When women argue, we don’t need a physical battle to settle the score. No matter how furious we are, nobody wants to risk breaking a nail. So we’re more subtle. We might launch the evil stink-eye or the dreaded hair flip of disgust. Nothing can protect you from those.
Covert competition between females has been going on for centuries. Tempers may flare over who gets the window seat, somebody cutting in line for the glutes machine, or women named Jolene. The most severe threats require lethal tactics. Like hair-pulling.
I used to report the news in a tiny town full of cousins, where the police reports read like Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Whenever a renegade cow escaped on a dirt road, it would take several officers and at least one farmer to point the beast back home. But cows are peaceful. Women, not so much.
I remember a vicious standoff between two moms smacking each other silly over possession of their last Marlboro. Fists weren’t doing enough damage, so they started yanking each other’s hair until there was more in their clenched fists than on each other’s heads. When police arrived, both claimed they were victims of assault. One said she paid $275 for her ruined locks. The other said her severed extensions cost $325. Since a pack of Marlboro Reds is only about $9, it would have been easier to split a pack, borrow helmets, or quit smoking. But doing battle is in our DNA.
Not long ago, scientists discovered that women in prehistoric societies were probably hurling spears alongside their menfolk. Sharp projectiles and stone tools were found in a young female’s grave from 9,000 years ago, indicating that the little lady may have been a big game hunter, according to theconversation.com. All this time, we assumed they were out gathering berries and selling Girl Scout Cookies.
This whole conversation would likely be moot if cave ladies had dishwashers. In fact, we might not even be here. If anything is sure to set a woman off, it’s how you load her dishwasher.
If a woman wants the fork tines down, and you try to load them tines up, you might find yourself impaled by one of those forks. You’d never get off with a mere hair flip.
I’ve witnessed standoffs at family occasions, where stuffing the turkey has nothing on stuffing the dishwasher. Relatives would pack it with so many gross, yucky dishes that there was no room for air to circulate, much less water. But some great aunt would still be determined to jam another stuffing-crusted plate in there.
If there’s a mathematical type in the family, war might break out. She’ll probably wait for the kitchen to clear out. Then, when nobody’s looking, she’ll remove every single dish and utensil from the dishwasher, only to reload it using some obscure algorithm just to squeeze in one more butter knife. If she starts the machine right away, the hostess won’t discover the rebellion until morning, when the reloader is a safe distance away.
A few centuries from now, when they’re washing dishes by mental telepathy, scientists may discover a body buried alongside place settings for 12 with all the forks pointed up. They’ll struggle to discern the cultural significance, which we already understand.
That’s somebody’s great aunt. She was a stubborn woman with a Ph.D. in structural engineering and a death wish. They might want to check her fists for hair.
Jan A. Igoe is not one to participate in table-clearing uninvited. It’s her contribution to family harmony. You may load the dishwasher like an abstract expressionist or a cubist. It’s a free kitchen. Join the party at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.