Dear Mrsatroxi,

Odd things about me would take forever.

But here’s one for you!

My feet are shrinking.

Yup, really.

I used to wear a full size ten. And everything I had ever hear said your feet never really stop growing. And I was all, “Gah!” Because, I love shoes. And size ten is bad enough, but to never stop growing? By the time I’m 40 I’ll be wearing bedroom slippers with the toes cut out!

But then, last year, I noticed that all my shoes were really loose. So the next time I bought shoes, I tried on a 9 and a 1/2. And it fit! Holy cow! Which was fun and also exciting. (What can I say, I live a very full life.)

But now it’s starting to get a little scary. (Cue spooky music.) Because they don’t seem to have stopped yet. I’m down to just about a size 9. Gah? What does one do about amazing shrinking feet, anyway?

Do you think I should run away and join the circus?

Children.

I don’t have children. Human children. I know anything I say is just so much noise shouted down from my ivory tower, but I can see and hear things from up here. And there is something I am encountering over and over again that frankly ticks me off.

That something is this:

“Girls are terrible!” “Boys are so much easier to raise!” “Girls are so much trouble!” Etc., etc., etc., many phrasings to that effect.

All right.

I don’t have a little girl. But I once was one. And you know what? I have one thing to say to you people, you parents.

Shut up.

Yes, girls probably are harder to raise. Hmm, I wonder why. Let’s see, from the very start of our fragile life we have to contend with male prejudice (I wanted a son!), we have to deal with major hormonal changes in our tiny bodies, then we have our bodies turn against us and sprout hair and breasts and we start bleeding from down there, little boys make obscene gestures and dirty remarks about that double-crossing body, we have the constant fear our entire life of rape and weight gain and spots on the back of our pants. If we are pretty, we have the treachery of our own jealous kind ripping us to shreds along with men who say they love us then dump us for the next prettier girl, and if we are ugly we are patronized and told to “develop our personality”. If we try to overcome all of this and become strong, we are called ice queens, frigid, or a bitch. And then, then, we have the ultimate betrayal of our parents, the people who are supposed to love and cherish and comfort us above all others on this earth, these people then say, right in front of us, that we are terrible and that our brother is so sweet and easy. Don’t you think you’d be a little moody at times too?! (Pant, pant.)

Oh, and as for those easy to raise little boys?

I’m sure Mrs. Dahmer and Mrs. Ridgeway and Mrs. Bundy all raved about their nice carefree little males at some point too.

I love cars.

I always have.

The reason for that love has a lot to do with my father.

You see, I was a Daddy’s girl growing up. I was his little stick-tight. Anything he did, I was right there, sticking my nose in and usually getting my head bashed by an elbow in the process. And since my father was the kind of man who did and fixed everything himself, there were many many things for me to apprentice. But the work I remember the most is the automobile maintenance. From all those days of lying on my tummy in the dirt while my Daddy explained everything involved in changing out the exhaust manifold, or how to change the oil, or any of the myriad things he did, I learned a lot about cars, and caught a bug in the process. The car bug. But not in the traditional sense. I don’t necessarily want the shiniest, the fastest, or the best, although that might be nice. I have the car bug in the sense that I just love cars. Any car I have ever owned, I have a sense of pride in ownership. Even if it’s not the best car, it’s still a car, it’s still mine, and I can find something about it to like. And all that is from my father, who not only taught me how cars work, but also taught me some of his sentimentality.