Why I Tell My Daughter Girls Are Smarter Than Boys

The other day I took my daughter with me to the dry cleaners. As we were talking, ( I was getting pants tailored) I told her, “Girls are smarter than boys. Remember that.”

A woman in the dry cleaners looked appalled. She said to me, “Well we women need strong men. It’s important to have strong men.”

I looked at my daughter again, right in those impressionable toddler eyes and said, “Girls are smarter than boys honey.”

The woman repeated her diatribe, and I placated her with, “Of course, of course”, and then the conversation ended.

Look, I’m not anti-boy. I know there are plenty of smart men in the world, but that’s not what this is all about.

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Mom at Work: The Disappearing Mother

Today is my birthday.

Do you know what my best present was?

I didn’t get many, but my best present was seeing my daughter.

My best present was putting her to bed. Bathing her.

Eating some cake with her.

See, I’m a working mom now with a long commute. So I feel as if I am slowly disappearing from her life.

I’ve never dropped her off at school. I’ve never picked her up.

I’ve met her teachers all but one, (there are 3) once.

She tells me stories of kids whose faces I don’t know.

She has a day that I know little about.

I know this is bound to be for every parent, but it is hard being Mom at work.

Being Mom far away at work.

Does my 2 year-old think I love her less?

Does she remember when we were home together?

Does she think of me when she is hurt at school or tired?

Do I register on her mind?

Am I doing the right thing?

Mom at work has to be everything: good employee, great mom, multitasker, and police.

Making sure everyone else who is taking care of her is doing his or her job since you can’t be there to do it yourself.

Hopefully one day my daughter will say, “My mom is a successful woman. And heck, she is a good mom too.”

Just wish it were easier.

For now, I will look forward to bathtime and bedtime, the weekends, and the five minutes I see her before I go off to work. Maybe it’s not the quantity, but truly the quality we spend with our kids that matters. I try to remind myself of that.

Be good to yourselves Mommies at Work.

Men are Simple.

Lately I see a lot of women in my life questioning the men in their lives, and often with good cause. Men say women are complicated, and dare I say it, I agree, although we must be careful to not pigeonhole people by gender. Some women are simple and some men are complicated dudes We women are socialized to be so nice and polite, yet when our feelings conflict with these socialized norms, we experience conflict, and don’t often say what we think.

Consider the common phrases like “Whatever,” or ” It doesn’t matter,” when you can damn well tell that it sure as hell does matter. I know many women who are sometimes afraid to say what they think, so there is a disconnect between action and emotion that men then have to interpret. They tell you, “whatever,” when what they really mean is, “I am so upset right now!” There are a billion Facebook memes about this female communication strategy that rarely works, if you ask me, but then again, I am a direct woman. Ask and you shall receive the blatant truth.

Men–in my experience and of course, not all men will fall into this category as we are all individuals with varied characteristics,–are simple folk.

I see friends and family–and myself at times, questioning male behavior, but to me, the basic primitive communication skills of the average male is pretty cut and dry.

So instead of paying the big bucks to read some book about men, here are my general tips. You can thank me later or send me money…or a cleaning guy who also strips. That would certainly be handy.

1- If he likes you, he will call you. Or text you.

Men hunt for what they want. If they want you, they will contact you. They want to secure their desired object.

Moral of story? If he doesn’t contact you, he doesn’t like you.

Exception: if he only contacts you late at night when he is drunk, he only likes your vagina.

2- He is not being coy. He isn’t into you.

If a guy says it is over or he doesn’t want a relationship than there is no way you will convince him otherwise. It doesn’t matter if you have five vaginas, or twenty hands. It’s done or it wasn’t about to begin in the first place.  He isn’t struggling to express himself woman, he told you exactly what he means.

The caveman was simple and direct. If he says it, he probably means it.

Exception: if he is mentally ill, he may want a relationship with you still, but be wary of a dude on heavy meds.

3-Guys solve problems.

Guys like to solve problems. Listening to you ramble about a fight with your girlfriend is not exactly a fun time for an XY. He likes to solve problems rather than commiserate over them. Accept this and you will learn to appreciate the various solutions a gentleman will offer you. It’s a sign of care that he wants to help, even if you want him to shut up and listen.

4- Men are visual–mostly.

When a man is confused, draw a picture. If he is mad at you, wear something x-rated. Plead your case well, but do it in a visual manner.

Exception: if he is color blind, watch the color choices in your “attire.” If he is blind, don’t draw him a picture. Scream in his ear.

5- I have no freaking clue about men. I wrote this list up to prove how little I know about men. Men of the world are all laughing at me and my diatribes. I have now led women to destruction, and no one will ever date or love or marry again.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway.

My identity through the eyes of men: Female Otherness

As a woman who grew up in a predominately female household, I didn’t learn that we were inferior or incapable of doing things that society indicated was otherwise.

But as I left my home and became integrated into society–school,  work, college, etc, I learned differently.

To admit this is maybe weak but, for a long majority of my life I have defined myself by Men. By their standards, judgments, and beliefs about me. Or about my otherness in relation to them. My wanting access to the circle that only men belong to. Forget about the glass ceiling. I didn’t want to be the most successful female. I wanted to be the most successful person, period. I wanted the men to lay in their tears while I threw tissues to them on the ground, walking away in triumph.

One thing I have hated since I was as  young as seven years old, was the feeling that the male circle was impenetrable. I hated when boys gathered to talk and gossip or dominated classroom conversations. I wasn’t considering that these little men might just want to be around other little men, but that because I was female I couldn’t join in. It didn’t matter that I was smarter than most of them or as equal to them, or that the same jokes they liked, I did too. I just had to merely squeak by the circle, and lean in to hear what these XY’s were saying.

Then I got older, and then the circle got even tighter. When I was younger, an occasional boy would let me in, and even let me play sports with the kids on the block. As I got older though, the message was clear: If you don’t have a cock,  keep out. Having good looks occasionally meant entering into the circle, but usually then for other reasons such as, one man or a few men’s sexual needs. Maybe one or two might have found me clever and smart. Most were not considering me beyond what my appearance had to offer.

I imagine my experience is no different than many other women, however the thoughts, rejections, and acceptances from men really whittled me down. For the majority of my  early twenties, I found male attention and approval intoxicating on the level of addicting, and their rejection, painful and harsh.

When I entered stand-up, I found men to be either wonderful and helpful, or absolute toxic creatures who liked to shut me out of conversations with not just looks, but with words. Telling me I wasn’t smart  and wasn’t funny. These were the same men of course, who wanted to sleep with me.

Let’s not let the cute one succeed. Instead, let’s take her for all of her good parts, and throw the rest of her to the wolves.

The one moment of fresh air came when I entered college. While my former educational experiences taught me that the boys are more cherished and nurtured intellectually, college was a bit more fair and egalitarian. I felt like my intellect and potential mattered.

There have been many times in my life pre-30’s in which I let men decide where I would be allowed to go both personally, and professionally. I cowed to their toxic comments. I backed away at times when I wanted to be treated as an intellectual and artistic equal, yet I always had a bit of a fight in me, like a scrappy dog who refuses to get beaten down by a shinier, larger full-breed.  The same girl who wanted to beat every boy competitively, not physically, in elementary school has always been alive and well.

After spending a long time–years–working on my memoir, I realize that claiming my identity and refusing to let it be defined by anyone, especially men was my big hurdle to cross.

After six years departing from comedy, I went back last night. I went back because I will not let men tell me what I can do or who I can be. I am not 25 anymore. I am not someone’s plaything or some stupid blonde.

I am me, and after taking the time to do other important things–reproduce, finish college, get my head together–I decided I wanted to share my story in more than just the printed word again, and I won’t shut up until someone enjoys me. Until someone figures out that my story is much like many other women and people.

And if anyone doesn’t like it, F-off.

I am woman. Hear me roar.

Now? The 30’s have told me

Princess Coma: How to survive as a feminist when your day is dictated by Disney Princesses

My name is Laura and I am a feminist.

That could mean anything.

What it doesn’t mean is that I am a man hater, because I don’t hate men. You people piss me off sometimes, but I love men. Seriously. A member of the I love men club.

Feminism is a broad movement with many little subdivisions.

I happen to be the type of feminist who was raised knowing women can do it all, but I’m not against hiring someone for manual labor, as I couldn’t put my arm back on if it were attached with velcro. If I were good at manual labor, I wouldn’t, but I’m not. I will say that in the past few months I have attempted gardening and landscaping, which hasn’t gotten too awful or too great, so I’m not lazy.

I’m the type of feminist who believes in owning our own sexuality–and not being subjugated by it. I believe that the sex industry perpetuates our dilemmas, but I also believe women have the right to choose their own destiny both sexually and as a person.

I am both Madonna and whore, and yet neither.

However, once I realized I was having a girl, I made sure to tell everyone: don’t indoctrinate my child with Disney princesses.

News Flash: There is no Prince Charming. There is just Prince “okay for you.” He may be Prince Charming for a little while, but no one can stand up to that type of idealization.  There is  also no need to stand like an idiot trapped in a castle, hoping someone will climb up your hair weave, a la Rapunzel, and save your skinny ass. If your stepmother hates you and poisons you with an apple, you will probably end up suffering. The chances of some guy riding up on a horse and saying, “Look at that–some cute chick is in a coma because she was poisoned. I better kiss her and make her better,” is about 0 in five billion.

I didn’t mind my kid reading fairy tales as it’s nice to enjoy the world and be altruistic as little kids often are, but I didn’t want her to get wrapped up in the romantic notion that women need to be saved by a more capable individual, i.e, a man, and that once you meet someone and fall in love, paradise awaits you.

Mother in-laws exist to banish that sort of fable anyway.

I digress.

I always liked the animals in Cinderella, and Snow White, but I was more of a Dorothy, Alice, or Laura Ingalls type of girl. That’s who I imagined I would be until Madonna came around, and then I wanted to prance around in lace outfits and crucifixes (who cares that I was raised Jewish. Have you seen how pretty those prayer beads are? Serious stuff man. I begged my Catholic friend to let me wear her rosaries. She said no. Party Pooper. Would have gone awesome with my denim jumper, huge clip-on hair bow, wigwam socks, and purple mascara.) Of course, let’s not even delve into the fact that Madonna was not exactly the most proper role model for me.

Who do you want to be when you grow up?

I want to hump a dog and go on a gondola in Italy with a lion, while I’m half-dressed.

Don’t worry, there were plenty of good influences in my life–I did want to be Pee-Wee Herman for most of my childhood–not that it helped, but damnit, I did not want to indoctrinate my kid into Disney.

Nope. Minnie Mouse? Sure–just don’t make me listen to Mickey for more than five minutes. That creature has the most annoying voice on the planet. Sadly, I do a good Mickey.  Going to Disneyland and seeing some of the classic movies? Sure. I’m not a totally nazi over the topic. I can imitate a Disney character and sing the songs with the best of them, but I just didn’t want my kid to idolize dimwitted princesses who probably were barefoot, pregnant, and living over a stove once the fairy tale lights were out.

Guess what? It doesn’t matter. Everyone else has introduced her to princesses as she’s a girl, so they think she’ll love them, and golly gee, would you know what?

She loves them.

She doesn’t think to herself that Cinderella probably prostituted herself out that night to get in to the upper echelons of society. She just loves the songs, mice, and dress.

And damnit, all day long in my head is the song, ‘We can Do it, We can do it, gonna help our Cinder-elle–ee, there’s really nothing to it. We’ll tie a sash around it. Put some ribbon to it.”

I eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with Sleeping Beauty, Tiana, Snow White, Ariel, Rapunzel, Cinderella, and Belle. I give them their vitamins, brush their teeth, and make sure they’re in the proper spot at meal time (to the left of my daughter’s high chair tray on our dining table.)

They join us in the potty.

They join us in the car.

I even have the dolls with the magic clip-on dresses.

My mom bought her a Cinderella Barbie, which I have yet to give to her.

When any other kid goes near the princesses, fire and brimstone erupt. I swear my child plots the death of these poor kids.

Note, she’s two and doesn’t want to share yet. Totally normal, but not as funny as she wails while trying to holding every damn doll in her hands.

All day long, my mind whirs of “Feed child, walk dog, where’s Cinderella did I lose her again?, wash dishes, write, apply for jobs, wipe kid’s butt, was Sleeping Beauty a narcoleptic or drug addict?, eat a snack, wash my hands, wash her hands, and don’t forget to wash Snow White’s too.”

Our day ends and begins with these little dolls, in which my child reenacts the most intricate and sometimes rather imaginative conversations with these dolls.

The other day, desperate for my kid to chill out, stop chatting, and start eating, I made Cinderella tell her, “Less Talking, More Eating.”

I knew having the ability to switch my voice would work to my advantage one day.

As “Cinderella” disciplined my daughter, she wanted nothing of it.

She turned to the Cinderella doll and said, “No Cinderella. I don’t like you anymore. Go back to your video. I’m not gonna to be your friend.”

Freaking 2 and she’s already pulling that “not gonna be your friend” business.

I told her that wasn’t very nice…and later on I heard her tell Cinderella:

“Let me give you a hug. I’m sorry I made a bad choice. I’m sorry I said I won’t be your friend.”

And then, to prove the apple is part of my tree, she dons a Cinderella voice and says, “I was disappointed in you. You made a bad choice.”

The “two” hug and make up.

When my daughter sees princess bikes, towels, shirts, toys, or dolls, she hovers over these items whether they belong to her or not, and is entranced.

I guess whether I want them or not, I am stuck with these princesses, and hell, I’ve even started to sing her some of the songs from my childhood.

Why not? Hopefully I won’t get my feminist card revoked.

What I really fear, more than being forced to watch Snow White or Cinderella twenty times, is the fear that my daughter will make men count more than herself.

That she will want so badly to matter to the opposite sex, that she will forget who she is. That she might end up bowing down to someone thinking, “he knows better.”

These fears are all from me. She’s only two. She is still smart enough to boss boys around and know that it works.

And being subjugated or bowing down to a man doesn’t just require a female with a bad self-image, but a male with a poor view of himself.

We need to be conscious of how we socialize both young men and young women. The conversation is not one-sided. It’s multifaceted and starts at home, continues at school, plays out in the media, and is then enacted in society.

My role as her mom is to expose her to many different goals, activities, people, and viewpoints, with the reassurance that who she is is wonderful, no matter what, as long as she respects herself and others.

This means that for now, I get to wear tiaras, and watch her reenact fairy tales that while they may hold no real bounds in life, they are wonderful, fanciful, and simple for her and her world.

If only we could capture that joy in the simple that children have, we would all be much happier.

Excuse me now…one of the princesses needs a bath and the other, a dress repair.

All in the day of the Queen.

Missing Our Fathers: A Generation of people long for the men they never had. Father’s Day Discussions

As I peruse Facebook today, I started to notice all the highly emotional content of my friends’ statuses. While I am sure there are a zillion deadbeat mothers, when it comes to social media and Mother’s Day, I don’t notice the same emptiness and longing, unless it is for a mother who has passed away. This isn’t to say that mothers are inherently better than fathers, but that there are a generation of people, notably female, who are longing for the fathers they never had.

Some people were completely abandoned by their dads, and others weren’t abandoned, but neglected–some notably so, and others in a more hidden, behind closed doors fashion.

Post after post, women–maybe because I am female I heard more “female” voices–cried out for the father they wish they had, or wish they knew. Some had other men step in to do the job, and others did not. Some women mourn for their children; their children suffer the lack of a father, which hurts the mom and kids.

Our generation–my generation, was home to a lot of fathers who felt that paying the bills and coming home were good measures of strong parenting. While clearly many of my friends and acquaintances could have only wished for a man to show up and pay those damn bills, a lot of women and men from my generation lacked play, compassion, and nurturing from the person they called Dad, Pops, Father, Daddy-o, or what have you.  Mothers filled the other needs, and fathers were financial providers and head of the house.

With the advent of women in the working world, these roles have altered, and while some argue that woman working has brought on higher divorce rates, etc, the coming generations, such as my daughter’s are truly blessed to have a whole new breed of Fathers.

Fathers today are more active and involved with their children—on the whole. Yes, there were good dads back in the day, and there are shit dads currently out there sharing their sperm, but in general, our culture has formed a different role and expectations for fathers in this day and age.

It isn’t enough to pay the bills and come home Dads and Husbands: we want you emotionally involved and invested. We want you to cook, clean, play, put on some makeup during dress up, and wipe a few dirty asses.

I would love to see what type of Father’s Day posts will crop up on the walls of my daughters’ future 20-40 year old female friends. I suspect that the dialogue on fatherhood will be much better.

Men get a bad rap in many ways. You never hear people dishing the dirt on crappy mothers on their day, but with fathers, we as a culture–both female and male, really seem to be hurting. The good fathers and men I suspect, feel a bit cheated by the reputation that is held against them. The single mothers and children who have been abandoned by these men, have left a hole,  insurmountable at times, that these mothers have to fill.

I know wonderful single fathers, and some of these men struggle, while the women lack clearly in every sense of the word, but our culture doesn’t have much of a dialogue for these single men. There is no narrative or culture of empathy for men who parent alone, without a present mother. I feel for these men highly, but I also know that the dialogue and culture of empathy written out for single mothers, is based on a myriad of factors.

We Mothers embody a generation of children. The expectations are always that we will be nurturing, present, and active. Now we also have the expectation to provide financially. For a single mother, she not only has to fulfill the maternal roles, but now she has to be the financial provider. She has to pay the bills, show up, and be super woman, which is what society expects of all mothers usually anyway. I am not stating that we should empathize more for single mothers than fathers, but that to remember how much we automatically expect from mothers is significantly different from what we expect from fathers. When a dad changes a diaper, we all applaud him for being such an awesome guy. When a mother works full-time and raises kids, we nod and say,”That’s what she’s supposed to do. She’s a mother.”

Additionally, women make less than men, so now you’ve got a single woman trying to raise kids on her own on less income than what a present father would have provided.

Now don’t think I am pitying single moms–it’s the toughest job out there, to be a single parent, but most people I know don’t want pity–just empathy. I know amazing single moms that are so strong, and don’t feel a lick of sadness that Pops never shows up to be a dad, but it is reality that a single mom has some work cut out for her that a single dad may not have.

Please remember I am generalizing to some extent, and that obviously, a single mother who is a lawyer, is faring better than a single dad who is a grocer.

I think the Facebook and social media walls are all a “twitter” over fathers because it is also socially acceptable to speak of negligent dads. For my friends whose mothers have been disgustingly absent, it is a quiet topic. We expect mothers to be there. A negligent mother is horrifying, and crushes society’s hopes in so many ways. Think of all the horrific moms in the news in the past 10 years that we have absolutely hated without even knowing them because they were murderers, child abusers, and more. While we hated male/father absuers, killers, etc, we really felt our blood boil when as females and mothers, we saw abusive murdering moms on the news.

Our culture is invested in Mothers. We don’t shine a significant enough of a spotlight on them to really discuss the pains of those who didn’t have a mom to hug, or lean on.

It’s time to really evaluate what we ascribe to parents of both genders, and to reconceptualize what it means to parent. Men are weighed down by social mores as much as women; we just may feel it more because of the financial and societal sexism that still exists. I think we are getting closer to doing this on so many levels.

For all of you who are missing a father, loving your father, or appropriating a different man to call “daddy,” enjoy your day today. To all dads, whether you struggle to parent or find it the easiest and best job ever, enjoy today and keep on showing up and trying your best.

We need you. Today’s women and girls want you more than ever.

Be a Good Girl

Women are told from the time we pop out of our mother’s uterus and become the keeper of our own that we should be “good.”

Be a “good girl.”

Be nice. Nice girls don’t do that.

Little girls are polite. Be polite.

Be nice.

Be nice.

Be nice.

Maybe I don’t want to be nice. Maybe I don’t want to be good either. Did anyone else get the memo that being good kind of sucks? That being nice all the time makes one a doormat? That taking shit from everyone and smiling and saying, “It’s okay,” makes you one miserable good girl. Plus, no one looks cute with a shit-stained smile.

I feel like sometimes I’m just compelled to say the nice thing or right thing because I know that if I don’t, I will be seen in a negative manner. I really hate that about myself.

I also hate that I am brought up in a world that tells me women aren’t funny, that we’re undersexed (such a bunch of BS folks), and that we’re all supposed to be nice and polite.

Don’t rock the boat darling.

There are so many times in my life that I just let people be their douchey selves while I laid down and said, “Sure, walk all over me. Go ahead. I hope you enjoy the walk.”

I should have handed these individuals a complementary water bottle and chocolate, sunglasses, map, and towel while they enjoyed taking a walk all over me.

That was what I got for being a “good girl” and being nice.

Sometimes, I was a bad girl in society’s eyes, yet to the person begging me to be bad, I was being submissive: translation: a good girl to an even bigger asshole. A good girl is submissive.

A good girl forgets who she is and what she wants so that others can be happy.

A bad girl does what she wants and shapes her life in ways that are meaningful to her.

I’ve let negative comments, conversations, and interactions ruin my day either because I was being too nice or polite to walk away…or too “good” to say what I wanted to, or even worse, I said exactly what I wanted to and was now reaping the guilt that my assertiveness had spun on me.

I’ve had men tell me I am stupid or that I’m not funny…or that my writing is stupid. I even had one guy tell me I couldn’t graduate college…that I was that dumb.

Apparently, he hasn’t seen my degree from Columbia, but I digress.

I have silenced myself with women too when they have hurt my feelings, by not saying what I wanted to say.

Sometimes, I said too much or just enough to feel like an ass for being so direct.

I just wish I never felt that conflict between who I am and who I should be according to the unspoken rules of society.

I am sometimes good, sometimes bad, but never awful.

To those that took a walk down the length of my heart and soul at my expense, you are all filthy animals, but I will never lie down in the mud with you, and you never stole my true self completely. Even in my darkest times I have always had an energy, a spring in my step, and an inner desire to move forward. No one will squelch that.

Let every day in my 30’s be a testament to living my life fully as who I truly am at all points and times, as along as I am not hurtful to others.

Let my daily activities show the things that matter to me, and reap work that matters to me.

I cannot worry about being good when there is so much time to be spent on making my mark on this world lest I be forgotten.

If we’re not here to be remembered for something that impacts others in a positive way, then why bother?

I’m sorry…so sorry

I apologize too much

This is possibly my most irritating trait to date.

I find myself apologizing for things that are out of my control like, “I’m sorry your wife won’t blow you more.”

Or

“I’m sorry your 17-year-old son has the vocabulary of a five-year old.”

And really, “I’m sorry I took so long. I’m sorry I’m short. I’m sorry I am five minutes late. I’m sorry the sun doesn’t shine on your ass.”

I apologize for everything. It is disgusting. I have never once met a man who did this–apologizing like a fool all the time. We women are just taught to not be too X, Y, or Z, so I guess we have become accustomed to apologizing. Maybe it’s because we also say on occasion, rude stuff that we then passive-aggressively (not a word) apologize for.

We have been socially constructed to be polite and empathetic people. Women are told to “be good girls,” and ” to be nice.” We hear this from the second we hit preschool. It is part of the expectation that as a female, we will be “good” and “nice,” and therefore, we must apologize when we have not held ourselves up to this standard and expectation. When we fall short from the “good, nice” female role, we must apologize for falling short from these expectations.

But my apologizing is at a whole other level of BS.

There are a million reasons why I may be saying, “sorry darling.”

Here are a few of those reasons.

I don’t like people to be mad at me. Growing up around fighting is enough to make a person anxious about any type of confrontation, even if it’s a mild-level confrontation. I would rather avoid those issues, than fall prey to an argument. Just take my apology, and let’s move on, even if I barely did anything. Even if I just breathed the wrong way, and I saw you raise your eyebrow slightly.

I. Saw. That. Eyebrow! This could mean trouble…to head it off at the pass, I apologize.

I say I am sorry because I have the burdensome amount of guilt that not even the Mega Jewish mother of the world could hold without her tits sagging right into her Star of David. My guilt isn’t even from the fact that my dad is Jewish, and mom was catholic pre her conversion to Judaism.

I just have this guilt. Maybe it’s sexual abuse guilt. Maybe it’s low self-esteem guilt. Maybe it’s mother’s guilt, or maybe I am just like quite a few other women, and simply feel guilty for sharing my feelings and opinions like men do.

I know it’s 2013, but guess what mo-fo’s? Not everyone gets that. Some people–some men–feel like a woman’s opinion is just not the same as a man’s.  I find myself apologizing at times when I am revealing way more than I suspect the person wants to hear. If you read my blog about meek women, you know I probably do this a bit more often than the average bear.

I apologize because I want people to feel I care about their needs. I know a few people who seem to be so shut off from their emotions–or maybe they don’t even have any? (that I doubt)– that I find myself apologizing to even these folks if I feel their feelings may have been hurt. Rather than making someone ask me to apologize for some unintentional slight I may have done, such as being five minutes late, or forgetting to offer him or her a drink, I apologize so that the person knows that I know I’m a schmuck.

And that may just be the heart of my story folks. I sometimes, think I am a schmuck. I undermine myself and forget to value who I am deep at heart, maybe because I have often been dwindled down by people who felt so bad about themselves that they figured, “Hey, why don’t I let someone else join me in my little misery pot?”

Here are a few things I apologize for, in case this blog offends or bores someone.

I am sorry for: maxi pads that are too bulky; quickies in which one person doesn’t come; being boring; complaining; writing nonsense that no one gives a shit about; the economy; my occasional need to interrupt (okay, if you speak slowly, maybe a bit more than occasionally); my boobs; my kid’s loud mouth; my loud mouth; my family’s collective sound of loudness; my non-hybrid vehicle; my cooking; my vagina–actually wait, she’s kinda cute; my former commercials that may have been lame; any bad sets I had as a stand-up; cheesy jokes involving my last name; picking my wedgie when everyone is looking.

I hope that suits you all.

If not, I’m so fucking sorry.

No, I did nothing all day. I’m just a mother

It’s the year 2013, yet somehow, women’s lib forgot to notify the rest of the world that being a mother is a job.

Do I  work outside of the home? Why yes indeedy, I do. Do I make a paycheck week to week? Yes. Is it a large paycheck? No. For now. No Jewish girl wants to live on a small paycheck forever, I assure you that. I enjoy what I do, and like working, but what about my most important job. 

The one job that I cannot list on my resume.

I mean my boss, my 32 inch daughter, never hands me over a paycheck, so maybe it isn’t really–gasp–work.

Instead, I get paid in the following denominations:

temper tantrums

declarations of “No, Mommy. I sit by self. You sit there Mommy.”

Letters, shapes, colors, and number recognition.

The triumphant sound of her counting in French.

Saying her letter sounds while playing with magnetic letters.

Tears.

Hugs

Countless re-runs of “You’re a good sport Charlie Brown.”

demands

tossed food

dirty diapers

and…dirty potties.

It won’t pay the mortgage, but how much does a healthy, well-adjusted child equal?

I wish men, and strangers would value child-rearing the way I do. I wish I didn’t have to hear how “easy” it is all day long.

Of course, it’s fun sometimes, and even easy. However, no one seems to remember the sleepless nights. My sore boobs. The shouts for toys in the middle of the store. The trips to the pediatrician. The tears. The temper tantrums because apparently asking your child to wear a sweater is akin to murdering Snoopy.

I don’t have a big paycheck. I only work part-time. I write, I teach, and generally, make people laugh.

What a friggin shock it is to be in my thirties and discover that even in the millennium, people do not value what they feel is woman’s work. Do you think it is fun to do laundry or food shopping while chasing after a pint-sized Castro? It certainly doesn’t give me an orgasm, but I would just love for the people telling me how easy it is, to do what I do, as well as I do.

If my child goes to bed happy tonight, I have done my job.

If my child goes to bed cranky tonight, guess what? I still have done my job. I probably didn’t give in to one of her crazy notions. I stood my ground and taught her that sometimes, you don’t get what you want, but you will survive.

For all you people thinking that your day job is somehow more work or more important than raising my child–or any child for that matter, I ask you this?

Can you be happy all day long, and emotionally balanced, even if you are having the shittiest day and the world is about to end?

Can you teach a child to read, write, sing, play, and laugh?

Can you nurse a baby while taking a shit, and trying to brush your teeth?

Can you do the laundry while potty training a child, and putting on your makeup for your night job?

if the answer is yes, then you are potentially qualified to do my job.

If the answer is no, then I offer you this:

Your job is way easier than mine pal. I will gladly trade you my vagina for your penis and get to be you.

Or maybe I wouldn’t because then I wouldn’t get to do nothing all day, while masturbating and eating bon-bons, and have so much fun raising the best, sweetest, and bossiest two year-old ever.