I was out looking for my cat the other day, walking down the lane, calling out and shaking a bag of kitty treats. It was hot, and as I paused in the shade for a moment, a woman came out of her house and explained that her neighbour had once trapped one of her cats, and she’d had to go to the SPCA to retrieve it. She introduced me to two of her cats—a Maine Coon called Lobo and a ginger Manx called Havoc. Gorgeous beasts. I gave them treats. She was wearing a short blue sundress, just like I was, and I bet that, like me, she had nothing on underneath it. Her hair was a home-dye-job shade of reddish-blonde, short, and it suited her. She had four tattoos that I could see, including one of her former pet Rottweiler on her shoulder. She explained to me that she works as a longshoreman, which is roughly equivalent to being an oilrig worker or a logger, social environment-wise. Totally badass.

She was sort of the way I picture Dawn Coyote, if she lived in the real world. I love badass women. And men, too, but that’s another story.

I do the barbie doll thing alright, right up until the moment when I don’t: the clothes are too tight; the box is too small; the car is too fucking pink.

Mr. Small sounds stable, anyway, however shallow his feelings for cars. It could be worse. The frisson thing is compelling, but it has to pay off hard once in awhile, or it’ll just rub you raw.

That is some beautiful writing in your top post. Pure art. My favorite line: Virginia is burning. I can still taste the smoke.

If I was your fairy godmother, I’d find you a guy who could see you.

Here’s me, writing (poorly) on the subject of tipping: <link>