Did you just call me a STRONG Woman?

I write this on behalf of all the "strong women" .

The ones who speak their mind, maintain a sense of self.....and crush beer cans on their heads.

The other day my friend ("Miss Doilies for Bra Cups", we'll call her) says to me...

(insert demure southern purring here)...

"Murphy, darlin'. You are never going to get a man if you do not....tone it down".

Confused. I scratched my crotch....er...head, kicked my muddy hooker boots up on the table, lit a camel filter and demanded to know her meaning.

"Men do not like strong women", she cooed.

I batted away the birds and squirrels circling her and the one chipmunk who was finding burrow in my hoochie skirt.

"Oh, for their little peter's sake! That's ridiculous", I spat. Delicately.

There was a time I followed in the peach cobbled footsteps of my foremothers.

I purred, cooed and batted eyelashes.

Like warm cool-whip, I dolloped myself into men's laps.

I fainted at the sight of spiders. Asked for help opening jars.

And never, ever got "on top".

But. I was told I was too easy. Too "sweet".

And, in return, was oft treated like the pie of the day.

So, I got some self-worth. Some dignity. Kept my pie to myself.

Started drinking my iced tea straight (no sugar. Just Jack Daniels, please).

Like Sherman barreling across Atlanta, I pillaged, I plundered, I stole the good silver....I took no prisoners!

But, the men didn't surrender...instead ran screaming for the hills...

Or shot themselves on the spot.

Come on now.

I am a warm, funny, fabulously uncouth woman.

I won't chastise you for belching. But, all of my sweet nothings may include the f-word.
I am strong. I am proud. I can help myself.

I can kill my own spiders, damnit. With one hand!

All while "helping you out" (ahem) with the other.

I have worked hard to become who I am. Sweat out a lot of rose petals.

According to Miss Doilies, I may die alone.

Well. Please just enscribe my tombstone:

Too strong for a man. But. Made like a woman.

xo M