Penis Envy My Ass

We decided to go out to dinner with our son last night. During dinner, he received the devastating news that Phillies’ pitcher Cliff Lee was placed on the 15-day disabled list with a strained oblique. You’d have thought he had just found out the dog had been stricken with cancer; he was practically despondent. Cliff Lee is evidently the lynchpin of his fantasy team.

I will never, ever, ever, never, never, ever understand men. Never. At least not the ones with whom I have the pleasure of sharing my life. Things like ample food supplies, presentable clothing, clean toilets, and…oh, I don’t know…INTERPERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS don’t even cross their minds. A fantasy baseball team setback, on the other hand? Well, that’s Earth-shattering!

For the record, it’s not even one of the fantasy teams where you invest real money to enter. It’s JUST ABOUT BRAGGING RIGHTS.

And that, my friends, is Reason #2,573 that I want to come back as a man.

No, seriously. I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than being a man. I mean, it was probably pretty stressful back in the Don Draper days when they were expected to be the sole providers, but Gloria Steinem swooped in and lifted that bag of bricks right off their chests.

Don’t misunderstand me; I love me some Gloria Steinem. I watch Mad Men every week and worship at her altar because I had NO IDEA women were treated so poorly prior to the women’s movement. That said, I think the movement benefited men at least as much as it did women; maybe even more. I bet Gloria didn’t see that coming AT ALL. Probably because she never had children she had to raise in addition to working a full-time job. In fact, she didn’t even bother to get married until she was 66 years old.

No wonder she was so fucking happy.

I have often fantasized about what it might be like to be a man. These fantasies began when I went to work in the corporate world about 20 years ago. Not for the reasons you may think, however. It wasn’t about salary or career advancement. It was about bathroom etiquette.

If a woman finds herself in the unenviable – nay, horrifying – position of feeling a gurgle in her intestines at work, a full-blown crisis management plan goes into effect:

  1. Make excuse to co-workers for sudden departure (‘I’m going to go grab a cup of coffee. Can I get you anything?’)
  2. Find most unpopulated ladies room (discovered in previous recon missions; located in male-dominated departments like shipping, mail room, etc)
  3. Scan for feet under the stalls.
    – If none exist (bliss!), proceed with ‘business’ as quickly as is humanly possible in the event that someone walks into the bathroom before the deed is done.
    – If feet are spotted (argh!), run to stall furthest from occupied stall, scan toilet seat for signs of past sloppy hovering, wipe seat if necessary (and it will be necessary, for women are pigs), cover toilet seat with that ridiculously loud tissue seat covering thing, sit and try to relax – silently! – until the bitch in the other stall finishes up. Pray that she doesn’t have OCD and feel compelled to wash her hands for seven minutes like she’s a fucking surgeon. Once she finally leaves, proceed with ‘business’ as quickly as is humanly possible in the event that someone walks into the bathroom before the deed is done.
    – If more than one stall is occupied, abort mission and make a beeline to second-most unpopulated bathroom. Try not to shit yourself on the way.

If a man feels a gurgle in his intestines at work, the plan is as follows:

  1. Make an excuse to co-workers (‘I’m going to go take a dump.’)
  2. Grab a newspaper.
  3. Head to nearest bathroom.
  4. Proceed with ‘business’ (feel free to take as much time and make as much ‘noise’ as is necessary.)

Freud had it all wrong. It’s not the penis we envy; it’s the lifestyle. It’s being able to poop without shame in a public restroom. It’s never having the words ‘does this make me look fat?’ cross your lips or even your mind. It’s being able to go about your day without having to worry about experiencing an unexpected wardrobe crisis because you coughed too suddenly or you laughed too hard or you got your calendar confused (yeah…that whole area is a disaster waiting to happen.) It’s being able to walk out the door showered, shaven and dressed 15 minutes after you get out of bed. It’s not having to juggle (or even care about) a social calendar or gift giving or family obligations. It’s having a personal assistant who practically chased you down and forced you to marry her (What. Was. I. Thinking???). It’s enjoying the countless benefits a woman brings into your life in exchange for taking out the trash and killing the occasional centipede.

Yup. Totally coming back as a man.


Kill Me Keratin (I’ll Still Love You)

I got my first ever Keratin treatment today. With the cut and color, it cost about as much as our first home’s mortgage payment.

Needless to say, it was put on my super-secret credit card.

After signing away the GDP of Chad, the stylist tried to hand me the receipt.

Stylist: Here you go.
Me: Are you fucking crazy?? Do you think I want evidence of this laying around the house??? If I divorce my husband one day, I’ll wallpaper my house with a stack of these. Until then, I’ll pass, thankyouverymuch.
: We get that a lot.

I’ll bet.

To those of you with beautifully manageable hair who probably think I’m completely insane, shut up. You just don’t understand what it’s like to carry around a heavy mop of hair that, left to its own devices, would look like Edward Scissorhands’ hair. Only frizzier. Never mind that time I almost set it on fire trying to straighten it.

I was on the verge of tears when the stylist was explaining how this miracle product was going to change my life.

Stylist: You’ll be able to let your hair dry naturally.
Me: I don’t understand those words. I…I won’t have to…blow it dry?
Stylist: Nope. If you let it dry naturally, your hair will have a pretty, manageable curl. If you blow it dry (with your hands!), it will look like it looked when you used to straighten it. If you use a flat iron, it’ll look like Jennifer Aniston’s hair.
Me: I can’t even get my brain around those words. You realize that what you’re telling me is on par with me telling you that if you flap your arms you’ll fly, right???

A few hours later, I was telling a friend of mine (with a uterus, obviously, for no man alive – even a gay one – would understand, of this I am certain) about my huge expenditure, and she told me to enjoy it while I can because they’re about to become illegal.

Me: Wait…what?
Girlfriend: Yeah. They’re already banned in several states. It’s just a matter of time before they ban them here.
Me: WHY???
Girlfriend: Because they’re poisonous. The fumes that come off it when they straighten your hair are toxic.

I looked it up. Turns out it’s formaldehyde.

So, now I’m going to get hair cancer.

And I’m OK with that.

What? Stop judging me.