Ten Reasons There Are No Women in Hell
Every month or so, I check my blog stats, and discover that someone who ... well, someone who is not like me finds my blog by searching for some variation on the phrase, “women who have gone to hell for wearing trousers.”
Now, I’ve seen Pulp Fiction, too. I know what the Lord says about those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. FURrrrrious anger! Ka-blammo! That was awesome.
I mean, it was a terrible, immoral film which I regret watching seven times to figure out if it was actually about anything. (Conclusion: No. But The Big Lebowski definitely was.)
But really, does He send women to Hell for wearing trousers? Does He send women to Hell at all? Maybe that was the original plan, but I’m guessing that when God really sits down and takes a close look at what the typical woman’s day is like, He passes a trembling hand across His clammy brow and proclaims, “My daughter, you have suffered enough.”
reason #1. Laundry. Yes, yes, lots of men do laundry too, do-dah, do-dah. Not even just that wretched frat boy in the Suds-n-Such Laundromat at 11 p.m., miserably staring into the window of the dryer, and wondering, as he shifts uncomfortably around in what is clearly the very last clean pair of sweatpants left in the dorm, just how many minutes more until he gets his stuff back. No, I fully understand that there are real, live, manly men who just go ahead and wash, dry, and fold clothes quietly and competently without making a big deal out of it. (Source)
But mostly, it’s the ladies who do the laundry. Why? Because when we tell the kids, “Put your dirty clothes in the hamper,” we mean, “Stuff your wet bathing suit behind your bookshelf and don’t say anything about it until 12 minutes before you need to attend your best friend’s pool party, and were hoping to wear something non-moldy for the occasion.”
Because when we say, “Clean your room,” we mean, “Sling every last bit of fabric-like substance you can find into the laundry basket, because your mother enjoys making room in her schedule to wash, dry, fold, put away four weeks’ worth of dirty clothes, two weeks’ worth of clean clothes that fell on the floor and are now tainted, and anything else that could conceivably fit into the category of textiles, including slippers, flags, tie dyed handkerchiefs of uncertain colorfastness, doll purses, a fairy costume which she sewed by hand for your sixth birthday and which you have been using as a fingerpaint rag; and a plastic potholder loom with a couple of elastic loops clinging to it. You know: clothes.”
Because when we say, “Oh, thank goodness it’s the weekend, and there’s nothing planned!” we mean, “Hello, laundry.”
Yes, women do laundry because it’s not only necessary, but it’s saving their souls, and we appreciate that. Deep down in the heart of us, even when we look like we are filled with maniacal rage as we scrabble away with furious nails at yet another ketchup stain, we are praising a merciful God who, in His wisdom, hath ordained that women will work out our salvation to the penitential sound of overall clasps smacking around in the dryer.
Reasons #2-10. Other Women. Especially women who say they are offended.
I had a dream last night. The Blessed Mother herself appeared to me. She was standing in the middle of the food court in a mall, while women of every shape, sort, age and societal stratum whirled around her like so many dry leaves in the autumn wind. At first I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to offer her a Tropi-Colada Smoothie from Orange Julius, because I had a coupon, but then that seemed stupid. Then I realized she was speaking to me.
My daughter, she said, I can see that you were planning to write something really awful about your fellow sisters in Christ in the next paragraph. If, for the love of my Son, you can just kind of erase that whole part, and come up with something else really quick before the deadline, even though three kids have dentist appointments that same day, then you will be spared eternal hellfire. Unless you do something else really stupid before you die.
Then she leaned forward and whispered, “They drive me crazy, too!”
And then she WUNK at me!