The Boys Club

When I first started making friends as a kid, I gravitated toward boys. They didn’t mind my bossiness or dislike for dolls. As I grew older, my mother would worry about me canoeing down Hillsborough River or watching Breakfast Club with groups of guys. For me, it seemed a natural fit. In college, the trend continued and today, it’s just more of the same. Wherever I go, I accumulate more males than females. Even with this site, more links connect to sites and more comments come from men than women.

This has never been the result of romantic leanings. Perhaps as a kid, I crushed on some buds, but they mostly hit on Becky and then cried to me afterward. No one even started rumors because the idea that I’d actually hook up with someone was too preposterous to consider. Wouldn’t happen. I just don’t send out “come hither” vibes and again, the trend continues today.

So, if it’s not sex, what is it? I think men and I get along so well because there is no sexual tension – or at least, very little of it. Their straightforward manner appeals to me and I appreciate the fact that none of them gives a sh*t what shoes I wear.

Let’s face it; girls are a pain in the ass. I have no time for women who read Cosmo, complain about horny husbands, and define themselves by how their kids are doing. I consider myself fortunate to have a few terrific female friends, but even they are not typical chicks. Becky only appears soft – don’t let the blonde hair and perfect smile fool you. Beth, Lynda, Dorothy, Dalia, Elise, Ariana – don’t get me started on Sandy and Stacey – they’re all b*tches from time to time. And that’s why I love them so.

I just don’t know what to do with the other kinds of women. They confuse me with their stations set at Soothing Sounds for Senior Citizens, allegiance to Oprah and weekly scrapbooking cults.

DISCLAIMER: No, I’m not talking about you. You I like.

I annoy them as well. They wish I didn’t curse or refer to bj contests or talk about my equipment. With boys, no such boundaries exist.

I wish I liked women who wrote about a subject dear to my heart – motherhood and all it entails. Erma Bombeck rocked precisely because she told the truth about our noble profession. She never tried to pretend stretch marks or support hose were sexy. Cause. They’re. Not. Nowadays, if I read one more Mother’s Musing about how she relishes c-section scars and has learned to love her size 18 body, I might just hurl. She’s full of sh*t. Dance like no one is watching? Not if I’m watching, please.

Men make great dinner guests because they see the value in a well-reasoned argument. They don’t take tirades personally – Sunshine, not included – and seem to enjoy verbal tennis almost as much as I do. And they wouldn’t be caught dead at a Yanni concert. Not a real man, anyway.

On those rare occasions when my estrogen overloads – yes, I am a woman after all – it’s helpful to call on a sister for support. And as much as I love my brothers, I wouldn’t want to be married to any of them. Only the man who has promised to put up with me until forever ends gets that gift. The bonus is that none of them want to be married to me either. The underlying question posed by that great romantic comedy of the late 80s has an answer at least in the movie that is my life. Men and women can be friends. Thank God.