There Are Two Kinds of Women
The Uterus Women
There are two kinds of women in this world. I have classified women into two categories based on my personal experiences A) working with the general public, B) networking via various social outlets (i.e. PTO meetings, church, birthday parties and more) and C) family reunions. Before you raise your hackles ladies, hear me out. The two types are easy to remember: you’re either a Uterus Woman or you’re not.
Take for example my new neighbor, whom has graced our neighborhood for less than a month. As I walked my dog the other day, New Neighbor called out to me, prompting introductions. Dog and I made polite introductions, followed by a smattering of polite conversation. This banter was not good enough for New Neighbor. New Neighbor did the unthinkable. Now, pause for a moment and focus on the fact that I have known New Neighbor exactly 6.17 minutes. Around 22.03 minutes I knew the following about New Neighbor: She is divorced. She caught her old man cheating. She is remarried. She has three kids, their existence completed by a play-by-play recounting of her labor pains, the hue of her placenta, how many stitches she had in each episiotomy, which drugs she took and how great/bad they were. She likes to drink socially. She likes to smoke all the time. She hates perverts. She loves steaks. She hates cats. She has a mastiff. Her new husband has a new kidney, via transplant. Her lawn needs cutting. She likes to watch the neighborhood out of her window. She likes to call the law whenever something looks suspicious. She noticed my motion sensor light came on at precisely 2:49 AM last Tuesday morning. She feels like justice is overrated. She hates nosy people.
I also knew that New Neighbor must be allergic to bras, which was a shame considering a 42 D would have been appropriate in her case. New Neighbor also uses her arms a LOT when she talks – perhaps she was an orchestra conductor in a past life. New Neighbor punctuates her sentences with raised eyebrows and knowing looks. If you think I am making this up – I will give you my address. Come by. Visit my neighbor. She’s lovely. As I made my escape from New Neighbor, she was still yammering. Her voice grew louder and louder until I shut my front door. My husband looked at me. “D’you meet the new neighbors?” My glare must have clued him in.
Here is another example; I once had a coworker whom we all thought was a class act. She was well-kempt and well spoken. She was educated. She had money. (By the way – none of these things will make you presentable when it comes to the personality department. Stripped down to nothing but our characters, we’re all pretty much on our own. Like they say, you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl.) Picture all of us ladies, working on a big project and accomplishing our tasks with a sense of cooperative harmony. Enter Classy Coworker. We all welcome her into the fold. She begins her work. Suddenly, Classy Coworker poses a question to the room. We are rapt listeners. What does she say? She asks us to look at a rash and diagnose it for her. Already a few of us are getting uncomfortable. One or two kind ladies urge her to continue, their best intentions at heart. Classy Coworker hoists up her Donna Karen skirt and displays said rash. Copious amounts of fidgeting have ensued and many of us are hurting ourselves as we search for an object at which to stare. Classy Coworker sees discomfort and laughs, telling us she doesn’t have one single thing we haven’t seen before. I beg to differ: a rash would be quite different! Classy Coworker demands Nearest Lady to stare at rash, hoping to identify the problem. I have already identified the problem: she fooled us. It’s another Uterus Woman. All agree too quickly that a doctor should be seen, and that Classy Coworker might want to choose something besides a flesh colored thong when she does see her doctor. I ask you one question: WHY on God’s green earth would ANY woman do that to coworkers?! Tell your doctor, tell your Momma, tell your spouse, but otherwise keep it to yourself!
Two words: Uterus Woman. Ladies, a Uterus Woman can be defined by any woman who is willing, no – eager, no – desperate to tell a complete stranger her life’s story within the first twenty minutes of your introduction. Put your money on the table, because if she’s good, you will hear about her uterus, her stretch marks, her anything having to do with the female reproductive system during this allotted time. Not only will she inundate you with gory details about her inability to wear thongs due to her latest C-section scar, but she will truly believe that you are A) interested in this knowledge and B) are a better person for hearing it. Strangers and their uncontrollable desire to verbally vomit their private lives into your tender ears are plenty bad enough. My advice: one can easily fake a distraction or even an illness in order to escape these crazed individuals. If need be, run as fast as you can – no apologies – to the nearest place of refuge. What are these people? Are these women lonely to the point of flagrant self-advertising? Are these women so confident that they are the most fascinating person on earth that they feel inspired to share the wealth of their cringe-worthy knowledge with the rest of us? Like a war vet who insists on telling everyone about his missing toe, or a group of the elderly competing for the most ailments...it makes you wonder if that is the most interesting event to ever happen to that person. Or is it a simple case of their believing they are the only human on earth to ever have a pregnancy and delivery horror story? If the latter is true, someone please start a blog for these women, so they can share this crap without disrupting the normal order of things. One thing is certain: the Uterus Women are out there, and they come in every shape, size, income, and class.
What is worse than a stranger divulging private information? Family. Oh yes, everyone has one. There is always one family member – usually an aunt or an uncle – who makes the rest of us look like Harvard Grads finishing our stint as Mother Teresa’s intern. In our case, it would be an aunt. Setting: holiday family gathering. Family members of all ages are present. Delicious homemade foods are being served. Children are laughing. The decorations are perfect. Enter Aunt Uncouth. She arrives late, blaming her fifth husband for the delay. Aunt Uncouth punctuates her sentences with four letter words, leaving off the final consonant so she can get away with said language in front of children. Aunt Uncouth grabs a plate and begins telling us about the time she got so drunk she ended up in some stranger’s bed, thirty miles from the honky tonk. Aunt Uncouth then makes joke saying maybe that’s how she procured her oldest child, only she doesn't use the word procure. Aunt Uncouth hacks on food a little, then starts telling a convoluted story about something which sounds weird and boring, but is actually gross and sexual. Her arsenal of metaphors and allegories is impressive. Aunt Uncouth asks newly married family member if they have figured out what causes babies yet. Miraculously, a bottle of rum appears on the table. We hurt ourselves running to the rum, taking turns pouring it into our coffee cups. Apparently Aunt Uncouth is FULL of stories. Even worse, she honestly believes we are begging to hear them – each and every one. One story includes her uterus.
My husband and I meet new people all the time. Sometimes I’ll meet a woman and later my husband will look at me inquiringly, as if to say, “Hey Hon, did you make a new friend today?” When the occasion calls for it, I simply look at him and say, “Uterus Woman.” He knows exactly what I mean. Maybe, somewhere, there is a rehab for these women. Maybe they are forced to meditate, like Tibetan Monks, and they are forbidden to speak of their nethers for one whole year. Maybe they come home and remember the days when they, too, pelted strangers with a barrage of self-deprecating trivia. Maybe they tsk the unreformed Uterus Women. Perhaps they refer to them as the Uteri. Or perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I will never understand why these women are roaming the streets, searching for stable individuals with zero interest in the graphic carnality of their sordid lives. Does our culture produce these anomalies? Do Uterus Women exist in China, Japan, Italy and Norway? Are they universal? I hope not. In the meantime, stay alert and keep your head down. Should you encounter one of these Uteri, seek shelter immediately. Otherwise, you’ll regret you have any imagination at all.
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