Friday was International Women’s Day and I feel just dreadful, Pumpkins, about not having marked the occasion with my scent. I was caught off guard with news of 4 TICO offenders (Everyone really has to stop offending TICO. It’s not nice.) and the end of some kind of sandal emergency.
As you can see, the day was loaded -- what’s worse, it was Friday and I was not.
In retrospect, I probably should have just marked the day the way men do - by peeing on my lawn. (I don’t mean to say men come here to mark their territory - although there was one very possessive chap who thought it would thwart the wildlife. Never mind.) So yesterday I poured some vodka on the snow bank. (Thankfully, dear Armando was there to pick me back up and refill my glass.)
A special day for women does raise the prickly little question of whether we are now good enough, dahrlings. (Not to actually run an airline – you definitely need shatter proof balls for that.) And I’d say that yes, we have come a long way from letting our breasts dangle in the wind in the ‘60s. We now bind them back up with all manner of frilly squish-up padding and trussed up corsets. We spanx our bums and bellies and thighs. Some days I feel like a sausage casing on heels.
A little regression is probably good for the soul, dahrlings. Otherwise we might get too big for our bitches.*
*Open Jaw bears no responsibility for the misspelling of the word 'britches'.
