she-man

"I think you have more testosterone than the rest of us" is not something you want to hear amongst a group of 10 girls. Especially at a bachelorette party. Granted it wasn't an orthodox party since we spent part of the weekend out at my boss's river house (again, my job is better than yours). But since I was on my knees on a pebble beach by the river using a wooden oar to dig an ATV out of a hole, I didn't have much room to argue.

(I got it stuck, ok? And no, I didn't know that 4-wheel drive existed. Back off.)

I don't need to be a girly girl, persay, but good lord, I don't ever want to be singled out as the 1 in 10 who may or may not be tucking in her junk. I'll admit, I have some man-habits. I spit. I skip rocks. I take shots with no chaser. I burp out loud, sometimes with a rumble, always into the phone if possible. I talk about dijar and forget to cross my legs and just a few days ago played a game with Brian that involved throwing screwdrivers into the lawn. 

I think my only saving grace is nail polish and an addiction to crafts. But then again, it's one thing to take an interest in "girl things" (i.e. I like to spend ridiculous amounts of time in Target...girl thing.) and another thing to be capable of "boy things" (i.e. digging an ATV out of a ditch...boy thing). Sure you want to be able to hold your own, but I'd prefer to be a sleeper tomboy than the obvious culprit of, say, leaving the toilet seat up.

So last night I put myself to the ultimate test: edging the lawn. 

Please behold, a sample patch. 

(look closely)

                                             ⇓

Call me Edward Scissorhands but bitches I've got estrogen!