Y’all, I just want to point out that, in the comments to my last post, Kleinheider is whining because he didn’t get a lunch invite AND YET this is the very same man who wouldn’t come out to lunch with me on my birthday.  My birthday!  The man turned me down for lunch on my very own birthday and now he wants to be included in on “Conservatives Gang Up on B. Day”?

Listen, Mister.  I don’t know how it works in paleoconservative land, but here in America, if you turn a girl down when she asks you to lunch on her birthday, of all days, after she’s gone to the trouble of putting on the good bra so that, even if you’re bored by her company, you have something entertaining to look at, you can’t expect that she’s later going to be all “Gosh, I bet Kleinheider will find this fun.  Maybe we should ask him along.”  No.  I’m sorry.  It just doesn’t work like that.

My honor has been impugned.  And, without some kind of wergeld*, there will be no lunches with me for you, young man.

Anyway, lunch was a riot, as you’d imagine and no one hit or kicked me, though the proprietor of the establishment we were eating at seemed to keep insinuating that I might make this song my theme song.

But the most fun was down to the State Library and Archives where the guard taught me that the trick to counting cards is to watch the shuffle.  Sweet Jesus, how awesome is it to just be walking around minding your own business and to have some card shark spend the hottest part of the day showing you how to make sure no one’s dealing from the bottom of the deck?




*You have to talk to paleoconservatives in terms they can understand.  I throw out these thousand year old germanic words just to make Kleinheider feel at ease here at Tiny Cat Pants.

Lunch with the Conservatives

Roger Abramson has summoned Sarcastro, me, and Coble to lunch today.

I can’t even imagine what horrors await me.  Will they make me shoot a gun?  Say grace?  Say ma’am?  And if I ain’t into that?  I dread to think.

In honor of my conservative lunchmates, I will buy gas before I go and then spend the afternoon looking at maps of Nashville from the 1950s down at the State Archives.  I will also practice clutching my pearls.  I want them to feel comfortable around me, even though I am a great big scary liberal.

I Measure Myself Against the Uncle

I think it’s safe to say that the Uncle probably has a better trained dog than I do, but I’m measuring myself against his standards for reasonable dog behavior just to see how Mrs. Wigglebottom and I stack up.

When your dog is laying in the hallway that you’re walking down, does the dog get out of your way?

If she doesn’t want to get stepped on, she does.  Granted, I have accidentally stepped on the dog a time or two in the middle of the night.  I don’t know if this is her picking weird hours to check to see if my dominance can be tested or if she’s just asleep and doesn’t notice that I don’t see her.

Has your dog snapped at you?


When you’re playing fetch in the yard and the dog comes running back at high speed causing you to think he might knock you down, do you stand your ground or get out of the way?

Mrs. Wigglebottom doesn’t understand the concept of fetch, so, I don’t know.

You’re ready to kick back for the night on your favorite spot on the couch. You get to the couch and your dog is in your spot. Do you find another spot or do you make the dog move?

The dog moves.

Has or does your dog try to hump your leg?


Can you, without physically forcing the dog, get the dog to assume a submissive position (i.e., lying on his back with his eyes averted)?

The dog does this all the time–when I’m trying to brush her or check her for ticks or when the vacuum cleaner comes on.  So, she does it.  I’m not sure I’m “getting” her to do it.

Does your dog make eye contact with you?

This is a tough one.  My dog watches my face, but I don’t think she intentionally makes eye contact with me, the more I think about it.  So, I’m going to say ‘no.’

Anyway, lots of good dog advice from the Uncle, as usual.  Check it out.

The Drain in my Tub

I know that devoting a post to the drain in my tub makes me about the nerdiest nerd you ever did read, but what can I tell you?  I have a tub; it has a drain; water finally goes down it at a reasonable speed.

I have curly hair.  When those curls lock together, they form a soft but impenetrable barrier.  Hair brushes are broken by my hair when I try to clean the tines.  And drains are severely clogged where ever I shower.

So, last week, when you got in my shower, even after yet another round of Drain-O, by the end of a reasonable shower, you’d still be standing shin deep in water, which would then still be draining after you brushed your teeth, combed your hair, got dressed, put some make-up on, and came back in the bathroom to hang your towel.

This week?

This week, the water never gets higher than the sides of my feet.  It’s drained out of the tub mere seconds after I exit the tub. And, because the recalcitrant brother recommended it, we’ve put a little wire mesh guard over the top of the drain, thus keeping most of the hair from going down the drain and making it incredibly easy to scoop it out.

The sink still runs slow, though, but I wasn’t going to let the recalcitrant brother start taking pipes apart.  He says it’s the same clog, though.  I’m no plumber, but what I imagine from how he described it, is that the pipes in my wall make a T with one arm coming from the tub and one from the sink.  The stuff from the tub and sink should hit the upright of the T and gravity should just pull it down and out of my house.

However, I have all that hair, which, the recalcitrant brother thinks, is probably sitting in a wad large enough to stop up both sides of the T.  Running the snake probably broke up some of the hair and pushed the rest up the arm of the T connected to the sink, hence his desire to get in from that end.

It’s all very interesting, though I could have been misunderstanding him.  Still, I tried to look very serious and nod and let my butt crack hang out just a little bit so that he felt like he was talking to someone else who knew exactly what he meant.


The Truth Penis

Whereas heterosexual men tend to take the truth better from their buddies than they do random women and

Whereas we heterosexual women aren’t ever going to tell you the whole truth because we’re either in your pants and don’t want you to kick us out, hoping to get in your pants, or leaving open the option that, should we end up being the last two people on Earth, you’d let us in your pants

The Recovering Baptist and I hereby propose the creation of the Truth Penis.

This would be a regular penis-shaped dildo, perhaps snazzily decorated with sequins or feathers, that a girl could keep in her purse and pull out when truth needed to be told. 

The presence of the Truth Penis would create a safe buffer of truth-telling space where we could be totally honest with each other without it affecting our ability to possibly fuck you, should the opportunity present itself.

So, say we’ve been dating and you’re giving me the old "it’s not you; it’s me" speech and I’m not buying it.  I could pull out the Truth Penis and you would then say, "You’re too fat" or "I’m in love with your brother." and I would say, "Thank you for your honesty.  I find the massive amounts of butt hair you have to be both awe-inspiring and kind of gross." or "Well, you’re too stupid for him."

I know!  It’s such a good idea, I can’t believe someone hasn’t come up with it before.  Maybe I could make and market the Truth Penises and become a millionaire…