Music / Real life

I got me ten fine toes to wiggle in the sand…

If you’re an individual that wears skirts and/or gets pedicures, this post is not about you. Okay? Seriously, it’s about me, so don’t get your panties in a bunch about what I’m going to say. Not. About. You.

If your a person who swoons at the sight of unicorns, surrounds yourself with pinkness, and vibes to glitter? I make no value judgments. Not. About. You.

The title of this post may be lost on most folks under 40… under 50 even. The song is from before my time, but my father used to sing it in his workshop. If you choose to click on the video below, just know it’s two minutes and thirty-four seconds you’ll never get back, m’kay?

It’s a great “kiss my ass” song and so perky too  😉

This is the song that keeps popping into my brain when I reflect on some changes I’m making… things I’m doing a little differently these days… things like a recent pedicure. It was my first pedicure e-vah. I had been in a particularly horny mood for an extended period of time and getting pissed off about it. It was running me, for lack of a better word. I wanted to shift focus away from my tits and ass and pussy… wanted to devote full sensory attention to a part of my body that doesn’t get me off. My feet.

I invited K to get a pedicure, but she declined the offer. The girl does not like to have her feet touched. I’ve always wanted a pedicure but  never went to get one for several reasons:

  • Because I was afraid I’d like it, and then I’d want to do it again, and again, and again (heaven forbid, right?).
  • Because it seemed like a luxury and I have trouble justifying such things for myself, and..
  • Because I didn’t want to be that girl. More on this in a sec-

I haven’t worn skirts for quite awhile (until just recently) for the same reason… didn’t want to be that girl. I packed up my skirts and gave away lots of my jewelry, because… where I come from… if you have ovaries, you have two choices: you are taken seriously OR  you are that girl. There really was no middle ground.

That girl

  • gets a regular mani and pedi
  • likes pink
  • nearly always wears skirts
  • owns glitter makeup
  • is a cheerleader or a ballerina
  • swears that high heel shoes are comfortable
  • can’t open jars
  • pretends to like things she hates and to hate things she likes
  • acts offended by even the tamest pornography but has a browser history that would make a sailor blush
  • fails a few assignments so she gets a lower grade in class than her boyfriend
  • doesn’t like to get dirty
  • pretends that she never picks her nose, farts, menstruates or masturbates
  • answers to her daddy, then to her husband, and if she lives long enough? to her son
  • can survive childbirth and any form of influenza, but is perceived as the weaker sex
  • frequently says  “I could never do that”
  • can suck your cock but isn’t supposed to say“cock”

Um… get the picture??? Individually, few of these will send me into a tailspin… but collectively? Shudder.

The easiest way to avoid being that girl is to rid yourself of all the stereotypes associated with her. Now, you need not invest in a closet full of flannel shirts (though it will expedite the process, I gotta tell ya’, been there, did that) and you can keep shaving your legs if you wanna, but the sooner you distance yourself from the herd, the better. Once you’re safely away from the estrogen pool, the menfolk in your community will talk to you… listen to you… and most importantly? They’ll stop trying to mount you. Such was my experience.

Now, again, this is my experience.  My home, school, and community were ultra conservative and my marriage was oppressive. In that marriage, I was that girl a good deal of the time. I wasn’t permitted to cut my hair, for example. In my haste to shed that identity, I tried to rid myself of all things associated with that girl.

In my attempts to loosen those chains, I simply swapped them out for chains of my own creation. Chains, nonetheless.

I got to thinking about just how ridiculous I’m being. If I want to wear a skirt, that’s cool. It doesn’t mean I’m anti-feminist. I used to enjoy wearing skirts from time-to-time. They makes impromptu fucking much easier, for starters. And I always wanted to have a pedicure. J bought me a gift certificate for a pedi for Christmas once… and I did not use it. How stupid is that?  So I decided to get a fucking pedicure, that it was okay to “blow” the money, and that the most important reason for wawbat to get the pedicure is because she wants one! Now, there’s a concept.

It felt bloody fantastic.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be getting another one.

My IQ isn’t any lower following the experience.

And yes, if I so desire, I can suck it and I can say it.

I’m THAT girl

“If you don’t happen to like it, deal me out, thank you kindly, pass me by…”


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