I’ve blogged
here before about how I’m kind of
one of the guys.
Back in college when I had a lot of single
guy friends, I felt way more comfortable hanging out with a group of them than
I did with a group of girls.
I’d rather
watch “The Matrix” than a chick flick (unless it’s “While You Were Sleeping”
featuring mid-90’s version Bill Pullman.
And his hair).
I’d rather do guy
stuff than girl stuff.
That’s not
to say that I’m not girly. I mean, I
have a ribbon collection. A ribbon
collection, I tell you. With
ribbons.
I like colors. I like new dresses. I like tea parties. I like glitter. I like kitties. I love flowers, and I’m stoked that the
current fashion trends allow for (and even encourage) big poofy flowers. Seriously, when the trend finally fades away,
I’m still going to keep wearing big poofy flowers. It’ll be like back in the 80s when I got made
fun of for wearing bell bottoms with disco roller skate patches. Eventually, I succumbed to the tight rolling,
but not because I liked it. I fell into
the whole peer pressure racket. But no
more. Never again.
They may take away my bell bottoms, but they
will NEVER take my POOFY HAIR FLOWERS!!!!!
AAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!
Yeah.
And now that
I’m older and all the guys I know are married, I have been forced to hang out
with other ladies more. I’ve found that
they’re pretty cool, too, in small doses.
And just so long as they don’t force me to watch some Kate Hudson flick
about feelings.
See, the
thing is, I think that whenever you get too much estrogen together in an
enclosed space, bad things happen. It’s
probably also dangerous to have too much testosterone together in an enclosed
space, but the consequences are very different.
For instance, if you get a bunch of guys together, there might be a bar
fight. Bar fights, from what I’ve
surmised from watching non-chick flick movies—and my favorite episode of the
original Star Trek, “The Trouble With Tribbles--are whimsical events involving
1) alcohol, 2) Irish fiddle music, 3) lots of guys hitting each other and
throwing each other around for no apparent reason. There might be a black eye or two, but it’s
all in good fun. A day or two later,
after the swelling goes down and the hangovers wear off, everyone is friends again.
But when you
get a room full of women together and their estrogen mingles, terrible things
happen. Perfectly innocent flowers,
which could have been used to make future fashionably questionable hair
accessories, become table arrangements.
Glitter, which could have been put to nobler use, is scattered upon a table
top. In fact, this glitter is now sold
in packages purposed only to be scattered upon tabletops. It’s name?
Table Scatter. The horror! And don’t get me started on doilies.
Uh oh. You got me started on doilies.
Doilies. They're lace soaked in malice and coated in evil. First off, what’s with the word
“doily?” It’s like someone wanted to
make the sissiest sounding name in the world.
If I didn’t know what a doily was and someone just randomly said, “Doilies
don’t make good frisbees,” I’m pretty sure I’d know what they were talking about. The very name sounds like a flimsy lace
thingy that doesn’t serve any particular purpose besides making things look
ridiculously feminine.
Ok, so not all doilies are bad. My former
roommate had a doily. I didn’t hate
it. I didn’t like it. I was indifferent to it. It was a non-threatening doily. It sat on my little round table underneath
the lamp and minded its own business. I
wish all doilies were like this.
But no. Most doilies are vicious. They are vicious in ways that only
purposeless, overly-feminine, estrogen-overdose-induced things can be. These are the doilies that don’t sit
neutrally under a lamp in the comfort and safety of my own home. These doilies make themselves known. They garnish the tables of women’s events at
churches. They demand your attention,
saying, “Behold! I am a doily! I exude femininity, and if you are a woman,
you must love me, or else be SHUNNED!"
I’m onto you, evil
doily scum. I GRR at you.
Every time I
see a doily advertising a women’s event, it makes me angry. Why?
It’s the implication that all women have to like frilly things. In my mind, it all leads to the implication
that all women are the same and have to like the same things. When there’s a woman’s event, I have to like
it and attend it because I’m a woman. When
some syrupy voiced woman starts talking about women’s issues in Scripture, I
have to both relate to and agree with everything she says (no matter how weak
the theology). Well, guess what. I don’t like Beth Moore studies, and I don’t
care who knows it. I can’t stand listening
to that Proverbs 31 Ministries woman who has these 30 second blurbs on KLOVE
radio. I don’t like women’s
retreats. I don’t like getting my nails
done or…~shudder~…massages. I don’t like
recipe swaps. I DON’T LIKE NO STINKIN’
DOILIES*.
Ahem.
Yeah, so, um,
yeah…I’m knitting a lot these days. I’m,
uh, making some scarves for a Women’s Expo at my church. It’s happening in October. There’s going to be a lot of estrogen
there. And maybe a few doilies.
Me? I’m selling scarves, not doilies. Scarves.
And also hair flowers. Come buy
one and in a few years, when they’re as fashionable as bell bottoms in the late
1980s, wear it and think of me.
*Please note
that I’m not saying that it’s wrong for people to like doilies. If you like doilies and/or any of the other
feminine stuff I “hated on” in this blog, don’t stop liking it on my
account. You see, I was once pressured
into the silly habit of making the hem of my pant legs adhere as closely to my leg as
humanly possible, even though it made me look like a pale, short, long haired
version of M. C. Hammer; I don’t want to pressure anyone. I’ve just found that some doilies seem to be
more than the innocent pieces of lace that they appear to be. I just want to reveal the truth. The truth about doilies.
What you do with that truth is up to you.
