Miss Independents Club

Don't get me wrong, self reliance and independence are wonderful traits. Something most of us would do well to inculcate in ourselves.

Only some of the Miss Independents I know seem to go overboard with the virulent D.I.M. Syndrome - and by that it means Do It Myself; a newly discovered infectious disease that seems to affect most young Miss Independents of a certain age rendering them physically and mentally incapable of accepting help. Any offer of aid is immediately repudiated with a vehemently impassioned nay followed by the pridefully repeated 'I Can Do It Myself' mantra.

Miz Independent : What if my car breaks down? What if the car battery dies? 

Paul : You're not living in the jungle. You're basically in a small town where everyone's just a couple of minutes away. 

Miz Independent : How will I get to work? 

Paul : Just tell them the car broke down. Get someone to pick you. Get a cab. Get an Uber. 

Miz Independent : I can't possibly do that! I should be able to do it myself.

Paul : What's wrong with getting help? 

Miz Independent : I must be independent and self reliant!

Paul : And walk to work? 

Miz Independent : Maybe!

Paul : Or how about a car battery charger?

Miz Independent : Yes! I have to depend on me! I want independence!

Made it sound almost like an energy drink. Wouldn't surprise me if our burly frontierswoman wanted to live a self sustainable life in her own sturdy treehouse - made with repurposed timber chopped with her own fair hands - and grow her own organic food.

D.I.M. Syndrome! It's a real thing, I tell ya!

Honestly though, never have I understood the women of today's single-minded obsession with being independent and self reliant. Since I'm pretty certain none of the boys I knew ever had such frenzied fixations, I can only imagine it is something they all learned back in school! For all I know, perhaps the schoolgirls have been secretly shuffled away to secluded mountaintop convents just to have the oft-repeated mantra on autonomy and independence drilled into their young malleable minds. 

Or perhaps something insidiously mixed in with the rubella vaccines only given to teenage girls? 

Or maybe we have Destiny's Child to blame for it! Obviously the theme song for all the Miss Independents throwing their hands up at them. 

Maybe all my crazed suppositions are wrong but surely there has to be a Miss Independents Club out there with clandestine meetings disguised as book clubs along with regular weekly pamphlets covertly cloaked as frivolous beauty magazines. Otherwise how are they all being plagued with the exact same symptoms of D.I.M. Syndrome? All of them seem to have something to prove... but to whom?

For me, I think I would much prefer to be a lethargic potentate with thousands of slaves at my beck and call. Self reliance? Pshaw! Hell, I wouldn't even lift a finger to feed myself if I could! 

Miss Independents III : D.I.M.

Since I count most of them as my dearest friends, this wouldn't be the first time I've talked about Miss Independents. Not only is there a specific song written only for them, I've also added my two cents on the problem; just take a look at Part I and II. Probably wouldn't be the last post as well since they tend to come up with the most thought-provoking situations.

A crucial theme common amongst them all is the remarkable notion that Miss Independents must do it all on their own. Not only does it feed into the inexplicable Maidophobia that I've also mentioned before, the oft-repeated feminist mantra on self reliance and self sufficiency practically precludes them from asking for help from anyone.

And apparently nixes any shockingly pre-feminist thoughts of accepting it either.

So you can imagine my consternation when I eavesdropped on this curious conversation. Faced with the choice of being given a lovely ride home or blindly groping her way back on her lonesome, our Miz Independent gave an utterly unexpected reply.

Miz Independent : Don't pick me up! I can do it myself! There's no need to drive over to fetch me.

She wailed, 'No. No. No,' while interspersing that by insisting, 'I Can Do It Myself.' Recited it enough that it became almost like a compelling chorus to a song.

Call it the D.I.M. Syndrome - or the Do It Myself Syndrome; newly discovered infectious disease that seems to affect most young Miss Independents of a certain age rendering them physically and mentally incapable of accepting help. Any offer of aid is immediately repudiated with a vehemently impassioned nay followed by the pridefully repeated 'I Can Do It Myself' mantra.

Man, if I offered help, would she automatically react with a slap? 

While I was listening in though, I kept wondering what's wrong with graciously receiving the assistance offered? Does this possibly lead back to the mighty self-sustaining feminists insisting on doing everything on their own?

Don't believe me, try opening a door for them.

Yes, I can certainly do it myself but why would I want to when there's someone else all too willing to do it? Does saying yes mean I'm incapable of ever doing it myself? Does accepting help make me somehow weaker or more submissive?

No, it doesn't.

And if you think it does....  well fortunately, I don't have to articulate myself in all that many ways since the absolutely riveting Matthew Hussey already does it beautifully. And obviously looks quite good doing it too!

I mean, those arms. Seriously. He could pick me up anytime he wanted to.

Miss Independents II : Buttons & Bows

Miss Independents these days are so eager to conquer the world that most have forgotten entirely the power of being all female.

Trust me, girls, the battle of the sexes isn't going to be worn by a pants-wearing dominatrix trying outman the guys. Rather than march right up the fella demanding your rights in a strident voice - right before punching him, isn't it so much easier to flutter your mascara-ed eyelashes, whisper your secret wishes and have them present it to you on bended knee?

Now whoever said feminity was weak?

As the flirtatious femme fatales down the century have proven, bows, ruffles and lace work wonders on the male ego. And it doesn't make them in the least bit submissive.

Something I evidently had to prove to Piratin Patty. Trust the gay fella to talk the girl into buttons and bows. Just like the tomboyish Peppermint version with the same name, this Patty's very much into supposedly conventional masculine pursuits such as cars, machinery and the outdoors.

Pink teddies and frilly bows? Not so much.

Still despite being permatanned in khakis and tees, this fabulous girl still manages to snag some Grade-A hotties on her own. So imagine what Patty could pull with a decent makeover.

Or at least a touch of lip gloss.


Time to take you shopping, Patty!
Having her luggage ( and her unfortunate collection of beige dungarees ) impossibly stranded at sea certainly gave us both an excuse for some shopping. Unfortunately as it turns out Miri's pretty slim pickin's for a fabulous makeover. For the Gossip Girl afficionados, think more trashy Jenny by way of Shinjuku than Upper East Side Blair. Seriously haven't seen so much bling and taffeta since Madonna rocked it in the 80s. Sleazy street fashion that if worn might possibly have you mistaken as a cheap hooker on meth.

So you can imagine that Patty and I had to diligently scour through every little ( an admittedly small number ) backstreet boutique in this town. Or should I say every tacky wannabe store purporting to be a boutique! Still we did manage to find a presentable ensemble after much effort ( and some shocking lowering of standards! ). Headbands instead of rubber bands. Skirts instead of khakis. Stilettos instead of running shoes.

Only to hit a snag when Patty refused to put on make-up. And you know my thoughts on make-up. Giving her no room for protest, I shoved her into the only available make-up store and point-blank ordered the reluctant salesman to perform some magic.

Patty : But make-up's so difficult. And wastes so much time.
Paul : You can't be one of those delusional folks who actually believe in natural beauty! For what God hasn't provided, he sent us make-up dammit!
Patty : Umm.

After much persuasion - and lots of arm-twisting, Patty finally submitted to some lipstick and eyeliner. Though she drew the line at foundation.

For this, I stayed away. Though I love the effects, gotta admit I'm a little afraid of make-up. Pretty sure the eyeliner was created by a devious opthalmologist who hoped that errant females would inadvertently poke their eyes out. Even the thought makes my eyes water.


Certainly not a problem for Patty who found that a lil touch of lipstick really never hurt no one. Get ready, world!

Miss Independents

Forget happy-ever-after dreams with a prince waiting to play rescue. Forget playing the submissive little housewife at home cooking and baking. Since revolutionary women's lib had them all busy burning their token bras in protest, feisty lil Miss Independents everywhere have been having dreams of climbing up the competitive corporate ladder.

Case in point are my friends the fabulous Lushes.

Though much battered, bruised and beaten, Lissome Lorelei has returned to our shores with a new song and an even stronger conviction to reach for that impossible dream. And like the rest of the girls, her dream doesn't involve sitting at home with a steaming pot pie waiting for her significant other to appear.


Paul : What's with the oversized hat?
Lorelei : I have a bandage on my head. Not chic.
Paul : Does that explain the large bow on your dress?
Lorelei : I'm not going to answer that... but yes.
Paul : Ouch. But I already popped some painkillers into your tea.
Lorelei : Thanks.
Only hitch is while she was away swimming in foreign waters, Lorelei had a traumatic tumble that left her with a concussion - and landed her a helpful hero in the tragedy. Every siren needs a charming rescuer after all. Not sure if she thinks the cut lip was worth the catch yet :)

With the princesses unsure of whether they need rescuing, knights in shining armour do have it hard these days!

You'd expect Lorelei to find her happily-ever-after in a fairytale apartment on a hill but finding the prince has only put our nomadic sea siren in a life-altering quandary! To be part of his world, does she have to make landfall and ground herself? Is it time to trade in her wandering fins for pots and pans?

Lorelei : I wanna be where the people are. I wanna see, wanna see 'em workin' walkin' around on those whaddya call 'em? Oh, feet. I want a career. I want job satisfaction. I want success.
Paul : Tending to sick sea slugs and ailing anemone?
Lorelei : Yes!
Paul : Seriously? What about hearth and home? A husband and family?
Lorelei : Umm. Don't think I have a song for that.
Paul : Maybe it's time you wrote one.

Okay, never say that to a Miss Independent. I might as well have told her to dye her hair green and sign a lopsided bargain with a seawitch instead. Still, Lorelei likes her prince enough to consider it.


Lorelei : You gotta be kidding me.
Really, has turning housewife become something so terribly awful? Making it sound like a crime exchanging our work briefcases for children's lunchboxes. Has our changing values actually turned a wonderful opportunity into something despicably low instead?

Had me wondering where have all the nifty lil 1950s homemakers gone? Stepford ladies in white gloves and frilly aprons who bake, sew and cook till their doting husbands return from the office? Have they all been packed up, boxed up and tossed out with things all retro?

Fortunately as it turns out these retro housewives still exist. These roles have reverted to gay men instead.

Seriously. How the roles have changed! Turns out amongst my ambitious gung-ho workmates ( quite a number who are women! ) I might be the only one willing to trade in the stethoscope for a frying pan. Going the family route has always been one of my ambitions. Oddly enough for a guy, a successful career has never really been all that high on my list of priorities.

But making a happy family is.