What the Woman Who Has Everything Including Moderate to Severe Hot Flashes Wants this Holiday Season.

A gently oversized, cowl neck sweater in a perfectly flattering neutral. Like the ones trendy moms wear on Instagram while holding a golden doodle puppy. Except this sweater must also adjust to the wearer and offer the intense cooling sensation of a York Peppermint Patty one minute, and the heat of Chris Hemsworth’s smolder in, “Thor: Love and Thunder” the next. Bonus if it has anti-microbial armpits.

Egyptian cotton, two-ply, ultra-absorbent sheets (2500 thread count.) Pretty simple request. We just want sheets that are soft, breathable, luxurious enough to be on Oprah’s Favorite Things list and capable of wicking away 2–17oz of sweat between the hours of midnight and 4:30 am with the efficiency of a Shamwow.

7+ uninterrupted hours of sleep. Between those sheets, we’d also love a few blissful cycles of REM, unencumbered by sweating, tossing, turning, joint aches, muscle tension, tingling extremities, burning mouth, electric shock sensations, gastrointestinal issues, or simultaneous anxiety about both our third-grade talent show fire-juggling disaster and the impact of GMO corn on the future performance of our retirement portfolio. Also, less itchiness.

A waist. It seems we’ve misplaced ours. Maybe underneath whatever is going on here that turned our curves into more of a soup can situation overnight? If you don’t find it, something Spanx-y could work.

A libido. Libido is such a funny word, isn’t it? You know what else is a laugh riot? Roughly 1 billion USD is spent annually on erectile dysfunction treatment and research. Guess how much is spent on research and treatment for the sexual side effects of menopause? Who knows?! Cause there’s no tangible data! HAHAHAHAHA. Dying over here!

So how about we put just 50% of the amount dedicated to floppy cucumbers toward research to improve the sexual well-being of peri and post-menopausal women and call it progress? Yes, we understand it won’t be available by this holiday, but this gives you a jump on it for next year, and we’re used to waiting for our basic bodily rights to be acknowledged! In the meantime, all our extra, unused sex-drive energy can go towards taking over the C-suites of Fortune 500 companies, so that’s cool.

Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men, specifically those working to achieve gender and racial equity for all. Upon the others we wish moderate to severe erectile dysfunction, LOL.

A nice, multi-purpose highlighting balm. We’ve heard great things about Jones Road. Or, you know, just surprise us!

I'm Mom-Struck

This is not a Mother’s Day piece, it’s an everyday piece that just happens to land the week before Mother’s Day.

Here’s the takeaway: Moms are freaking amazing.

If you’re too busy being one or need to quickly find a present for your mom or wife that’s not a scented body lotion gift set from Walgreens, get back to it. Please.

For the rest of you, join me on this rambling rediscovery of something we already know, but that deserves to be repeated.

Last Friday night I was at a work gathering, commiserating with a fellow mom (and awesome director of our largest account) about the ridiculous series of events that had nearly kept me from making it to the party.

I rattled off the past 24 hours:

Thursday, 2:30pm: Left in the middle of a super full workday to help my husband wrestle a hundred-pound, sick goat into the back seat of our truck so we could take him to the only goat vet available — an hour away. (Good news, he’s fine.)

Bert, deciding the backseat is for losers.

5:45 pm: Got home, ten minutes after I was supposed to take our son to school to prep for his jazz band concert that night. I leave my husband and goat in the driveway and zip to school with our son.

6:25 pm: Got back home, cleaned up, and headed back to the band concert with the rest of the fam. (It rocked. Or jazzed.)

9:15 pm: Back home, made dinner, ate at 9:45.

10:00 pm: Hopped on my computer to finish up earlier work and get ahead because tomorrow I have the “day off!” Finish at 12:30 am.

Friday, 7:30 am: Meet a different vet at the barn for annual horse vaccinations. Mini farm life = glamorous.

9:00 am: Leave with my daughter to drive two hours to her state choir championships.

Watch her group compete, (they did great!) attend celebratory lunch with 16 choir kids and a handful of parents. Drive two hours back home in silence because we are both introverts and that was a lot.

5:40 pm: Get home, catch up on missed emails and stare at the ceiling in a daze for approx 12 minutes.

6:25 pm: Time to head to the work party! But first, I have to give our sick goat a penicillin shot. This takes two adults and one large kid to accomplish. Traumatic for all.

6:45 pm: Clean off goat smell and head into Seattle for the work party that started at 5:30.

7:50 pm: Due to an accident on the I-90 bridge, finally arrive near the party.

8:05 pm: Zero parking anywhere. Drive around for 15 more minutes contemplating scrapping it/my life choices. Parking spot magically appears.

8:20 pm: Walk into party, instantly grateful I made it.

My friend nodded with understanding and empathy, and then told me about her last two days, which are already crazier than goats because she is the mom of energetic 7-year-old twin girls.

Behold her two-day journey:

Thursday: One twin sang so loudly she injured her vocal cords and could barely talk. Since her daughter’s not on track for an Eras tour anytime soon, my friend wasn’t worried, but called their pediatrician. The doctor insisted she be seen right away.

12:00 pm: My friend leaves a crazy busy workday to take her daughter to the doctor. Doctor refers her to a specialist at Childrens Hospital, asap. My friend calls to find out the wait is months.

Friday 8:00 am: My friend drops her girls at school, settles into her workday, catches up on craziness from the day before.

11:00 am: Gets a call from Children’s Hospital saying that they have a rare opening TODAY at 1:30 and will see her daughter.

12:00 pm: She leaves in the middle of putting out yesterday’s fires to pick up her daughter from school, and drive an hour to the appointment. Doctor is delayed. Finally gets in at 2:30 pm- her daughter is totally fine. Like nothing happened.

3:30 pm: My friend drives an hour back home, arrives just in time to pick up her other daughter and make it to another appointment at 4:30.

5:30 pm: They finish, she and her husband meet halfway so she can hand off the girls and then she heads straight back into the city to make it to the party.

As she tells me this, she points to her flannel shacket over a t-shirt, (which she still looked great in) but clearly read: “I’m running out the door with seconds to spare” vs “I’m seeing work friends in person for the first time in three months.”

We laugh and hug.

Are these examples full of privilege? 100%. Do way more trying versions of this, with more kids and fewer means and often no supportive spouse happen to moms (and yes, dads too, but moms are the star today) in every corner of the world? Yes.

But do we do all this and sometimes feel like we’re the only ones, yet also accept that it’s totally normal?

Every damn day.

Maybe we can’t have it all at the same time. But we certainly attempt to do it all, and 99% of the time we pull it off. Well. The other 1% is just us judging ourselves for not doing it better.

So, I’m just here to say, holy shit. She is amazing. You are amazing.

We are all freaking Wonder Woman.

My cape might have a little goat poop on it, but it doesn’t matter. I am in awe of us.

Happy everyday, Moms.

As Your Server at The Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck in LAX Terminal 6, Your Satisfaction is My Absolute Lowest Priority.

Yes, I see you there. But rather, choose not to see you there, asking the price of an unmarked banana on your way to catch a flight to Seattle. Because as Your Server at The Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck in LAX Terminal 6, my focus is on items of higher culinary significance. Like this overfull, scalding, latte-esque beverage without a lid I’m about to hand to a woman travelling solo with two toddlers.

I’m also super busy ignoring another frantic customer who’s been optimistically waiting 35 minutes for a Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck Fried Egg Sandwich that consistently disappoints. No one appreciates our consistency. Customers are assholes.

For example, you just missed someone complaining that their Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck Tuna Melt was not melted. That’s because it’s an untoasted sandwich with negligible cheese. When you order a Wolfgang Puck Burger, do you expect it to contain actual ground pieces of Wolfgang Puck? Exactly. Read the menu ingredients and shut your pie hole. No, we don’t have pie here at the Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck in LAX Terminal 6. Nobody has time for that, especially me. My shift ends in 47 minutes, thank Jesus.

As you stand in line to pay for your pedestrian banana, I notice you also grabbing the Chinoise Chicken Salad, a delicate blend of 13 cents worth of wilted greens topped with two chicken breast slivers and a whisper of wonton crumbs. Brave choice. That will be $19 with tax.

Ok. You’ve got to be kidding me. Are you really waving me down from the other end of the counter for a plastic fork? Look, lady, as Your Server at The Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck in LAX Terminal 6 I do not bother myself with the burdensome task of refilling plastic utensils. Grab a frickin’ spoon. Or a knife. Oh, those are out too? Then embrace the international fusion spirit of The Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck’s menu and eat that salad with your hands.

Yes, I’m one hundo-p aware we’re also out of napkins.

Excuse me for a moment, I need to halfheartedly attend to another unhappy customer complaining about their Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck Club Sandwich. Not enough meat. Rotten lettuce. Dry bread. No cheese. I’ll have you know the “cook” cut his finger shredding that lettuce (fyi, if you find a band-aid in your salad.) That’s why it’s called a club sandwich, biatch. Everyone’s unsatisfied. Join the club.

Alas, you cannot scare me with threats of calling my manager or scathing 1 star Yelp reviews full of quotes around words like “edible” and “food.” Because I am Your Server at The Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck in LAX Terminal 6, and in case you didn’t notice, Mr Puck is no where near the barely functioning kitchen behind me. Also, pretty sure I just heard them announce the doors are closing on your flight to Seattle.

But wait! Before you run off, as a token of my ambivalence, please accept this Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck bag containing a Grilled Seabass and undercooked Ham and Cheese Omelet that you definitely didn’t order.

Bon voyage or whatever.

Extremely Last-Minute Gift Ideas for the Tired, Infuriated Feminist Who Has Everything

We’ve all got one in our lives. A mom/wife/partner/sister/daughter/ friend/aunt/boss/spin class instructor who’s impossible to shop for in a regular year. Throw in the events of 2020 (global pandemic, RBG’s death, 269 billion years of endured misogyny, etc.) and she’s not only hard to shop for, but extra stabby about it!

So whether you’re out of ideas, or the “I’ve got 99 problems and the white heteronormative patriarchy is basically all of them” mug you ordered won’t make it in time for Christmas, this list will have you on her somewhat tolerant side faster than you can say “Pantsuit Nation.”

1) Listening: This holiday, give her the gift of non-interruption. I get that it’s hard, because you know so many things! But for instance, when a woman is telling you a story about RBG’s legacy while wearing a t-shirt printed with her dissent collar, try not to interrupt her story to explain what the collar means and why it’s important. Bonus points if you actually remember and acknowledge what she was talking about! (Hint, it was RBG.)

2) Acknowledgement of Earned Titles: What’s three letters, takes years to accomplish, and merits an entire WSJ op-ed dedicated to dismissing it? A woman’s doctoral degree! This one’s so easy, because all you need to do is call her by the title she spent roughly $250,000 and 96 months earning, just like you would a man. Try it, and if you have a penis, I promise it will be just as adorably tiny as it was when you started.

3) 6" Vermeer BV700XL Wood Chipper: A real splurge for your most rural angry feminist, you can’t go wrong with renting this pull-behind chipper for a few hours or a whole blissful weekend! It’s just the right size to accommodate everything from brambles to larger limbs, each representing significant milestones in her personal journey to making $.82 cents on the dollar. Feed in the organic material and the blades will pulverize even the hardest items as she laughs maniacally and makes “Fargo” references that you can’t hear over the roar of the diesel engine. You’ll probably assume she needs the 12-inch chipper, but the 6-incher does the job juuuust fine. Plus, it’s much easier to push around! The yard.

4) A pillow to scream into. Down, organic latex, memory foam, the type doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you never complain how every single new movie seems to feature a powerful female lead. If you do, please choose memory foam because it suffocates better.

If only your tired, angry feminist was satisfied with a Winterberry + Defeat Scented Body Lotion Gift Set® like a normal woman, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But alas, this year was tough, and your gift recipient is tougher. So happy holidays, and best of luck! You’re going to need it.