For the First Time, My Using the Title "Houston, We Have a Problem" Is Actually Relevant

Two days, two
kills.

That’s my current
spider-slaying record.

I discovered
the first one a couple of nights ago, hanging out on the wall of my bedroom.  The arachnid was MASSIVE and HAIRY and
possibly made me scream a bit.  Mind you,
I’m normally pretty Zen when it comes to spiders because I know how beneficial
they are.  I generally leave them in
place or relocate them outdoors with a square of cardboard. 

Yet this one
was MASSIVE and HAIRY, to the point that its MASSIVE HAIRINESS needs to be
noted no less than three times.

Also, the
spider had some kind of marking on its back, which concerned me.  Sporty racing stripe or possible black widow?  I wasn’t about to find out.  As I
didn’t want it to escape while I hunted down Fletch, I decided to kill it
myself. 

Death via
Dyson.

I ran across
a smaller spider last night and, emboldened by the previous night’s success,
smashed him post-haste with a wad of toilet paper.

Two days, two
kills.

At breakfast
this morning, I crowed to Fletch about how I was a super-empowered-spider-slayer
now and he was all, “That’s some fancy feminism there, Tex.  Ms. Magazine
is certain to put you on the next cover.”

Then it took
me a minute to realize he was teasing me. 

Here’s the
thing – and I’m not proud of this – I’m a terrible feminist because I’m never
one to concern myself over the inequality of the sexes. 

I’m so out of
touch with the concept of feminism, in fact, that I just had to Google the
definition to make sure I had it right. 

(Let’s all
take a well-deserved Shame Break here.)

BTW, according
to Webster’s Dictionary, feminism is the advocacy of women’s rights on the
grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men, and again, please
excuse the co-morbidity of my shame and my privilege.

My only
explanation is that since I’m our household’s primary breadwinner, and because
all the decisions made under this roof are determined together, and as all the leaders
I deal with in publishing are female, it simply hasn’t occurred to me that this
hasn’t been everyone’s experience of late.

Sure, it’s
2013 in my world, but my world pretty much ends at my fingertips.

Ergo, when
advocates in my industry speak out about how women and men receive unequal
treatment when it comes to literary review coverage, I’m generally too busy
watching Real Housewives to notice.

I know.

I KNOW.

And I’m
sorry.

But, this
lack of awareness about feminism brings me to something that’s been bothering
me for almost a month.  I touched upon
this in a Facebook post a while back and I thought that would be the end of
it. 

Yet I’m still annoyed, so perhaps it’s
not.

When I travel
for book tour, I’m very fortunate to stay in fantastic hotels because my publisher
has the benefit of a corporate rate.  I’m
often booked in a Four Seasons, which is pretty much the greatest thing ever.  Each time I stay with them, it’s a pure delight
and, once in a while, there’s some manner of outrageously thoughtful treat waiting for me: 

And yes,
everything you see pictured above was edible. 

(If you think my loyalty can’t be bought with a chocolate-covered
strawberry or a fondant GIF of my dog, then think again.)

Anyway, when I
arrived at the Four Seasons in Houston, I stepped into my room and found the
following amenity:

If it’s not
clear from the photo, my amenity included granola, water, a magazine I never
buy, and a Jillian Michaels butt workout on
DVD.

So… no
strawberries, then?

I laughed,
assuming that I’d received someone else’s amenity.  I snapped a shot and sent it to my friend
Stacey who replied that this screamed, “Welcome to the Four Seasons, Fattie!” 

As her response
made me laugh again, I posted it on Twitter, along with a photo and then I went to
the pool.

Upon my return,
I found the amenity was still there. 
That’s when I read the accompanying pamphlet and saw that the Four
Seasons Houston was calling this the Gal on the Go package.  As I scanned the marketing piece, I noted
said package offered a free glass of wine and a discount on spa treatments, and
that’s cool.  Probably not anything I’d
take advantage of while on a business trip, but still, very thoughtful.

Then, somewhere
deep within my lizard brain, my subconscious finally, finally turned off Bravo and began to pay attention, likely when I
read the text surrounding the Gal on the Go menu:

 

Um…

“Oh, crap, its
[sic] that time of the month!”

“What’s going
on in Hollywood?”

“Ugh, my
makeup won’t come off!”

Here’s the
thing – we’ve pretty much established that I’m a card-carrying, false-eyelash-applying,
hair bow-wearing member of the Barbie Army. 

Do you know
how hard it is to awaken my feminist sensibilities?

Do understand
how grievously you must have erred to
stir my awareness?

And yet the
Gal on the Go pamphlet did just that.

Suddenly I
felt like Lisa Simpson in the episode where she discovered her Malibu Stacy
doll was programmed to say, “Math is hard.”

Okay, number
one – and present company excluded – if you’re a businesswoman who’s at the
point in your career of scoring a suite at the Four Seasons, chances are YOU
ARE NOT A DING-A-LING and you’re not going to run around squealing about lacking
proper feminine protection because you’re PREPARED FOR THAT SHIT BECAUSE YOU’RE
A GROWN-UP.

You probably don’t
even squeal in the first place. 

(And
peri-menopause may have already taken care of the rest.)

Two, my guess is
you’re going to be more concerned about internet connectivity and meeting space
and a competent concierge than you are about having a private butt workout and a special little velvet box in which to
store your sparkly bits. 

And why
wouldn’t a competent person, male or female, simply stash valuables in the room
safe?

Again, my
problem wasn’t with the amenity so much as the way it was presented. 

Providing these services is a thoughtful
gesture. 

Providing
these services in a way that minimizes and infantilizes its users is not.

I mean, seriously? 

A She-mergency?

Seriously? 

Also?  I’m
allowed to call myself a "gal," but you,
random marketing person who I’d SWEAR was a clueless twenty-something male, are
not.

In terms of
equality, is there a Guy on the Go package? 
What’s in it?  Cigars?  Bourbon?  Foot powder? 
Porn and a healthy supply of hand lotion? 

Before I left
– and to be fair, my stay was otherwise spectacular – I filled out the provided comment
card explaining exactly what was wrong with the promotion.  Again, my issue wasn’t with the services
offered but the condescending way in which they were presented. 

As
service-oriented as this hotel chain has always proven to be, I can’t imagine
they’d willingly engage in a promotion that others found offensive, so I took
the time to share my input. 

(I can’t be
the only one who feels this way, right?)

A few days
later, the Four Seasons in Houston tweeted at me, explaining that they weren’t
saying “Welcome, Fattie” so much as they were offering a cool-ass package to
business travelers.

So... apparently it’s my fault for misunderstanding their intentions of giving me a
butt DVD in lieu of delicious candy.

Then they explained
that all their amenities are based on guest feedback (read:  all the
other gals loved it) and placed on their “dedicated floor for women.”

Dedicated
floor for women.

Dedicated floor for women.

Separate.

But equal.

And that's when I disengaged because I was getting nowhere.

I’m guessing
this sort of first-world-privileged rant won’t earn me a spot on the cover of Ms. (would they even let me wear a bow?) but my hope is this
will encourage the Four Seasons Houston to tweak their marketing on this
particular promotion. 

Then, the
next time some female oil exec checks in - you know, the kind of woman who not only can kill her own spiders, but who's also worked twice as hard as her counterparts to prove her merit in a male-driven industry - she won’t be thrown off her game when
she confronts the same blatant sexism that she’s spent her entire career
battling.

FYI, she’d
probably enjoy some dipped strawberries, too.