Together Time

–The Butcher is staying home this evening, as is his right, but we’ve been spending so much time together lately that it means I can’t scratch where and when I need to.  I guess he makes up for it by being funny.  Let’s see.  I’ll ask him a question, perhaps, "Will you say something funny for the folks who read Tiny Cat Pants?" and he’ll say something like "It’s all about tits and asses here at the Hooters’ competition."  No, wait, let me ask.  He says, "It’s got to come from the heart.  I can’t just be put on the spot.  I’m not the clown put here for their amusement, to make them laugh.  No, tell them that I’m just busting their balls.  Throwing a little ‘Goodfellas’ in there for my hardcore fans."

–My cousin A., who got married last year, called me last night.  They got a dog right after their wedding, a little nine pound chocolate lab.  Charlie is now 80 pounds of dog.  She called to commiserate and, while she was on the phone with me, Charlie ate her favorite shoes.

–So, I had lunch with Smiley and RUABelle and it was great.  She’s so nice and she didn’t point out any of my weird shortcomings.

–I do have a weird problem.  I think I got sunburned on my head and now I have these great big flakes flaking off my head.  And I mean big.  This could be why Smiley and RUABelle didn’t seem bothered by them.  Perhaps they thought I was wearing a lacy head scarf.

–No one from the car repair place ever called me back about my car.  I’m a little distressed. I really want my car back.

–Barry Zito is kind of handsome, but I’d do shots with Scott Kasmir.

Welcome to rural life, Peg!

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Isn’t This Just How Menage a Troises Start?

I’m having lunch with Smiley and the famous RUABelle today.  I’m nervous as hell and so I’m worried that I’m going to do something utterly idiotic like make a total stranger a napkin model of my cooter or accidentally invite them into some kind of threesome thinking that I’ve just invited them for a round of golf or some other thing that will cause me to come back to my office afterwards and die of mortification.


Don’t get me wrong, from the outside, I can see that it would be good fun to hang out with me.  If there’s fun and ridiculous trouble to get up to, I’m usually game for getting up to it.  If folks need to see my boob freckle, I’m not shy about pointing it out.


But, deep inside, way down, is the voice of my dear mother, who is just aghast and reduced to saying nothing but, “B.?!  Have you lost your mind?”


And I’ve got no answer for her.  I mean, yes, I guess so.  I get nervous and I just lose my damn mind.

For You, Dear Wayward Boy Scout

Keeping in mind that I am just a girl, and so not nearly as smart as men, due to a plethora of socio-historical and biological determinants which undermine my every attempt to position myself as a Subject, and keeping in mind Descartes statement–Cogito ergo sum*–which suggests that, because I don’t think as well as a bepenised man** I don’t exist as fully, I still posit that, in most cases, a bad cookie is still better than no cookie at all.  As hard as this may be to accept, women have traditionally been in charge of the day to day baking tasks around the house and such a belief in cookie-having supremacy is readily observable in many boy children.  Therefore, I suggest, in due deference to your big brain and your penis of wisdom and authority, that you can feel safe in accepting said axiom as true.


*Of course, one must also take into consideration that Descartes was following in the footsteps of Augustine of Hippo and not an original thinker in and of himself.


**Using the qualifier “bepenised” because I wish to use man in the general, ancient sense of the word, to mean all of humanity.


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See, that’s just not that fun for me.  Coming up with the phrase “penis of wisdom and authority” was kind of a hoot, but everything else?  Not so great.  I think we’re just going to have to keep things how they are now, where I say shit and you charm me with your misguided efforts to prove me a hypocrite.