As you may know if you’re a faithful reader of my blog, I became The Bitch at my tennis club a month or so ago. If this is news to you, check out my post, Don’t Mess With Me. Don’t worry, I’ll wait while you read it.
Okay, all finished? Now that you’re all caught up, let’s proceed, shall we? Anyway, since my recent crowning, I’ve not had occasion to rinse and repeat. That is, not until last week.
Something I’ve learned during my years on earth is that there are double standards. When a woman stands up for herself, she’s a bitch. When a man does, he’s assertive. But now that I have a reputation of sorts, I’m branching out. I’m riding this bitch-thing like a surfer on a really rad wave. Is that the correct terminology? I’ve never surfed so I’m just guessing here.

Needless to say, working with Marin Friends of Ferals has its moments…I’ve broken my finger, been bitten through my knuckle by a kitten barely bigger than my hand, been saturated with poison oak and nearly lost the tip of my pinky from another bite. Scrapes and bruises come with the territory from efforts to spay and neuter feral community cats, yet I love what I do. But as it turns out, love hurts.



