Am I Really Hiding Under the Bed…from My Daughter’s Toys?

We live in the age of electronics. Kids are glued to their smart phones, IPads, IPods, Kindles, and laptops. Games, books, movies, and music are all on these devices. Any type of entertainment for both child and adult can be found on these devices.

Except toys. Effing toys.

I believe that all children should have toys. It builds creativity, problem solving, and develops motor skills.

But some toys literally scare the crap out of me. Like my daughter’s toys.

It is best to illustrate my point thought the art of photography:

  • Dolls. These b*tches freak me out. Their clothes are more expensive than mine, they get their hair professionally done, and they are always sporting that smug smirk. It’s like high school all over again. At least with Barbie, you know what you are getting – a slightly slutty doll. Barbie’s got nothing to hide. There are about 500 variations of her and one Ken. You do the math.

The other night, I walked into the living room after my daughter was in bed, flipped on the light and found this:

American Girls

I think she was re-creating a scene from Mean Girls.

  • Avatars. While not really a toy, it’s as if my child went to a virtual Build A Bear and dressed up a stuffed animal.

Look as this Slick Rick.

Pimp Cat

It’s like Puss in Boots’ other brother – Huggy Cat. And what’s the deal with the butterfly hiding the eight ball?

  • Human-Size Toys. It looks cute, but really? I think this is the child’s equivalent to a body pillow. I found it sitting up and tucked in bed one morning. My daughter asked if she could take it on vacation. I told her we would have to buy a seat for it on the plane. She didn’t see the problem with this. Pray for us.

Stretchkin

  • Stuffed Animal Hoarding. These things are like Gremlins – they keep multiplying every time I turn my back. They are at the fair, arcade, mall, other people’s homes, and every damn gift shot across America.

Here she is surrounded by them a la St. Francis of Asisi style. Let’s hope these all don’t translate to cats later in life.

Hoarder

I don’t have an answer about the scary toys. I’m sure my parents shook their heads at my belongings. At least our toys were somewhat functional: you could travel around on your Big Wheel; work out your brain muscles with the Rubik’s Cube, and when your parents yelled, “Go find something to do!” You could literally Sit –n- Spin.

Remember this little guy?

Remember this little guy?

For now I will have to cohabitate with my daughter’s entertainment choices. They make her happy, feel safe, and bottom line, she likes them.

But if that American Girl doll asks for her own cell phone, she might end up in the shed.

Am I Really Wondering What the Hell is Happening on The Leftovers?

Question Mark

Have you seen this show? It is on HBO and is fantastic! The acting is superb, the direction is gritty, and the poignant staring is at an all-time high. I cannot stop watching.

I also have no idea what the f*ck is going on.

It’s as if someone threw a bunch of Skittles into some pudding, baked it for an hour, and then served it up calling it meatloaf. Crazy, makes no sense, but I would still eat it.

When I watch this show I feel like that annoying person in the movie theatre: “Why is that deer staring at him?” “I bet that is his wife.” “See! I told you it was his wife.”

What does this even mean????

What does this even mean????

Let’s break down why this show is my new TV crack:

1)      Acting. Okay, last time I saw Justin Theroux, he had hippie hair and was passing the gonge in Wanderlust. Looks like he found his “it” role because he is so real in this. Amy Brenneman – that chick hasn’t opened her mouth once in this show, and probably won’t. Her character is relegated to staring, frowning, looking confused, and poor penmanship to get her point across. She kicks ass in this show. Everyone else – all good actors. Not a weak link in the bunch. Maybe this series can loan one these thespians out to a Disney channel show. Their method of acting seems to be shouting.

2)      Intensity. Holy crap. Here’s what I walked away with after the first episode – I am never letting my daughter out of the house. Theroux’s character (a cop), has a teenage daughter. She goes to a party where they are playing Spin the Bottle, but with a phone. They spin the phone. Instead of just having to kiss when the arrow lands on a person, the phone app has such directions as “f*ck,” “kiss,” and “choke.” I didn’t get the choke part, and then was like “Oh – wait – ew – Oooooh.” If that’s what an innocent game of spin the bottle looks like now, I’m shoving my daughter into the cellar. Also, I downloaded the app.

3)      Storyline. Based on the novel by Tom Perrotta (who also co-created the series with Damon Lindelof for HBO), this show is a Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. Apparently, three years ago there was a rapture-like incident in which two percent of the earth’s population inexplicably vanished. Including Gary Busey and Bonnie Raitt. The people in the show are the leftovers – hence the title. Sub-population: a group of quiet, chain-smoking, people dressed in mismatched white clothing. I don’t get them yet, but I am sure Tom Ford and the American Lung Association have a few things to say to them.

Lindelof and Perrotta. You people did this to me.

Lindelof and Perrotta. You people did this to me.

4)      Crazy Ass Characters. We have the white-wearing, non-talkers; some bald guy who shoots dogs; a shirtless Svengali who keeps young Asian women around and is a bit of hugger; and then a giggling, tree-chopping Liv Tyler. At one point I expected Cornelius from Planet of the Apes to come waltzing across the screen.

Crazy....good.

Crazy….good.

At any rate, if you don’t have HBO, go get it – now. Sundays will have a whole new meaning for you.

Then I’ll have somebody to call and ask why that guru guy keeps kissing people on the mouth.

 

Photos of Damon Lindelof and Tom Perrotta, and group photo – courtesy of NYTimes.com.

Photo of Liv Tyler – courtesy of Zimbio.com.

Am I Really Doing Squats in the Emergency Room?

Emergency Sign

Being in a hospital or emergency waiting room pretty much blows. If you are the patient, you are usually in pain, scared, and shaking. The shaking is mostly likely because the temperature is set at ten degrees minus anywhere in Russia. Also you have to wait. Forever. Remember Rip Van Winkle? I’m pretty sure he fell asleep in the ER, just waiting to be seen.

While clearly paling in comparison, it also no picnic for the caregiver. You too are worried, scared, and ill-prepared; armed only with a phone at thirty per cent juice, a half-eaten granola bar, and a waning bottle of Purell.

So there is people watching.

The sub-culture of the ER waiting room is fascinating. When I had to take my husband to the emergency room, I could not get over the happenings in the waiting area.

Some people were really sick and hurting – like my husband. It broke my heart to see others suffering, when there was really nothing I could do. Except nag the front desk personnel and refill my cup of crushed ice.

Then there were some people who looked like they meant to go to Chili’s for dinner, discovered they were out of the baby back ribs, and so figured the hospital was the next best thing.

One woman was all dolled up in makeup and a matching hot pink velour track suit. She had her husband/boyfriend/man servant carry her white Gucci handbag while they trotted around the waiting room. Another woman worked happily on her laptop and phone, brought dinner, and ran into some old friends of hers, also waiting in the ER. What??

It was all I could to do to stop myself from slipping the triage nurse a $10 (it was all I had) to find out why fancy soft pants and “oops, this isn’t my office” were there.

Not our doctors.

Not our doctors.

Here’s a thought: If you can smile, work, and relax in the Emergency Room, then perhaps “it” can wait until the morning.

Once we actually got a room, I entertained myself with some bad television. Here were my viewing choices:

1)      Bethany – I can’t even. I have never seen this show, but after watching it I needed a penicillin shot. (No offense to her Skinny Girl wine, which I will gladly drink.)

2)      Easy Yoga – I fell asleep watching this. It was too easy. I don’t take yoga, but I’ve seen more movement in the Silver Sneakers class at the Y.

3)      Have a Turkey Neck? – Honest to God this was the name of an infomercial show. The cream looked like a pretty good thing, but the title made me crave mashed potatoes.

4)      Brazilian Butt Lift – I tried to glean all I could, but my husband made she shut it off because of the noise…and the before and after photos. Buzz kill.

5)      World’s Best Blender – Amazing! Apparently this blender can actually cure diabetes and the obesity problem in America. So much chopped asparagus. Also, I will never use this thing.

The emergency room and the reason for being there were pretty scary things. I was more than happy to have these slightly lame distractions.

I wanted to take a bath in this after the ER.

I wanted to take a bath in this after the ER.

I would, however, like to give all of the doctors, nurses, radiologists, anesthesiologists, phlebotomists, technicians, and staff a round of applause. They have to deal with so much on a daily basis. They are patient, knowledgeable, and kind. I honestly can’t say that about myself on a day to day basis.

But mostly, I’d like to give them all some premium cable channels.

Oh, and a penicillin shot.

 

Am I Really Moving To A Yurt In The Swiss Alps?

images[8]

The Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) recently published their annual list of the happiest countries in the world.

Below are the top five:

  1. Switzerland
  2. Norway
  3. Canada
  4. Denmark
  5. Austria

See a theme here? I do.

All of these countries are friggin’ cold. No one I know says, “Well, we are taking the kids to Toronto. The beaches are fantastic!” Also, the diet is funky. Aside from the Swiss chocolate, these people eat a lot of cold fish. Maybe all those Omega-3s are making the natives think they are happy. When in reality, they all just have excellent joint health.

I feel duped. And no, not because the U.S. did not even make the top ten (we complain way too much here). The OECD seems to have missed a grand opportunity by limiting the “happy” list only to countries.

imagesCA17CCAL

Being a helpful lady, I thought I would go ahead and expand upon OECD’s report. My happy place list is as follows:

  1. Disneyland. It is literally the happiest place on earth. Well, that’s what the sign says when you walk into the theme park.
  2. The two-foot radius around my coffee pot at 6:32 a.m. I think it is important to include the time of day here. There is no place I would rather be at that hour.
  3. A green field full of puppies. Everyone loves cute little puppies. Unless you have allergies. Then you can have a room full of pies. Unless you have a gluten allergy then – oh forget it.
  4. The parking spot next to the shopping cart return kiosk. You are done shopping. You have loaded your sundries into the car. Who the hell wants to walk 20 minutes to return their shopping cart? Not me. When you park next to this kiosk, you can just shove that cart a few inches to the left and voilà! Done.
  5. A beach in Maine in the summer. Or just New England for that matter. I love the smell of sea salt air. Period.

There were also some low scoring countries on the OECD’s list. Mainly based on unemployment rates. Much like Greece, Poland, and Hungary, I too have culled a top five of un-happy places to be:

1)      That movie theater seat in the very front row. I have never understood why this row is so damn close to the screen. Just move it back. You can’t see anything. I might as well just stay at home and stick my eyeball on the television screen. The effect is the same.

2)      A windowless room where Kim Kardashian is serving as a filibuster. ‘Nuff said.

3)      The last row on an airplane, which does not recline. The row is also by the lavatory, which is a whole thing. Also, just general seating by any bathroom is a bummer.

4)      Standing in line for the open bar at a wedding/work reception/party, when you have to pee, so you turn to the person behind you and say, “Can you hold my spot?” Only to hear, “Hey ______, it’s me ______. It’s been a while since we dated. If you could call it that [insert wink]. I’m married now. Wow, your hair is different.” Kill me.

5)      In a car, in traffic, when my daughter says, “I think I need to throw up.” Nothing incites more panic than those seven words. No one can stop the freight train of crazy that is about to go down. The emotional roller coaster goes from unease, to fear, to anguish, to exhaustion. For the parent that is. Put it in an enclosed space and my head might pop off.

Complete B.S.

Complete B.S.

I am sure you can come up with your own top and bottom five happiest places. I would love to hear about them, so please feel free to share.

Then we’ll all go drink some hot chocolate. That little Swiss Miss seems super happy.

Am I Really A So-So Parent?

imagesCAN9IPF4

We live in a world of super moms and overachievers. Those individuals who work full time, volunteer out the waazoo, have multiple children, and good hair. People who really excel at this parenting game.

I am not one of those people.

Mother’s Day was this past Sunday, and a certain gift got me thinking about what it means to be a mom.

My seven year old gave me a homemade Mother’s Day card. I cannot tell you how much I adore this card.

Here’s what I learned: My daughter thinks I am the best cook ever.

Because I make hot dogs.

No, not cookies, not even spaghetti, but hot dogs. I’m pretty sure franks are one step away from Fritos.

If that’s not mailing it in then I don’t know what is.

Last week, NBA MVP recipient, Kevin Durant tearfully thanked his mom. She was a young, single parent, raising two boys. She kept her kids off the street and made sure they always ate, even if she went to bed hungry.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is a MOM.

I have one child. I often worry about all the screwing up I do because there are no take backs. That’s it. There is no number two, or three child for me to perfect my parenting skills. It’s like trying to qualify for the Olympics: I have one chance, if I don’t get it right the first time – Game Over people.

I often think if my daughter ever writes a tell-all book, the title will most likely be: “The Scurvy Diaries. Never Tried A Tangelo – Mom Said It Wasn’t Worth the Argument to Eat My Fruit.”

Proof. Never mind the age up top.

Proof. Never mind the age up top.

Allow me to illustrate my parental mediocrity:

Diet/Cooking: I will never be known for my homemade meatballs or tasty knish. (Please see frankfurter reference above.)

Discipline: I’m all over the place with this one. Sometimes, I’m fair and she receives a consequence for the wrong behavior. No yelling. Other times I take it personally if she doesn’t make her bed/talks back to me/acts like she is seven. I usually end up re-enacting a scene from Days of Our Lives, “How could you do this?! Why, oh God, Why?” Followed by some melodramatic hands over the face. No consequence. Usually because I over-exerted myself from my dramatic performance.

Appearance: I cannot tell you how thankful I am she has to wear a uniform. When she does have the opportunity to wear layman’s clothes, people stare at me as if they are about to call CPS. Plaids, combined with stripes, with some polka dots mixed in. At one point I almost brought her to the Ophthalmologist to get her eyesight looked at. I have actually uttered the words, “I can’t let you leave the house like this.” More often, I just go with it. If she’s happy wearing something off the Bozo the Clown line, so be it.

Hair: So many moms are good at hair. I see French Braids and up-dos and cute pony tails. I gave up a long time ago. My daughter looks like Janice Joplin at a hair brush burning event…after she ran through a forest. For special events, the best I can do is use hot rollers on her mop. Also, the rollers are mine from the 80s.

TV/Computer Time: Most families have set television and computer times. Our television is on Sam and Cat 24/7. Oh we have rules, we just forget them a couple days later.

Homework/Academics: Right now her homework is like my homework too. I usually need to explain and go over things with her. This is not a complaint, I like working with her, but I have never uttered the words, “Let’s find some extra math work online. Maybe logarithms!” That Tiger Mom lady would have a stroke if she ever came over to our house.

Even though I won’t be nominated for any parenting awards, I love motherhood. If it weren’t for that one small, feisty child, I wouldn’t be fortunate enough to write about how average I am. Luckily, my little person seems pretty content with me too.

So maybe I will try a little harder, go that extra parenting mile with crafts, chore charts, and books on “gentle” rule setting.

Right after I get these hot dogs in the microwave. Since I forgot to defrost the chicken. Again.

Am I Really Greg Brady with that Funky Hawaiian Tiki Necklace?

Hawaiian View

Being in a rut is no fun. When the routine of day to day life feels, well, blah, it’s time to shake things up.

This was how I felt about a month ago.

Lucky for me, my family had a trip planned, thanks to my husband’s company. Not just any trip. We were headed to…..

Hawaii! An island paradise.

We were pumped! My husband and daughter had never been to the Hawaiian Islands, but I  had (Oahu and Kauai) and I knew it was going to be beautiful. What could go wrong?

I know you remember this episode.

I know you remember this episode.

So, four suitcases later (one was empty to bring back island goods to friends and family), we were off to the big island of Hawaii.

Getting to the big island from the main land was no easy feat. There were planes, and then there were smaller planes.

The big plane I could handle. The six-person metal tube called the Mokulele with no drink service, was a bit of a stretch for me.

It was a rough ride in 50 mph winds. When we landed, the women sitting in front of me (who had not said a word to me the entire flight), turned around and grimly warned, “Don’t take the lava off this island. It is bad luck.”

To which I responded, “Uh, thank you?” and quickly de-planed so that I could “Christen” the island a la motion sickness style.

 

Here’s what I learned:

1)      I look like a klepto.

2)      Do not drink a Bloody Mary on an empty stomach prior to boarding a puddle jumper.

It's like ukulele, but with a lo of Muk.

It’s like ukulele, but with a lot of Muk.

I thought, maybe a nice walk on beach might relax me, to which the driver cautioned us to stay away from the hard lava (which covered the beach) because its sharpness would cut us.

Here’s what I learned:

1)      The islanders have a thing for their lava.

The rest of the trip did not go as planned either. My husband had a multitude of mandatory work events. Some of his colleagues had hotel rooms with busted TVs, or bug issues. At the company costume party (don’t get me started on trying to pack a friggin’ costume) we were shamed into a corner because of our lame outfits. The hurricane-like winds caused all of the events to be moved inside. Even the little birds were angry, dive-bombing our food plates. Probably protecting their lava.

The upside – we were always the first ones at the breakfast bar … since we were all up by 4:00 a.m. due to the five-hour time difference.

On our one exploring day, we went up the mountain, into the misty clouds, to a town called, Waimea. It rained and was cold. While shivering in my tank top, I looked over at my husband and said, “Seriously. Why-me-ah?”

That about summed up the trip.

I couldn’t believe it. I felt cursed like Greg Brady on the Brady Hawaiian vacation. At one point I started crying because I had journeyed so far and my tan was only one shade above “not dead.” Probably because the winds kept kicking sand up in my face.

Hadn’t we traveled all this way to paradise? How could I be complaining about it?

While not our most shining vacation, there were some great moments of course. We met some wonderful people. We saw a fantastic concert,  and the trip did do one thing for me.

It broke me out of my rut.

Sometimes, you have to go around the world to get smacked in the face to appreciate what you have.

So thank you Hawaii. Thank you for shaking things up for me. Thank you for the chocolate covered macadamia nuts. Thank you for the Kona coffee. Thank you for the beautiful sunsets.

And no. I did not take the damn lava.

 

Am I Really Receiving a One-Way Ticket to Chico’s?

What they tried to sell me.

What they tried to sell me.

The other day I went looking for a bathing suit. Which is a whole thing in itself…but I digress.

I noticed something while shopping at my local mall: Certain stores discriminate against me due to my…ahem…age.

Look, I am not that olde (notice the old world “e”), but I am definitely not buying One Direction BFF necklaces at Claire’s either.

Let me illustrate:

A few stores in, I stepped into a retailer. I will not mention the name, but it has two letters and there is an “&” in the middle.

I usually don’t shop there, but they had a plethora of bathing suits, and it was right next to Build a Bear, where I had to get a birthday gift.

Plus, it was cheap. Bonus.

So in I went.

Upon entering, the sales people scattered. Why? I was showered, wearing makeup and my good wedges. What the hell?

When I could not reach a bathing suit (I am slightly deficient in the height arena), no one offered assistance. Even after numerous grunts, mutterings, and trying to scale the clothing racks – nothing.

So I requested some assistance. By the look on the sales guy’s face, you’d think I asked him for five hundred bucks and then kicked him in the gut. He sighed, huffed, and reached up grabbing a whopping two suits. Oh the humanity.

All this from a guy with a McRib stain on his shirt.

If you must be snooty, be snooty like this guy.

If you must be snooty, be snooty like this guy.

After that escapade, I could not figure out the sizes. Crap.

So I had to ask yet another sales person for help. McRib had vanished, most likely for a Smart Water and e-cigarette break from all that exertion.

Sales person number two was only slightly better. I explained I did not understand the sizes. He explained they were European sizes. There was an awkward silence. Then I made the mistake of asking what size I would wear. More awkward silence accompanied by staring. He suggested I try three different sizes because they run small and [insert cute shrug], “You just never know.” I asked him for a metric conversion chart regarding the sizes. More awkward silence.

Then he fluttered off, leaving me to fend for myself in reaching yet another suit at the top of the cathedral-height ceilings.

The unhelpfulness continued at the dressing room (I had about ten different sizes for one article of clothing – flipping Europeans), and the checkout counter.

Sadly, this is not the only store trying to boot me and my kind out of their retail establishments. Simply because we are no longer enrolled in COMM 101.

Or these guys.

Or these guys.

But I’m not going down the J.Jill’s tube without a fight.

I like what I like, and sometimes that takes me to Nordstrom, and sometimes it takes me to a store where all the clothing could start a forest fire by breathing heavily on it.

Also, my credit card works just fine last I checked.

So listen up all you club music pumping stores – I’ve got my eye on you. I will walk through your doors with a package of smashed Goldfish at the bottom of my purse if I feel like it. Or maybe I won’t, but that’s my decision.

If I don’t pass out in the doorway from all the cologne first.

Am I Really Eating My Friday Fish Sticks with a Side of Bacon?

A no no. A big no no.

A no no. A big no no.

The season of Lent is here. Hooray?

I am Catholic. I was raised Catholic, attended twelve years of Catholic education, and am now completing the circle of life by sending my daughter to a parochial school so she too will know the wonder of plaid polyester. And only owning two pairs of “layman’s” pants.

As Catholics, we repent during Lent and wait for the joy and celebration of Easter. This means, we give up something we really like, then bitch about it for forty days.

Taking stock on all the goings on around me during this time, I have come to a conclusion: I suck at Lent.

I think it has something to do with being a veteran Catholic; I was born into this religion. There are many New Catholic (NC) converts at our church, and they are really making us craggy Catholics look bad.

Let me demonstrate:

1)      Sacrifice. One must give up something (e.g. a vice) during this time.

  1. Veteran: Oh I give up alright, by literally giving up. I have been doing this so long that I have given up everything except air. Us oldies don’t like to tell others what we are doing because if we screw up (inevitably) others will know and shame us. Then we feel terrible for messing up. It’s the cycle we grew up with: Shame-Guilt-Shame-Guilt. You get the picture.
  2. New Catholic: Some newbies like to post on Facebok what they are giving up for Lent. This flabbergasts me. Do they hope to be nominated as “Most Devoted Person Who Gave Up Sprite During Lent”? No shame involved whatsoever.

2)      Stations of the Cross. A series of prayers said in reverence to the Passion of the Christ. There are fourteen stations.

  1. Veteran: I feel like a ninety-eight year old war Vet who smokes Pal Malls every time someone mentions the Stations of the Cross: “Stations of the Cross? I can’t go back there. Back in the sixth grade, Billy Moyer passed out right in front of me. It was station eight. The incense got ‘em.”

In grade school we had to attend the Stations during Religion class. They were long, extremely sad, and always right before lunch.

  1. New Catholics: They take their small children to the Stations and eat a communal dinner beforehand. Apparently it is a glorious affair. They probably get a lot more out of the service since they have full bellies and are not being graded by Sister Rose.

3)      Penance. Lent is a time to slow down and repent for our sins.

  1. Veteran: While I enjoy the act now, as a child I was scared out of my gourd to go to Confession. We had those old school confessionals where the little face box slid open and the priest’s voice was muffled – like Oz. He always handed out four hundred Our Father’s for eating a piece of candy during Lent. Also, it was encouraged to look sad and hungry during this time. Maybe black out an eye if we had a chance.
  2. New Catholic: They attend group penance services where other people can actually hear their sins. That’s guts people.
What the priest looks like after I'm done talking.

What the priest looks like after I’m done talking.

 

4)      Suffering. We reflect on Jesus’ suffering and dying for us, because of his love for us.

  1. Veteran: I fell like a major a**hole for forty days. I can’t even hand out spare change to the panhandler who hangs out under the I-35 bridge. The guy with one foot.
  2. New Catholic: So. Much. Volunteering. Then discussing the volunteering.

5)      Meatless Fridays and Fasting. During Lent, Catholics abstain from meat on Fridays and Ash Wednesday. Fasting and abstaining are encouraged throughout Lent.

  1. Veteran: As a kid, this meant frozen fish sticks from the school cafeteria and tuna noodle casserole for dinner. Every. Single. Friday. I began to rue Fridays. The only thing to look forward to was watching the Love Boat on Fridays. Unless I had given up television. Which I usually had.
  2. New Catholic: We have been attending the community Fish Fry. The food is delicious, there is cake, and beer. This changes everything.

So does new equal better in this situation? Not necessarily. I think we need each other.

I love my religion, but clearly I could use a little pep in my step from the NCs. They can re-teach me all the stuff I forgot about while taking a nap during Freshman year Theology. We oldies can confirm that nuns are not a myth like the Yeti; they are real and we were taught by them.

So this season, I am willing to keep an open mind, like the New Catholics. Maybe I can remove the shame, help out more, and be more communal.

Right after I flog myself for eating this Kit Kat bar.

Heaven Help Us Poster[1]

Am I Really Trying to Sneak into the Men’s Locker Room?

1993[1]

I am a woman. I am very happy being a woman. In fact, I have never wanted to be anything but a woman.

So I guess you could say things have worked out for me.

Or so I thought.

This past week was my daughter’s Spring Break. Like many parents, my mission was to entertain my child. This included a trip to the Dallas Zoo.

We had a fantastic time. We fed giraffes, pawed at fish and ponies, and drank out of gigantic cups shaped like rhinoceroses. Perfect.

However, I did notice something.

In the Wild Kingdom, the female species really gets the shaft.

Take this monkey.

imagesCAZAIEZS

Okay, it’s not monkey, it is called a mandrill, but same family. Notice the colorful markings on the face and behind. Pretty cool. A male.

Now look at the female.

She probably has not slept in days.

She probably has not slept in days.

Pathetic. Not nearly as colorful.

Onto the lions. The males have these gorgeous manes, a la Fabio.

Male Lion

Now look at the female.

At least she is saving money on hair care products.

At least she is saving money on hair care products.

Still beautiful, but a lot less hair. Fun Fact: these broads do all the work. They take care of the young, they hunt the food, and they are always the last to eat. This same scenario also goes down at my house. Hmmmmm….

Let us move onto the deer. Male stag – gigantic antlers.

Male Deer

Female deer – gorgeous.

female_deer_1280x1024[1]

However, not nearly enough on her head to protect herself. It’s as if one of the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders ran onto the field to catch a pass without a helmet. Not good.

Birds? A similar situation. Look at this glorious male Cardinal. Bright, red, exciting.

Male Cardinal 2

Let’s take a peek at the female Cardinal.

Female Cardinal

When I look at this bird, the loser’s song from the Price Is Right comes to mind: wa wa wa waaaaaaaa. Ridiculous.

We had a great day at the zoo, but it left me asking, “What gives man…er…woman?”

I am not a man-hater, not at all. Many of my close friends are males, I am married to a man, I even have a pair of boy-cut jeans. But viewing these wild life gender differences, it made me draw some parallels to the un-evenly tipped scales in our human society.

Currently there are a few “hot button” women’s issues: equal pay for women; lack of maternity leave in the United States (I went back to work at five and a half weeks after I had my daughter. My boobs leaked, my head constantly throbbed, and my uterus slapped me across the face once every hour to keep me awake.); the trafficking of young girls; female mutilation; and the underrepresentation of females in the financial, bio-tech, and movie making industries. Just to name a few.

I feel as though we have been talking about these same issues for, well, decades. It’s like the repeated conversation I have with my husband about his night to cook dinner. I have to remind him, then he gets upset I’m reminding him, then I sound like a nag, then he thinks I sound like a nag. The result is two people who are angry and hungry.

Why can’t we have this conversation one time, fix it, and move on? Preferably with tacos. Why on earth are we still talking about gender equality? I bet society is tired of hearing about it, because we sure are tired of talking about it.

In my own life, I have been called, “little girl,” and “honey,” during work meetings. I have been omitted from pertinent workplace conversations when I was the only female in that department. I have been pitied and talked down to for being a stay at home mother.

While the above actions are hurtful, wrong, and just plain ridiculous, I still feel pretty good about myself, and about being a lady. Because I know that every job I am hired to do, I am more than qualified. I know that I am able to produce at 110%, even with a lack of information. I know making the decision to stay home with my child, was just that, my decision. And I’m a damn good mother. I am not angry at the menfolk, but I am curious why these things happen.

Circling back to nature, I wonder if the doe is giving that stag an earful about deer equality. Is the female Cardinal running for CEO at the bird seed and worm distribution center? Will the lioness ever look at Leo and say, “You know what? You can get up off your dirt mound and take that zebra carcass out the curb yourself!”?

Probably not. Humans are the only species that can use words to get a point across. While we cannot magically change situations and how people think, at least we can make others aware. We are lucky enough in this country, that we can get up every day and choose who we want to be. And I guess that is something to be thankful about.

Unless you are the female mandrill. Then life seems a little sucky.