What boys have that girls don't

No, this isn’t about the obvious. It’s about the ongoing debate over whether XX's could ever, in our wildest dreams, be as funny as XY's. Like, do we lack the necessary equipment? Are the two somehow related? Is the funny bone connected to that bone?

 

Maybe it’s being around people and parties over the Holidays and hearing women, when they do struggle to burp out a joke, caveat it more times than not with the inevitable “Well I’m not very funny...” Maybe it’s in homage to the late Christopher Hitchens, who wrote the often-misinterpreted “Why Women Aren’t Funny” provocation in the January 2007 issue of Vanity Fair.  Maybe it’s because when I walked out of Bridesmaids last summer I said to myself “that was as funny as a guy movie.” (I am embarrassed to admit it, but I was skeptical that a movie about a female wedding party could run in the same circles as a bachelor party. Shame on me.)

Or maybe I’m just ready for a little LOL. 

Because it appears that, contrary to popular belief, science is proving that men are only SLIGHTLY funnier than women.

The study, conducted by Dr. Laura “Giggles” Mickes (okay, I’m kidding about the “Giggles” part) at the University of California, San Diego, featured a whopping 32 undergraduate men and women. After writing cartoon captions, additional men and women were brought in from the outside to score the overall  “funniness”  of the captions and then attribute them to either a male or female author. The bottom line: men did score “slightly funnier” overall, but both men and women assumed that the funniest captions were written by men and the lame ones written by women.  Not the case. And, no surprise to my cocktail party friends mentioned above, women rated their funny bones much lower, giving themselves a score of 1.5 out of 5 versus men, who gave themselves a score of 2.3.

Seriously? So this "comprehensive" study proves we can make funny like the boys. Of course this was not news to funny XX's  like Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett, Mae West, Mary Tyler Moore, even Marilyn Monroe.  I call her out because I know she regularly fought her funny girl image as she wanted to be seen as a “serious” actress.

 

In fact, it was Marilyn’s story that came to mind when my goddaughter came to me feeling very disappointed a while back. Seems that after being cast as Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh and the Genie in Aladdin, she landed the role of Miss Hannigan in Annie. She thought having the title role meant having the best role. I had to explain to her that the comedy roles were better and much harder. My logic worked; she rocked it as Miss Hannigan, no parental bias of course. Suffice it to say, Carol Burnett would have been proud.

Fortunately you don't need a "study" to find real proof. I believe the greatest gift to funny girls is Saturday Night Live. From Gilda Radner and Jane Curtain to Tina Fey and Amy Pohler, to Kristin Wiig and Maya Rudolph, these ladies aren’t me-toos, they’re kicking male counterpart butts outright. They've taught us that we’re no longer making funny like the boys, we’re making funny, girl-style. Agree or disagree but I laughed out loud at least four times in Bridesmaids (including once that reduced me to tears), and only twice in Hangover 2. Okay, the first Hangover rocked it, but I'd put Bridesmaids right up there.

This topic has a lot of mileage, I know that. From The New York Times to The Huffington Post, most conclude that men only THINK they are funnier than women, and women tend to reinforce it. But like the late Mr. Hitchins, I think what boys have that girls don’t is confidence. From what I see, looks like us XX’s need to tap into some of that joke juice. Because before we can convince the world that we’re as funny as men, we need to believe it ourselves. And once we do that, watch out mathematicians, because that stereotype ain't working for us, either.

When the child becomes the parent

Dad passed away yesterday, one week after I wrote the story below. 

My Dad has cancer. Our family is now part of that club that no one wants to belong to. But once you’re in it, you’re forever a member. Your mind flashes back to all of the stories of friends and family from the past and suddenly you’re hearing them again. But this time, you’re hearing them in a language you actually understand. You’ve been initiated.

No more radiation, No more chemo. Dad is dying. The man who raised my sister and me along with Mom. The man who left the house every morning wearing a tie, a Mad Men-worthy hat with briefcase in hand. The man who meticulously twist-tied every single light on the Christmas tree (sometimes a 2-day process) while we waited anxiously to hang the first ornaments. The man who believed without a doubt that road trips were to be conquered with relish. And the only good reason for a stop was an empty tank of gas. The fact that he traveled with three females (two of whom had infamously small bladders) must have been a great test of his will. 

 Dad and Mom are from an era when you do not ask of others. They are honest, hearty, hard-working native Nebraskans. One does not need help. And for the last 61 years as a married couple, they never asked for it as far as I know.

Enter bone cancer. It came into our lives quickly. After metastasizing slowly from his kidney. A diagnosis at the end of March quickly escalated to hospice three weeks ago. A new world. A different language. The club has new members.

His request was (and still is) simple, really. “Let me die at home.” Mom, 84 like him, bravely led the charge. But as quickly as the cancer grew, so did the job. When I arrived to help out a few weeks ago, Mom was exhausted on every possible level. She was going to do it all.  Because that’s what people like my parents do. I took her to ER the next morning.

That was the moment when it was time. Time for the child to become the parent. My sister and I have shared the blurry trek from Washington State to remote Northern New Mexico. There, we’ve helped order hospital beds, moved furniture and art, coaxed Dad to suffer the indignities of helplessness as he took on a quiet newfound dignity, even handed over driver’s licenses to pick up the controlled substances that make him forget the terrible pain that is eating his body. We learned to navigate the volunteer system, hire experienced caregivers in a small New Mexico town (“This isn’t Albuquerque you know,”) and convinced Mom that yes, the retired minister neighbor and his outgoing wife, yes, the neighbor who lost her husband to ALS and yes, the man who survived cancer really do want her to call.  They’re in the club after all.

This trip, I brought my two children. To see their grandpa. To let him see them. In his brief good moments, he shared gifts and wisdom with them. He openly stared at them as they sat, uncomfortable but sagely understanding under the scrutiny.

We’re heading back home now.

An early goodbye with lots of hugs and quickly-wiped tears, an hour and change drive to the closest public airport, a hefty layover and then the last flight. Home stretch. My 12-year-old daughter and I decided to watch the in-flight movie: A sappy, painfully predicable love story.

And then, I lost it. Have you ever seen anyone openly sobbing during a ridiculously cheesy movie on a plane? That was me. My daughter looked over with concern. I wiped the tears quickly and apologized.

She looked at me, said “it’s okay,” laid her head against mine and gently patted my arm. In that moment the child once again became the parent.

Big Agency Brat Changes the Toner Cartridge! (Not really)

Photo: CBS News. Expression: Perfect.

For a lot of my career, I have worked at large (I mean 1100 people in one office large) to medium/large advertising agencies (think: 50-400 people). In most, I had an assistant that I shared with a few others. Or as I worked my way up the ladder, I was rewarded with an assistant of my own.  She (there were several over the years, almost every one a gem, and yes, they were all female) did my timesheets. My travel. My expense reports. My calendar. She walked into meetings to pull me out if I was late, or pushed my next obligation back. She made my copies, brought me lunch. She made sure my husband knew what city I was in and when I’d be back in town.  She was a lifesaver. And she was just one benefit of being, as I have described to others who have made the bounce from giant monolith to small independent, a “Big Agency Brat.”

In my Big Agency Dreams maybe

As far as “Big Agency Brats” go, I was pretty easy. Made my own travel plans through the agency travel desk when they changed on the road, called my own cabs, got my own coffee and lunch. I pretty much kept my own calendar and tended to be on time (or close to it) for meetings. More often than not, I made my own copies too. Heck, I even added 8 ½ x 11 paper on several occasions and called the IT guy when the toner was low. Some may disagree (hopefully none of the assistants I so loved) but I tried not to be too bratty. 

Cut to last April, in a small, bustling office in Seattle. An agency called Hydrogen Advertising had welcomed me into their fold. An agency full of old friends and former co-workers. An agency of hope, talent and (surprise) people who honestly try to help each other out.  Really. I remember after sitting in my first all-agency meeting (we did then and still can squeeze into one room) and saying to my colleagues: “Everyone’s really, genuinely nice to each other here. I’ll try to get used to this.”

Now don’t get me wrong, most of my career has been filled with positive experiences: good friends, wise mentors, you name it. And when things weren’t as, um, positive, well I proudly look back on these times as “learning experiences.”

Oh, and speaking of “learning experiences, ” let’s get back to my new job and my new life. Sans assistant of course, I gamely sat down to do my first timesheet in our agency’s timesheet program a week or so into the gig. I stopped looking at the clock after two hours. I think I had half a bottle (or more) of wine that night just trying to forget the horror that was that timesheet. I swear that program was designed by sadistic left brainers who, at a young age, decided that right brainers must be punished and punished severely. Then there were the expense reports. (Oh yeah, I used to sign those…) And of course, the copier.

Thanks to Eli Moody for a very evil copier illustration.

The copier. I have a copier at home. I was a freelancer for a year at one point in my life. I can do this.

Actually, no I can’t. I can print, yes. I can even collate and staple. But for the life of me, of the four paper trays on that monster, none of them seem to be the “empty” one. I think the paper hops around when the trays are closed to trick me. Of course, kind, patient co-workers swoop in to help. I haven’t even asked where the toner cartridges are. Nor would they probably tell me, if I asked. (Wise move on their part.)

Oh and the timesheets? No prob these days. I have learned to click on the least intuitive box in the spreadsheet and my job numbers pop up in seconds. Click. Save. Done.

Take that, left brain sadists.

8 1/2 weeks

 Not long ago, I posted about my month as a full-time Mom. Since then, I have started a job 2,500 miles away. And I started it 2 1/2 months before the rest of my family will join me. Now, I'll admit I didn't really think about it beforehand but I have honestly never, ever lived totally alone in my life. I've always had roommates. In more recent years, I upped the ante to include an XY, two kids, two dogs, a tankful of fish and a corn snake. (We did have a guinea pig but she has since found a new home. Really, another home, not at a "ranch" or anything.) So for me, chaos is the norm. But lately, it's been just me and uh...me.

Hello, Friend

Crickets. 

I have a great little place. A cottage behind a house attached to a garage. Kind of a glorified efficiency. Just the right size and very nice. But perhaps the most important feature of this cozy place is the remote control gas wood stove. Yep. Remote control. I walk in the door and turn it on when I get home from work. The flame that flickered on demand quickly became my beloved companion. A warm friend who's always ready to welcome me home at the end of the day. I also developed a much closer relationship with the tv. I've never been a huge tv watcher, but I will admit: The Voice can get kind of addictive.

My kitchen looks different, too. French bread. Red wine. Imported salami. Truffled sea salt. Arugula-at-the-ready.

But the biggest thing I've noticed about living alone is how little one XX (at least this XX) effects the environment. When I get home at night, MY HOUSE IS EXACTLY LIKE I LEFT IT. Not a dish in the sink. Not a thing out of place. Not a noise to be heard (until I turn on the tv.)  No spills or stains to be discovered. No piles of dirty clothes to trip over. No "mysteriously" un-flushed toilets. No toothpaste drips in the sink. Who knew? I'm a neat freak.

Dinner of Champions and one XX

Sometimes I'll go for a long walk at twilight (love that flashlight APP, btw) or early in the morning. I can go to bed whenever I want. Or I'll just lay in bed and watch the wood stove flicker in the next room for an hour or two. Once, I had imported dark chocolate and red wine for dinner. Delicious.

Yes, I have done it. I have lived alone. I have survived for 8 1/2 weeks on one roll of paper towels, one bar of soap and a dozen eggs. I survived the realization that I was talking out loud to myself as I watched tv. (Was it The Voice or Law & Order? I can't remember. Oh come on, I can't believe you can't remember...) I survived when there was nothing to clean, no dog to let outside, and no one complaining or bickering or fighting.

My time alone is quickly coming to an end.  In a few short weeks, I'll fly back East to road trip across the country once again with my XY and two kids. This time, we'll add two dogs and a snake to the car.

I hope he doesn't get car sick

Let the chaos begin.