It’s no fun being queen bee. In a household of boys, guess who gets all the fun?
To figure this out, you have to remember that despite the royal title, queen bees have a lot of work to do. They sit there and pop out babies the way a grand marshal on a parade float tosses candy to outstretched hands. They give the male bees a reason to go to work each day. They give little bees the sense to grow up and want to protect the hive. I’m no bee expert, but I believe queen bees also have to fight off the occasional hussy who wants to invade her territory.
Said bee hussy is usually younger and falsely believes that being the queen bee of the hive is some cushy position. And so she comes around, spraying her pheromones all over the place, hoping to take over the hive of unwitting boy bees. (Pheromones, boys and girls, are a poison girl bees release to make boy bees think the pheromone-releasing girl bee is smart, funny, kinder than Mother Teresa, and would never, ever make you pull over and pee on the side of the road in front of all the male bee’s buddies after a night of drinking, because that pheromone-releasing girl bee doesn’t pee—ever.)
Like I said: It’s a tough gig. It’s a figurehead position that comes with some killer business cards, but no real power, so you’re always trying to prove yourself. And it just so happens to be the exact position I am in now: the sole female in a house full of boys, stuck in the paradox of just trying to be accepted as one of the guys while trying to convince them that having female parts actually does qualify me as a girl.
On the one hand, I really am accepted. Just not as a girl. That means no one understands why I get upset at an unflushed toilet, dirty fingernails, or being stuck in a world of dinner table belches and armpit farts. When it comes time to move large objects, I’m expected to be on the lower end. When there are violent movies to be watched, I’m supposed to be stoked at the prospect. In short, when it counts, I am assumed to be one of the guys.
Then there’s the other hand, one that’s giant and calloused and has hairy knuckles and really doesn’t want me to fist bump it because I’m a girl, and doing so might be an unlucky maneuver that upsets the balance of the universe. I’m a girl, after all, so I’m not allowed to do boy stuff. I am not supposed to be seen at the skate park with my boys. I’m not asked to fix things. Instead, my boys will decline my offer in order to “wait until Dad gets home.” I have no say in boy styles and fashion, because I don’t know what I’m talking about, and I can’t have a real opinion on other topics that require a penis—which is super confusing, because that means I’m only a boy when it’s convenient. So I guess I’m only half a boy. Or maybe half a bee—I’m not sure.
What I am sure about is John Lennon. I’ve always been a huge fan of his, and—thankfully—my boys love The Beatles. We recently had a discussion about Lennon. Specifically about Lennon and his queen bee, Yoko Ono. After reading some Rolling Stone articles, I fired up a discussion. The pair is a topic that gets reactions from a lot of people. It seems like everyone has an opinion. I was trying to be open-minded after reading the Rolling Stone articles. My boys were just trying to catch up.
“Who’s Yoko Ono?” Jake asked.
“She broke up The Beatles,” my husband Ron said, in a way that seemed to indicate that they’d be together even now if it hadn’t been for her. (Guess Ono had it going on in the pheromone department.) Jake wasn’t understanding the message, however.
“How could she do that?” Jake asked.
Ron leaned over and whispered into Jake’s ear: “Women have a way of getting into your head. Remember that.”
Jake just looked at me and scrunched his nose.
Ron looked at me and then back at the boys and nodded his head again as he repeated, “In your head,” pointing to his head.
So that’s what I’m doing? Infiltrating the male psyche with my powers of … well, with my powers of what? If I could figure that one out, I’d RULE. THE. WORLD. Or at least get in on this whole Oklahoma-Territory-grab-it-if-you-can action in the Middle East and plant my stake in a little piece of that oil-soaked pie.
Until I figure out how to use my powers for upward mobility, I’ll settle for the upper hand and keep trying to get into the heads of the estrogen-challenged members of my household.
Guess my secret’s out. In case you don’t know already, I’m Shelly Cone. I’m the head-burrowing, beer-drinking, heavy-thing-lifting, nagging queen bee, and this column outlines my life as I fight for my sanity in a house full of spontaneous mid-dinner belch-farts, runaway puppies, potty-training babies, and dealing with the fact that a pair of Xs doesn’t beat an X and a Y when you’re living where the boys are.
Arts Editor Shelly Cone details her life, for better or worse, on her blog. Visit The Salad Years at shellycone.com.
This article appears in Apr 21-28, 2011.