Girl Talk

Dear Wives, Mothers, Sisters, Females of the Species

I write to you under the influence of fresh dog turd marched through my house on the shoes of my four year-old, and, as such, I cannot take full responsibility for what I may say now, as the fumes of canine excrement seem to hamper my normal functioning.

Sisters, ladies, sufferers of menstrual cramps and gynaecological examinations. My fellow wearers of tampons and corsetry. Women of the world, you busty and hormonal defenders of the meek, vaccuumers of popcorn kernels and likers of all things pink. Those of you that enjoy the pampering of a french manicure and delight in all things pretty. You who at some point in you lives have appreciated ballet and Hello Kitty. I summon you all closer so that I may divulge a little secret.

(All that gynae crap and lace and frills stuff was to bore the men and shake them off the scent of the knowledge which I am about to impart to my sisters).

You've heard the expression: Men, you can't live with them, you can't shoot them, right?Well, it's true. You shouldn't shoot men. In fact, please don't. Men can be quite useful for cleaning out the litter tray and opening tightly screwed-on lids. So we do kind of need them.

No, I am in no way condoning violent behaviour. Instead I wish to impart a coping mechanism to my sisters who share the burden of trying to see eye-to-eye with the men they share a life with.

We've all experienced that quandry when the charming beast of a man that you note as your significant other let's you down in a nose-dive of chasmic proportions. We've all looked into the eyes of this muscular chunk of masculinity and been completely unable to comprehend the inner workings of that mind that seems to be fueled by Formula 1 and rugby. At some point, we've all rolled our eyes to the heaven's and begged to be understood by the slab of testosterone that sleeps in our beds. And more than once, the cosmic differences between Mars and Venus have lead to disputes, arguments, and in some cases, nuclear jihad.

We just want them to get us. We want them to hold our hands when we're looking at a beautiful sunset, not start a game of tonsil hockey. We want them to put a comforting arm around our shoulders when we're teary, not to suggest we go talk to a shrink. We want them to wink at us across a crowded room, not order another beer. 

Ladies, let me tell you a little secret. And I mean this sincerely. From the bottom of my heart, with the utmost respect for the carriers of the y-chromosome:

Men are retarded.

Now don't get into a flap, everyone! Seriously. I say it with my greatest appreciation for that which is "Man". Men ARE retarded. Say it a couple of times, and suddenly it all makes sense.

Why do they watch a field of sweaty blokes chasing a chunk of dead cow? Why do the burp and fart in company? Why do they consider a beer and pizza as a decent meal? Why do they battle to sort the lights from the darks?

But what I think is most beautiful about this revelation is this: not only does it explain a man's short-comings, but far more valuable than that, it creates a sense of pity for our brothers. When you're pulling your hair out with frustration over the way your man behaves, just think to yourself, "Ag shame, he's retarded," and suddenly you can't be mad at him. Your anger evaporates like the morning dew, and instead you feel a sense of sympathy for your better half. You look at him with affection and mild amusement, and you know, in your heart, that he does mean to do things right, but he just can't quite get it right all the time.

And everything is ok.