Not Just For Men - Unfair Gender Pricing

Life is simple; it's we who complicate it. But maybe there's a reason why women over analyze situations and give credence, where none is due. Even if it means denying ourselves the simple pleasure of living our lives in the moment.

Take for instance my recent trip to take my husband's shirts to the dry cleaners, with one of my own wrapped inside.

"Ah," said the worker, as she carefully extracted my shirt, as if it were criminal evidence for a CSI television show. "This is a blouse."

Now, not for nothing, I hadn't given it a second thought, other than my shirt needed to be cleaned so why wash it, when I was going to the dry cleaners anyway? Both shirts look very similar. They're both white and made of cotton. My husband's shirt has a collar, 2 sleeves, 2 cuffs, and numerous buttons. My shirt is the same. Other than the size difference, both shirts by all appearances are the same. However, the cost to clean these two shirts is greatly different. To have my husband's shirt dry cleaned costs me $2.75, while my female shirt costs a whopping $8.00!

Life is simple. So, I took my dry cleaning to a different establishment, but with the same results. A bit miffed, I took my dry cleaning home. Because if I'm going to get screwed, I'd like to be at home. I flipped through the telephone book and made calls, and every single dry cleaner charges more for women's attire then men's! It didn't matter if it was a coat or a pair of slacks, men's clothing was discounted. Apparently gender does matter.

But, life is simple. I get it-- if a man has to pay an exuberant amount of money to have his clothes dry-cleaned; he's not going to do it. He'd rather walk around wrinkled and dirty or he'll get married. This is how I got stuck doing the laundry in the first place! And eventually, how I discovered the pricing discrepancy in the second place.

To make a long story short, I sucked it up and went back to the drycleaners. I justified it by remembering to have my husband take me out to dinner. So, if you happen to see me wearing my white shirt, please refer to it as a blouse. That's what I'm calling it, for now. Well, at least until it gets dirty again, at which point it resorts back to its former state of being called a shirt. Which begs the question, if I had a teenage son, would my shirt have gotten past the dry cleaner's detection?

Anyway, be sure to check back tomorrow when I write more about the simplicity of life and the differences in gender pricing .   For instance, did you know that men and women both grey at the same rate, but women pay three times as much to hide their grey hairs? Or that men pay less to smell good then women? And although men perspire more than woman, they pay less for their anti-perspirant deodorant?  There's a lot going on, and life is simple, until we complicate it.

The Swagger I Got From Senator Ted Kennedy

Life won't allow me to remember him with coveted memories of a dear friendship. He was not my friend. And yet, Senator Ted Kennedy played a major role in my development. More of a role in my life, than my family and friends might be aware of. In fact, Kennedy gave me my swagger!

My "Kennedy" experience has always been very private. A well kept secret, I had stored it away in my memory banks for more than 34 years! It had comforted me during personal tragedies. And later, it became a steward that gently nudged me forward, when I wanted to stop.

I met Senator Kennedy in 1973. The year of riots and forced busing in Boston's public schools. Our city, home of the Freedom Trail was a national disgrace. I was 13 years old. A shy, skinny black girl from Roxbury, Massachusetts who had won an award to visit Howard University in Washington, D.C. It was the last day of our trip, when someone decided we should be taken over to the Senate Offices Building.

Our group was randomly placed with another group of tourists and we were escorted upstairs. But once we arrived there, a secretary regretfully told us that the Senate Session had ended and that the Senators had all gone home. Someone mentioned that some members of our group were from Massachusetts and the secretary asked that we, from Massachusetts stay behind.

As I waited, I took in the office space. My first impression was that it was terribly small and seemed cramped. There were books stacked everywhere and piles of papers. And I was mesmerized and even if that was all, it would have been enough. But then the Senator strolled into the office with his hand extended and a huge smile on his face.

"I couldn't let you leave," he smiled.  "You came so far to see me."

We kids from Massachusetts could hardly believe it! He shook our hands and to each of us, he passed along words of wisdom. Not the typical Santa Claus conversations that are littered onto kids, but real individual chatty conversations, and then to the group, he asked, "Why we were in Washington, D.C.?"

I showed him a letter I had received a year earlier, when I had completed a school assignment and written to my favorite state senator.  It was a mass produced, facsimile signed letter from his offices.  The letter had ended with an invitation: "If you're ever in Washington, D.C. come visit me in my office."  He silently read the letter and chuckled, then said that he was honored.

Senator Ted Kennedy told me that if I worked hard, there was just no telling who, or what I might become. And I believed him. I entered an all boys exam high school, ( the second class of females to graduate from Boston Technical High school). I was recruited to start in all boys inner-city basketball league and I became one of two female cable technicians in Boston, MA to climb telephone poles.   

And of all the places and faces that I saw in Washington, D.C.in 1973, I will always remember Ted.  When the world around me had gone topsy-turvy, he helped me believe in myself.--  "I Can Do More" might have been Senator Kennedy's campaign slogan, but it became my mantra in life.

Rapping Mom

Today, I woke up to rap music and smiled.  Now, I'm not at all musically inclined.  I can neither sing nor play a musical instrument.  But something about a melody just moves me.

Last year, on a whim, I accompanied my two teenage daughters, with a friend and her daughter, to a rap concert.  Yes, catch your breath, a T.I./Young Gunz concert.  Shut your mouth!

I admit it.  At a hundred and one years old, I do enjoy listening to rap music.  It's hard to explain, but somehow I drop the "P" in prude and add a "C".  Sometimes, I even allow it to stand alone, as I accept the "rude" rap, with its contagious, off-the hook beat.  

I think rappers are clever little shrews, who've taken "oldies, but goodies", and mixed them, then looped them into rap music, with just enough of the beat to maintain the song's integrity.   And for whatever reason, I find myself snapping my fingers and singing along to the radio and that's how I found myself at a rap concert last summer.

Originally, I was to be no more than an invisible chauffer, but then came the announcement that there would be a surprise guest.  The lights went low, the crowd of teenagers hooted and hollered and then, BLAM!

He walked onto the stage and  I lost my mind.   Figuratively & literally, I lost my cotton picking, ever loving, mind!  It was as if, I were 15 years old again.  It was as if I was at a Beatles concert! I screamed feverishly and jumped up and down, then whooped and hollered some more.  And that's when I noticed my two daughters, who had stopped cheering and now faced me and in unison they exclaimed:                 

                                   "MoooooooooooM!!!!"  

In that nanosecond, I smiled.  What else was a mother to do?  Then, not wanting to miss one moment of the concert, I pointed at the stage and screamed again.  And my girls, having gotten over their initial shock, forgave my transgression. 

Over the past year, I’ve had to endure the retelling of that story at family gatherings.  Sometimes, it’s nice to let your hair down and have fun.  I love all kinds of music, from pop to R&B, from classical to jazz and yes, even elevator music, but rap music will always have a very special place in my heart.  Because, it’s given me a wonderful memory, a moment shared with my daughters at a rap concert.

The Belated Applause

Yesterday I went to the movies.  I went to the Luxe Theater, where I sat in a plush & comfy leather chair and ordered a glass of wine, a bag of popcorn and paid the attendant a little extra, so she wouldn’t disturb me.  And then I settled back to watch  "This Is It".

 For me, the only thing missing was the roar of applause.  I had never seen/heard Michael Jackson end a song without fans cheering.   It was very surreal.   Just the crew clapping and it wasn't the same as a stadium full of cheering fans. 

 I missed it, that adulation which to me is synonymous with a Michael Jackson concert.  It's what I expected, except I hadn't noticed that it was missing, until I realized it was missing.  Funny, I had always associated the cheers of his live performances as part of the music.  You know, like the sound track that accompanies the viewing of anything that included a Michael Jackson appearance.  And then, I had to remind myself that he's dead and this is a documentary and I'm seated alone, in a movie theater.   This is it.

 When the movie ended, there was a soft respectful applause.  If asked, I would say it was the kind of applause offered when you've just witnessed something truly mesmerizing.  Like the astonishing magic of David Copperfield.  

 At one point during the movie, Michael stood motionless on the stage, and director Kenny Ortega called out to him, "MJ, what are you doing?"  And Michael Jackson replied, "Simmering". 

I smiled.  There was a part that brought tears, when he thanked his brothers and parents.  There was a part when he reminded me how I grew up with his music… a thirteen year old girl, thinking love might mean more than kissing, but hearing “Stop the Love You Save” or my own accountability as an adult, starting with the “Man In The Mirror” or my own grief, when the little boy named Ryan and so many of my friends passed away from Aids, all “Gone Too Soon”. 

And as I watched the movie, I realized that there aren’t too many people who know how big of a fan that I was, that I am.  I never wore it on my arm.  But I know genius and Michael Jackson was that, which I admire.   I'm not defending who, or what he was, or what he did or did not do, I'm just saying... 

The man could sing and he could dance and yes, I was entertained.   Today, after having seen the film I decided to thank Michael Jackson because he did indeed “Rock My World” with his music.

Enter Text Here

Wasn't This the Whole Point?

All of my life, words have been my friends.  They’ve always been there for me.   Allowing me great self-expression, comforting me and carrying my voice, when I needed to be heard.  But not today.

Today, words seem insignificant.  Today, my oldest daughter leaves for college and I find words to be inadequate.  They are a cheap replacement for all the feelings, thoughts and memories that will remain long after time and the elements of this world have caused them to fade from this page.  I feel something much larger.

While I am proud to see my child go off to school, I’m also faced with the hard truth, which is by mid-afternoon she won't return home.  This is so unlike the other school days, when I packed her lunch.  Back then I was comforted by the notion of her return.   Today, this is her first day of going off to college.  And there's no name tag draped lovingly around her neck to ensure her safe return home. 

And every day that I let her go, I knew that she would return safely home again. I had that much faith.  Otherwise, I may never have let her go to school in the first place.  But today it's differnt.  For one, there's no name tag draped around her neck and no yellow school bus either.  

In just 2 hours, Pooh is leaving for college.  She's leaving behind her childhood to embark on a journey that is rich with potential.  And here’s the thing, I know that she's not coming home today.  I’m not trying to hold her back, I'm just saying that this is truly a different kind of school departure.  I'm anxious.  I'm proud. I'm happy. I'm sad. I’m all of those things and more.

And I remind myself, wasn't this the whole point of parenthood?  To raise a child into adulthood?

And that's why my words are failing me.  They cannot express what I want to say….   In my head I can hear John Denver singing.  All of his pro-nouns have been replaced with hers.

"All her bags are packed
She's ready to go
I’m standin here outside her door
I hate to wake her up to say goodbye

But the dawn is breakin
It’s early morn
The taxis waitin
He’s blowin his horn
Already I’m so lonesome
I could die

So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you’ll come back to me
Hold me like youll never let me go
cause she's leavin on a jet plane
Dont know when she'll be back again.."

To Pooh:  I'll miss who you once were, but I'm excited about whom you're going to become!  I love you dearly.

Dear Fear

I drove past a wedding today.  The bride was being helped up the steps, and the train of her gown trailed behind her, like childish forgotten dreams.  And in that briefest of moments, I blinked and opened a floodgate of memories.

Geez!  I’ve been married 16 years! Whew!  That's a whopping 112 years in a dog's life.  That's really a long, long time.  Fortunately for me, I'm not a dog.

Once upon a time, I vowed never to marry.  It was the seventies and I was twenty-something years old.  I was completely unlike my girlfriends.  That is, I hadn't conformed to society's mold and my reason for attending college, really was to get an education and not to snag a husband.

Secretly, I was afraid.  Like most people, I had a fear of marriage.  Because, it doesn’t matter how deeply you love, or how long you’ve known your partner, there is that daunting factor of the unknown. Add to this your individual experience-- your family history of successful marriages or the list of divorce-- and marriage is not all that and a bag of chips!

So, fear of marriage shouldn’t be discarded, trivialized or rationalized.  In its purest form, fear protects us from potential danger, lessens the impact of a fall and warms the body, with its flow of adrenaline rich blood.  And yes, it can lead to healthy discussions, where two people can become intimate and compassionate without having to take their clothes off.  

Hopefully, fear transforms into relief that leads to understanding and patience.  That special alcove in the mind, where apathy resides and inspires and allows us to go slowly and go deeply.

Dan Rather, the news journalist wrote:  "Courage is being afraid but going on anyhow. "

And I think that's the way the bride must feel, with her white gown and it's train of dreams falling behind her.   Fearful, but having courage to go on anyhow.  And I chuckled to myself and welcomed her into my world.  Yes, happiness, like misery likes company.

2 Cents Plus $17.4 Billion Dollars

For whatever it’s worth, well actually for the $17.4 billion tax dollars that it’s going to take to save the 3 big auto companies, I’d like to add an additional 2 cents. Not because I’m feeling particularly generous, and not because I have money to spend, but because I’d like to think that as an American tax payer, my voice should be heard.  So, here's my 2 cents worth....

So This Is Retirement

Of all my mother's children, I like me the best. I'm one of four gems, stuck in the middle of a family that has lost some of its luster over the years. That is, we've gotten older and Mom, once an independent, single parent has also grown old. In a few months, she'll finally be able to retire.

And while her co-workers will celebrate her retirement for the triumphant milestone that it is, we her children will sigh and wonder what she'll do now to stay busy. Which translates to: "How is this going to impact my life?"

Pretty selfish when you think of all that she gave. Because in addition to being a Mom; she was also a Dad. Our father, her husband, went away a long time ago on a short road and left us with a long painful memory. She gave us life and allowed us our childhoods. And now, at 74 years old, Mom is retiring. Society is effectively putting her out to pasture and we, her children quietly watch from the sidelines. Secretly we'll pray-- "Please, God don't call us out onto that field to help."

But how nifty the human mind is! As I sit and remember what once was, Mom is forgetting what is.   Our minds are like bowls of water.  With good memories floating on top of the surface and bad memories settled further down, at the bottom like heavy sediment.  It seems to me, if I could just remember how my sisters and brother use to be, I'd have little trouble accepting them now, as adults.

And then, I could just make sugar coated excuses to my mother. Excuses for why her children don't come around, now that she's retired.   And as sure as the sky is blue, she'll forget what I said.  So, I'll repeat the excuses, over and over again. Until at last, the lie almost seems like the truth. Even to me...

I love my mother and out of all her children, I like me the best.

Pink on Wall Street

It's no longer an Easy Bake Oven Era for little girls in America.  Finally, fairy tales will be less effective in shaping her dreams.   Thank goodness!

Successful women, like Hillary Clinton, Sarah Palin, Oprah Winfrey, Rosie O'Donnell, and a professional women's basketball team, have all offered girls a chance to think outside the traditional gender box.  

Girls can be the hero and not always the victim.  She can be a princess, who chooses an education and can still have a knight in shining armor, or a frog that never turns into a prince.  She has choices!  And while there's much to get excited about, there's still a wall to overcome. 

Gender orientation in American society is such an integral part of our lives that it's not always seen as a problem.  Believe it or not, it begins in the maternity wards, where little color-coded bracelets separate the babies-- a little blue one for boys and a little pink one for girls.

Some adults unwittingly buy toys, the tools of human development, according to the band's color.   And so these innocent bands set the stage, which then allow gender orientation to be passed from one generation to the next. 

Recently, I was at the park and heard two children playing.  A little boy made a guttural sound as he played with a truck and a little girl made a cooing sound as she pushed her baby doll carriage.  Both toys had wheels, but they seemed destined to lead the children into two different places, one powerful and the other passive.

Tonka, the great toy manufacturer with its Wall St. Stock, doesn’t make a construction truck in pink. Maybe it ought to.

Maybe we would do better to raise our babies, according to what's inside their heads, instead of identifying them solely by what’s inside their diapers.