat B. like a porcelain doll.’  Find it and stick to it.  If you want to pamper me in some way, come over and rub my feet.  Otherwise, just be nice to me.  Like medium-gentle.

Knucklehead, I want some god damned poetry in my comments every once in a while, again.   You used to write me poems all the time and now?  I’ve got no poetry in my comments.

Lee, continue to crack me up with off the wall comments about when you wear mascara.  I suspect that you’re going to surprise me.  I don’t know how, but I’ve got my eye on you.

Boy Scout, keep on keeping on.

Bridgett, you are the smartest person I know.  That’s not an order, but only because I can’t think of what to order you around about.

Peg, keep the beer cold for me.

Ceeelcee, I’m ready for you to be home.

Amanda, get a god damned blog already.  You’re cheating us.

Here’s the thing.  I went to appetisers and dinner with the Shill and her awesome friend and the Professor and Tiny the Wonder Fetus and god damn.  It was so awesome.  We talked about cooters and blow jobs and men who make sure that you come first and what the definition of “multiple” orgasms is and who has a surprisingly narrow penis and whether or not you can cure lonely.  And I realized that I’m damn lucky too.  I know such awesome people who churn up my soul and plant tiny seeds there and nurture the things that I find precious.

I love you guys.  I love beer, too.  But you knew that.

My point is… I don’t have a point.  I just mean to say that I am one lucky girl to have friends who are so smart and funny and thoughtful and I am always grateful, always, to know you.

Some of you don’t appreciate that, but that’s because you’re big old cowards.   Fine, I’m a coward, too.  But let’s be up-front about what’s going on.

Only not right now, because right now I’m going to bed.  We can sort through this stuff in the morning.