Dear people in charge of commercials targeting women,

I just wanted you to know that according to your commercials, men never eat yogurt. Not once. In your world they don’t even go near the yogurt aisle. Did you put up some sort of force field? Only women buy yogurt and when they do, they eat it with grins on their faces and talk about it as if there’s an orgasm in every little 6 oz. plastic container. And really, “swapping” a slice of strawberry cheesecake for a yogurt?


I’ll eat a slice of strawberry cheesecake if I want to. Why is every woman in your commercials watching their weight? They don’t need to feel guilty about eating a slice of that that cheesecake in the fridge or about ordering that large cappuccino. Chocolate is okay though, you say they can indulge in pieces of chocolate—because they deserve it.

Men also never eat chocolate. Or use Swiffers, or paper towels, do laundry or dishes, or buy peanut butter. Only moms who care about their kids buy peanut butter. I’m a crappy mom if I don’t buy the right peanut butter.

Also, did I miss something, or is there a requirement that I have to dance while I mop my floor?

Am I supposed to be really excited about getting stains out of my kids’ clothes? And about how absorbent my paper towels are when my kid knocks over a cup of Kool-Aid and my husband just watches while I clean up the mess every time?

I don’t even have children.

According to you, having my period is so much fun that if I use the right tampons, I’ll enthusiastically twirl and jump around while wearing a light, summer skirt. I just can’t wait to get my period again so I can do that. The tampon boxes and wrapping have to be in very bright colors with cool patterns, too; otherwise, I’m just not expressing my uniqueness enough through my choice of feminine care products.

So let me get this straight, I’m supposed to buy expensive wrinkle cream because my crows feet are so unappealing? All of that laughing and smiling was such a bad idea. But how will I have time to apply this cream if I’m so concerned about getting the grass stains out of my child’s jeans?

Who has time for that? I wipe up Kool-Aid seven times a day and use fancy sponges to get crayon marks off the wall. Maybe in between the twirling and fantasizing about yogurt, I’ll have time to dye my hair too. I certainly can’t have gray hair while I’m running my fingers through my husband’s salt and pepper hair. It looks so refined on him.

I know the answer. You’ve told me several times, actually.


Everything is possible with a minivan. I can do it all, as long as I have one of those.

Oh wait, I’m getting these out of order. First, my male significant other needs to give me a diamond accompanied with a line that somehow ties the importance of our love to that of a rock. Why else would I be dating him? It’s not like he helps around the house; he can’t even go grocery shopping with me because they keep kicking him out of the yogurt aisle.

Cue the minivan.

You show us that dads have no idea what they’re doing. They just stumble around waiting for a woman to tell them what to do, or at least for a woman to roll their eyes at them as a signal they are doing something stupid. Men definitely can’t be trusted to cook, either.

Unless it’s on a grill, of course. Then the brotherhood of grilling come together and are now allowed some responsibility. Don’t give them too much, though; responsibility is for women.

Thanks for the great advice,