In the company of women

Kathryn Bigelow is the first woman to win an Oscar for Best Director for The Hurt Locker, beating out her narcissistic ex-husband James Cameron who (publicly) has extended his congratulations to his ex. Whatever.

It seems to be a woman’s world lately. It’s been forever since Edith Wharton won a Pulitzer in 1921; the pill Enovid was introduced to world in 1960 at a time when the repressed post-WWII era was having a nervous breakdown; and now we have women all over the world putting a stop to the stuffy all-boys’ clubs and shattering Drakkar Noir-scented glass ceilings all over.

However, women still get paid less than men in many industries. They’re often still known as somebody’s wife. They are still automatically considered to be bad drivers and psycho lovers. (Hello! Has Eric Roberts not taught us a thing or two about psycho relationships?) And, try as Hollywood might with the movie Disclosure, sexual harassment is still all over the place for women. And as much as we want to celebrate the heroic women who have changed our world, the very fact we still have to celebrate Women’s Month shows that we still have a long way to go in terms of gender issues. A kind and gentle reminder that we are not men. I mean, when’s Men’s Month? The day we stop calling gratuitous men “playboys” and equally gratuitous women “sluts” will be the death of the gratuitous Women Month.

I grew up in a home filled with strong women. My mom scares the crap out everyone in a good Hillary Clinton-ish kind of way. So the iron-fist-in-a-velvet-mitten jig is nothing new to me. My sister and cousins exhibited the same brazen hotness that inspired me to be the hot mess that I am today. As usual, I exaggerated what I learned and became a borderline tyrant. No velvet mittens. Plenty of therapy and acupuncture eased me into enjoying being a woman.

It was hard for me to enjoy being a girl, though. As much as I admired the women in my family, I never really enjoyed being with girls. I found them competitive and bitchy. Whereas boys usually laughed at my off-color politically incorrect jokes, girls greeted them with a cacophony of “yucks.” Humor is always the first step for me.

I enjoyed being a traitor to my gender for a while. I admired men for their easy manner. How they could smack each other in the head, call on heavy insults involving their mothers and still laugh together. It was magical. I was steeped in their uncomplicated world of secret handshakes and green jokes. The women of my turf, on the other hand, spent merciless hours colluding on how to trap men or how to get a better report card. The jokes were bitchy and more often than not served with a strong backhand. If I smacked them in the head (which I loooooved doing) they would cry as they ran a Denman brush through their hair: “I’m soooo telling!” No fun.

I totally got Brandon Teena (Boys Don’t Cry) and her boob-taping agenda. Why be a whiny girl? It also so happened that I was in a Catholic high school at age 15 when I had my self-assessment. It was a sheltered speck of the world: we weren’t allowed to wear makeup then, but seriously, the bitch gloss was aplenty. 

Then we all grow up. 

Enter the Augean stables of adulthood. It is in these dark recesses at the north side of 20 and beyond where women really shine. They say character is what happens in the dark. The women in my life have proven themselves in pathetic times. This is when cute problems become pitiable. Picture a yellow dog situation featuring an evanescent phone call. I’m all Sean Penned about it — total Delilah; my boys just look at me and with Panglossian wisdom they blame it on my period. “I’m not having my period!” I scream at them while keeping the phone on my hip like a koala. They smirk, smack my head and play video games. Simple doesn’t cut it in this mercurial emotional arena. The one sensitive guy sits me down and listens to me rant. And the next thing I know, the jerk face is trying to kiss me. Damn… emosogynists should be jailed.

When the crap hits the fan, you can count on a woman to blame it all on Mercury retrograde. Where, then, will you find this level of gentle and cogent advice? I eff up a lot in relationships; that’s a given. But I’m at a point in my life where I actually care. My boys, who are now actually semi-balding men (wow, we all grew up!), always tell me that that’s who I am, their usual excuse for themselves. This is where the disapproving female martinets actualize themselves. Through them I have calmed my inner Narcissus, killed my blooming Ophelia and raised my dormant Oprah. Women work like magic on train wrecks. Men will never have time for this.

And though I still have to find the joys of going to a salon or go shopping with my BFFs, too much stress. I have learned to appreciate the cunning grace of the female race. Snide gossips eventually grow up to be astrological wizards who blame everything on the moon. Women will never be men, and you know what? Thank the heavens for that.