Why I'm Often Called the B-Word

When I pulled into the parking lot at work the other day, my eyes were instantly drawn to three words spelled out in large white letters stuck to the rear window of a Jeep Cherokee parked nearby which read, simply, "I'm A Bitch." Although the driver was nowhere to be seen, I felt a sudden and instant kinship, and knew in my heart that if we ever did meet, we would become fast friends

You see, I'm a bitch, too. I don't drive around with that particular information glued to my window, but I might as well because, as I'm sure my four-wheeling soul-sister found out many years ago, it's fairly impossible to hide.

I have known for many years that I'm a bitch because as far back as I can remember, when my older sister would introduce me to people she would say, "This is my sister, Crystal, - she's the bitch of the family." And who knows you better than your own sister?

But it's my firm belief that bitches have gotten bad rap, and I'm here to denounce the negative image of bitches in our society, and to emphasize some of the positive aspects of not only being a bitch, but having one around in case you need one, especially if happen to be a man.

My husband, for instance, seems to need a around bitch quite frequently.

Recently on a trip to Hawaii I was obliged to be a bitch for a short time in order to procure us a different room. After we had checked into our luxury hotel for a six-day vacation, the bellman showed us to our room and, as he brought our luggage in, I excitedly opened the double-glass door to our 8^th -floor patio deck to survey our beautiful view of the ocean. But it was not the ocean that caught my attention when I threw open the door, but a thunderous rumbling sound that shook the patio on which I was standing. I followed the clamor with my eyes to observe approximately a half dozen bulldozers, earthmovers and other assorted tank-style vehicles a few hundred yards away busily moving earth and emitting assorted ear-piercing beeping noises as each one backed up then lurched forward incessantly.

""What are they building next door?" I shouted above the din to the bellman who appeared to be making haste out of the room.

"Oh, just some houses," he hollered, darting out of the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him I looked at my husband, who knew instantly we would be getting a quieter room, and that I would be the one who would arrange it. This, he has grown to learn, is the wonderful thing about having a bitch in the family. They do all the dirty work. And they enjoy it.

Within a half hour we were sitting in our newly assigned room on a quiet balcony at the opposite end of the hotel, overlooking the ocean and the tranquil hotel gardens, listening to nothing but the sound of water cascading over the garden falls and birds chirping.

Ahhh, bitch heaven.

My husband hasn't always liked being married to a bitch. It has taken some getting used to. He's the type of person who would never dream of sending a meal back to the kitchen at a restaurant, whereas I, on the other hand, would never dream of not sending it back if it didn't meet my expectations. In fact, one morning I did just that at a high-end bed and breakfast establishment when I discovered that the eggs in my omelet were undercooked. I politely told the waiter (rule number one - a good bitch is always polite) that my omelet needed to be cooked a bit more. My husband turned several shades of red then whispered to me that the owner of the establishment was sitting at the very next table and had just witnessed the whole episode.

I shrugged.

I have been known to be a bitch in just about any element. On a recent camping trip my husband officially dubbed me "the biggest bitch in the forest" after I insisted on moving our tent to an empty, adjacent campsite when a family of five with two dogs moved into the campsite next to ours just as we were beginning to set up camp.

"They're going to be offended," my husband whispered self-consciously as I began yanking tent stakes from the ground and hauling our gear to the next campsite. Moments later our German Shepherd vaulted over to their campsite and proceeded to pick a fight with one of their dogs. My husband then agreed to pull up stakes. An unfortunate consequence of being labeled a bitch is people tend to jump to the conclusion that you are acting like a bitch just for the heck of it, when in fact there's usually a very good reason. It's the price one pays for the title.

It took me many years to become a successful bitch. Most women have it in them, but many have never honed their natural instincts. I know women who are so syrupy sweet one has to wonder: who in their family argues with the telephone company after being over-charged, or writes letters to hotel CEO after finding soiled sheets in the hotel room, or sends the remains of a box of stale chocolates back to the factory and gets five free boxes in return, or sticks out their tongue at the nasty neighbor when his back is turned? Who makes everything right like only a bitch can?

Yea though I walk through the valley of the campground of large families with dogs, I will fear no evil - for I am the biggest bitch in the forest.