Can’t we sometimes just ask a friend for a favor without being expected to sign a contract with a 7% commission and without multiple 5:00 a.m. texts?

Also, DUDE NO MEANS NO AND ALSO SOMETIMES A LACK OF YES MEANS NO

My dear friend, Sally, who is only 29, is stuck executing her mom’s estate after her mom’s sudden and unexpected death, a death that has left us all reeling but has been especially hard on Sally, who was very close to her mom.

Sally is ready to sell her mom’s house.

Sally’s best friend, Sue, is married to a man, Pushy, who just got his realtor’s license. He has never sold a house before. He has a non-realtor day job.

A few months ago, Pushy suggested to Sally that he might sell the house for her.

Sally is a very agreeable, non-conflict seeking person, so she just said, “Yeah we can think about that!”

A few weeks ago, Sally asked Sue and Pushy for their opinions – as friends but also with Pushy’s real-estate insights – as to what she needed to do to the house to finish preparing it for sale. Pushy gave her some good ideas and referred her to a contractor who actually *showed up,* which was amazing, as Sally has been trying for months to complete a major renovation project that her mom had started. (The original contractor had long since abandoned the project.)

Last week, Pushy asked to Sally to review a formal written proposal for him to be her agent.

They went through a very long contract that included Pushy doing things (for money) that Sally has already arranged to be done herself, including deep cleaning the house and gardening, and that included a 7% commission.

---

SEVEN PERCENT

Y’all.

Have you *ever* heard of anyone paying a 7% commission to a realtor?

I haven’t.

I googled to see if maybe things have changed and I don’t know anymore.

Nope.

Five to six percent is standard.

Years ago, when Mr T was selling his mom and dad’s house, his obnoxious brother told him that “Six percenters are laughed out of the room” and that Mr T should have insisted on a five percent commission.

(I will note that Mr T’s brother has never actually sold a house, so I’m not sure why he’s so confident of his opinion, but he has a penis and he is a total jerk, so there you go.)

---

Sally told Pushy she needed to talk to her lawyer before signing anything. (Sally is a very smart young woman.)

Since then, Pushy has been texting her many times a day, including at 5:00 a.m., even though she has told him she will get back to him when she’s ready.

Sue texted Sally a photo of Sue and Pushy mulching their yard.

That is not the sort of thing Sue usually sends to Sally.

Pushy texted that of course the commission is negotiable and that he was offering Sally the “premium” package to ensure that they could sell the house quickly.

Pushy also texted that Sally should tell her lawyer that he had helped by recommending a contractor and that he was willing to negotiate the commission and that he was willing to mulch, even fronting the cash for the mulch out of his own pocket.

---

Decades ago, my mom got her real estate license. During her classes, they told her to create a sense of obligation in her clients by buying them lunch.

(They also told her that in the past, agents had gotten around Fair Housing laws by indicating non-white buyers – this was in San Antonio, so that would have meant Black or Mexican-American buyers – by writing their names in all capital letters. Selling agents would know to decline an offer that had the name in all caps. Some people are just evil.)

---

When I was looking for a place to live in Memphis, a real-estate agent showed me a few houses. After she dropped me back at my car, she asked what I was doing the rest of the day. I told her I was going to eat lunch at the Vietnamese restaurant I had seen earlier.

“I’ll go with you!” she announced.

I did not want to eat lunch with her, but I was surprised and I had not yet learned The Southern No, so I suffered through lunch with her. She insisted on paying for my lunch over my protests. I did not want to be obligated to her in any way.

If someone tried this today, I would know how to head her off.

“Oh that’s so kind of you but I’m afraid I simply have to get some work done while I eat” or – this is The Southern No – a sincere (except not really) desire to to the thing coupled with a warm decline and no reason for the decline (so nothing to argue with): “Thank you so much I wish I could but I just can’t!”

---

A work friend asked me to drive her to the shop to pick up her car. It was about 15 minutes out of my way – no big deal.

As she got out of the car, she dug into her purse and then pulled out a five dollar bill.

“Thank you!” she said, as she handed the money to me.

I was confused.

“For gas!” she said.

I laughed. “Girl! You insult me! You’re my friend and I don’t charge my friends.”

---

Mr T saw a specialist who recommended a series of tests after Mr T had a certain baseline test. (He’s fine, we think.)

Mr T had a lot of questions and felt like the doctor had just thrown him onto a conveyor belt and he didn’t think the testing was necessary.

We had a friend who practices the same speciality. He’s not even a close friend, but he’s a long-term college friend.

Mr T asked College Friend if he would review Specialist notes and baseline test results. College Friend said OF COURSE and spent an hour on the phone with Mr T, talking him through everything.

We do not expect a bill.

We do not expect a contract.

---

Sally doesn’t want to affect her friendship and she’s worried about how Pushy, who clearly has no boundaries, will react to a “no.”

She is also is feeling conflicted because Pushy has done her a favor and she feels the need to reciprocate.

I told Sally about my mom’s class and how they were taught to create that sense of obligation.

“That’s why Pushy wanted to buy coffee for my sister and me!” she gasped. “He’s never bought coffee for me before!”

---

Sally’s lawyer was no help. She said that Sally could say that her lawyer told her she cannot sign a contract for above-market commission, but I pointed out that Pushy has already said that he is willing to reduce the commission.

And Pushy just keeps pushing.

Rural Wisconsin motto: We’ve never even met a Black person but we still hate them!

The great state of Wisconsin, which fought on the Union side and refused to recognize the Fugitive Slave Act, is full of racists.

Are you shocked?

Don’t be.

Wisconsin is actually one of the most if not the most racist place I have ever lived and I have lived in the deep south.

The difference between the south and Wisconsin, my Black friends tell me, is that in the south, the racists let you see them coming, although this seems to be changing for the worse in Wisconsin. (Thank you Trump.)

---

The racists have never had a problem letting me see them coming.

I’m not sure what to think about that, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a compliment.

That is, it’s not a compliment from my perspective that a racist would think it’s OK to be racist around me.

I don’t want to be a safe space for racists.

I want racists to be afraid to show themselves around me.

---

Over 20 years ago, my aunt and uncle were visiting me. My uncle casually used the n word.

I was stunned into silence, but then I was stunned into speaking.

“Uncle,” I said carefully, “I don’t like to hear that word in my home.”

He got defensive and started to bluster.

Because basically, I was accusing him of being a racist.

Which he was.

And he knew being a racist was a bad thing.

(He has since become a Trumper, which I had hoped would not happen but it did. In 2015, he hated Trump, but I guess he got over it.)

(And what’s even sadder is that in person, he is so, so lovely. How can that kind of evil hide behind such apparent kindness? And why?)

(And is someone truly kind if he votes for Trump?)

---

A few years later, my other uncle was at my mom and dad’s place. He said the n word as well. I calmly – as I now had experience – repeated my words: “Uncle, I don’t like to hear that word.”

He also blustered.

My mother later told me that I was rude and inhospitable.

You don’t correct a guest in your home, she said.

I told her that I was not going to be the one watching as the Nazis loaded the Jews on the trains.

---

I have not heard either of my uncles use the word since.

I don’t know if they have used it around other people.

They probably have.

But they have not used it around me.

Now they know that it’s not acceptable around me.

Which means they know that it’s not acceptable in some cases.

Which means they know.

They. Know.

Everybody knows.

And some of them still do it anyhow.

I don’t know how to fix society. But I do know how to let the people around me know that I will not tolerate their shit.

Jerks are gonna jerk

It’s OK if a cat licks your face.

Some people might even say it’s OK if a dog licks your face. (I am not one of those people, but I accept that other people are fine with it.)

And it’s OK if someone you know and to whom you have given permission to licks your face, although I don’t know if that’s something that’s part of most people’s repetoire.

I think we can all agree that it’s not OK for a relative stranger to lick your face.

And yet, that’s what happened the first time my cousin, Liz, met Mr T.

We were at a family reunion. I introduced Liz to Mr T and she leaned over and dragged her tongue up the side of his face.

Then she leaned over to my sister’s boyfriend, whom she was also meeting for the first time, and did the same thing.

---

We all avoided Liz, whom we dubbed “Licking Liz” for the next (now minus 2006) years.

---

Mr T’s older brother, Lex, has never been my favorite.

He invited himself to our wedding, which I was not happy about, but I guess actually turned out OK as he offered a great service by driving Mr T’s parents around while they were drunk, keeping them away from Mr T and me and the people whose presence I wanted to enjoy.

But when Mr T’s parents died – they share a father but Mr T’s father abandoned his two little boys and his first wife to marry Mr T’s mother, Lex was angry that the parents had disinherited him.

Lex was angry at Mr T.

The parents also disinherited Mr T and Mr T was not involved in writing the will, but whatever.

He was also angry that Mr T was the executor, saying that primogeniture meant that he, Lex, should be executor. I was with Lex on this one, as being executor is a major pain in the neck and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone I liked.

After their father’s funeral, Lex sent Mr T a “tally” (he loves that word. He also talks about getting on the “telly” with Mr T, only he doesn’t mean the TV, he means the phone. Maybe he has dementia?) for his and his family’s travel expenses (including the expensive parking at the airport) to the funeral.

A little audacious but hey why not try?

Lex said that Mrs Lex’s mother’s estate was reimbursing them for their travel to Mrs Lex’s mom’s place. (Except Mrs Lex’s mother wasn’t dead, so it was just Mrs Lex’s mom giving them money.)

But when Mr T refused to reimburse Lex $800 a ticket for the flights Lex had gotten with frequent flyer miles and that Lex could have bought for under $400 each, Lex called Mr T and screamed at him.

He then followed up with an angry email telling Mr T never to DARE to treat him like that again.

And then he sent several condescending emails, telling Mr T he was sorry for him and he was learning things about Mr T that he had not known before and didn’t like.

When Lex asked Mr T about a bracelet that Mr T’s mother had promised Mrs Lex, Mr T found his mom’s jewelry and sent all of it to Lex.

Lex replied that Mrs Lex had taken the bracelets to a jeweler and they were all costume jewelry and suggested that Mr T was keeping the good stuff for me.

That is, he accused Mr T of stealing.

1. I wanted nothing to do with anything that had ever touched Mr T’s parents’ bodies.
2. Mr T had sent them everything he had found and had even talked to the jeweler his dad used to use to make sure he had all his mom’s jewelry.

Lex’s anger and outbursts led his best friend of decades to break up with him.

Any time Mr T would see Lex’s number on his phone, he would feel sick to his stomach.

---

Mr T has had to deal with Lex since their dad died because Mr T was also the trustee for the money that Lex’s child inherited from their father.

(I won’t even go into how Lex has tried to drain his own child’s trust for things like European vacations and remodeling his house.)(Or how he has insisted that Mr T put trust money into very speculative investments that later had to be undone at great hassle to Mr T.)(But he has done these things.)

Last year, Lex’s screaming at Mr T came up. I don’t remember if Mr T mentioned it or Lex brought it up.

Lex dismissed his rages: “Oh yeah I used to get high a lot.”

That was it.

That was all he said.

That was his apology.

That he used to get high.

As if that meant he was not responsible?

As if all could be forgiven?

As if Mr T should wipe the slate clean?

---

I saw my cousin Liz last week at a family event.

She was warm and kind and funny and acted with complete decorum.

At the end of the evening, I joked that I appreciated that she hadn’t licked my husband this time.

“What?!” she asked.

“Thank you for not licking Mr T this time!” I told her.

“I did that?” she asked.

I laughed. “Yes. When you first met him at the family reunion.”

Her jaw dropped.

“I am SO SORRY,” she said. “Oh my gosh I am sorry. I must have been drinking. I don’t do that anymore. I am so sorry.”

She didn’t remember but she acknowledged that it had happened. And she apologized.

All is forgiven.

We have wiped the slate clean.

That’s how it works.

The arbitrage opportunities with food

also

Give me liberty or give me death

I did not grow up in an eating-out house. When I was a freshman in college, my dad made $32,000 a year. When Mr T started his first job out of college a few years later, he made $30,000 a year.

Think of that.

Someone 25 years into his career being paid only a little bit more than someone starting his career.

---

We almost never went out to eat when I was a kid.

My mom and dad took me out for my birthday once. Another time, we went to a pizza restaurant with a family we were visiting. And I remember going to Wendy’s when it first opened and to a Burger King once, but other than that, I honestly cannot remember eating at a restaurant with my family.

On road trips, my mom packed a cooler and we ate sandwiches. She would get milk at the store and we would have cereal for breakfast. Our family vacations, when we weren’t visiting our grandparents (and staying with them), were camping trips where we took food with us.

For my college graduation, my family drove to Houston from San Antonio, attended the ceremony, took me out for ice cream, and drove back that night.

My uncle visited us when I was in high school and took us to the Golden Corral. My siblings and I were in high heaven. He even let us order soda. I know my mom and dad would have been thinking, “That costs almost as much as a gallon of milk!” I know they thought that because I think that now. I never get soda at a restaurant. Water is free.

---

Even now, when I have a bit more money than my parents ever did, I have a super-practical view of eating at restaurants, which is, “Why would I pay a lot more money for something I can do myself?”

That is, I am willing to pay only for items I can’t or won’t make at home. Those items include pho, which I made once and now am very very willing to pay for because it is a ton of work, Thai food, Hawaiian food, and some Mexican foods. I could probably figure all this stuff out, but I am too lazy and I would need to get a lot of specialized ingredients and it probably still wouldn’t taste the same.

---

We visited some friends who are of Indian heritage. They took us out to eat at a really nice restaurant and it was lovely, but somehow, it came up in conversation later that we would love to cook Indian food with them.

They were shocked.

But that’s so – ordinary! they responded.

They had thought that cooking the food they eat every day would be kind of boring for us and not special at all.

ARE YOU KIDDING? we answered. A HOME-COOKED INDIAN MEAL WHERE WE GET TO LEARN HOW YOU DO IT?

Ever since then, when we visit, we cook together.

It is so much fun. And so delicious.

---

One of my favorite things to do is to cook with friends.

Many of my friends are done done done with cooking – their kids are out of the house and they are thrilled at their newfound freedom, but I’m always a little sad when they want to go out to eat instead of cooking. I know they want to share their favorite places with us and I am honored at that, but I don’t really enjoy the restaurant experience and I worry about who’s paying and really, I miss the days when we cooked together. Those are truly some of my happiest memories with my friends.

---

Mr T and I rarely eat out. Most of it is because of covid, but also, we are sort of retired. Or unemployed. Not sure which. But neither of us want to go back to work and we are very willing to make sacrifices to keep from having to.

That is, I would happily never eat in another restaurant again as long as it means I never have to return to the soul-crushing existence of a low-paying corporate job where I am the flunky who gets stuck doing stuff I hate, including creating and sending mass emails at the last minute on the Friday before a three-day weekend.

Restaurants are a luxury I can happily forgo if it means I can have my freedom. I would rather have time than money at this stage of my life. So if any of you ever visit me, I will be cooking for you! Mostly because I love to cook for and with friends, but also because I want to spend my time with you, not at work.

Women can’t do any worse than men have done for all of recorded history

I swear if women ran the world, there would never be another war.

There would never be another hungry child.

There would never be another maternal death.

There would be no more suffering from PMS, cramps, endometriosis, interstitial cystitis, or hot flashes and female pain would be taken seriously.

There would be enough provision in public restrooms so that women wait no longer than men do to pee.

There would be pockets. Pockets deep enough to actually hold things.

There would be comfortable temperatures in common spaces.

Pay disparities? Gone.

Sexual harassment at work? Taken seriously.

Rape? Straight to prison with none of this “Oh but what about the future of this promising young man?”

There would be so many things.

How do I know this?

Two reasons:

Women create legislation to support these goals.

In her proposed apprenticeship bill, Senator Tammy Baldwin has included funding for child and elder care so moms (and dads) can attend school. When a friend got her master’s degree, her two little girls also got diplomas – because they had sat next to her in every class. There was no other way for my friend to attend night school.

Robyn Vining, a Wisconsin state legislator, proposed and got passed legislation about universal changing stations – places in public restrooms where caregivers can change the diapers of someone who is not an infant.

Women cooperate when there are scarce resources

I was in the ladies’ at a music festival. The lines were long (of course) and everyone wanted to get in and get out as quickly as possible so they could get back to the music.

But some of the soap dispensers were out.

Some of the towel dispensers were out.

And some of the stalls lacked toilet paper.

But rather than rush out after they had finished washing their hands, women were directing other women to the soap that worked and helping other women tear off paper towels from the giant rolls of paper that had been placed on top of the towel dispensers.

They were gathering toilet paper from the stalls that had it and waving women in line down to the stalls without paper, handing them the paper as they passed.

Women in stalls without paper were yelling, “I need toilet paper!” and other women were delivering it to them.

Instead of saying, “I got mine so screw the rest of you,” there were women delaying their own happiness and cooperating to make sure that everyone got what she needed.

If nobody has ever written a dissertation called “The Ladies Room: A Model of Community and Cooperation that the Rest of the World Should Follow,” they need to do it now.

I guess if The Patriarchy isn’t The Boss of Us, we regret it?

I posted a photo of a line for the women’s room on facebook and made this comment:

This is one of the many reasons we need to elect more (non-misogynistic) women (who reject the Patriarchal Bargain) into office.

A college friend replied,

they keep expanding the number of bathroom space for women compared to men in Texas. Still doesn’t matter. But yes, it absolutely has everything to do with deep-seated sexism in combination with the self-hatred of an emancipated women.

And I don’t understand his points at all.

In his first point, he says, “they keep expanding the number of bathroom space for women compared to men in Texas. Still doesn’t matter.“

To which I suggest, then expand the bathroom space more as clearly there are still not enough restrooms for complete potty parity.

I mean, obvious, right?

His second point confuses me, though. “it absolutely has everything to do with deep-seated sexism in combination with the self-hatred of an emancipated women.“

Yes, it totally has everything to do with deep-seated sexism! WE KNOW THAT!

But what is this “self-hatred of an emancipated woman?”

---

I just noticed this – why can’t it be an “ewomancipated woman?” Why on earth does the word “man” have to be in everything?

It turns out that the “man” refers to hand, not to males.

emancipate (v.)

1620s, “set free from control,” from Latin emancipatus, past participle of emancipare “put (a son) out of paternal authority, declare (someone) free, give up one’s authority over,” in Roman law, the freeing of a son or wife from the legal authority (patria potestas) of the pater familias, to make his or her own way in the world; from assimilated form of ex- “out, away” (see ex-) + mancipare “deliver, transfer or sell,” from mancipum “ownership,” from manus “hand” (from PIE root *man- (2) “hand”) + capere “to take,” from PIE root *kap- “to grasp.” Related: Emancipated; emancipating.

Not used by the Romans in reference to the freeing of slaves, the verb for this being manumittere. The English word was adopted in the jargon of the cause of religious toleration (17c.), then anti-slavery (1776). Also used in reference to women who free themselves from conventional customs (1850).

also from 1620sOnline Etymology Dictionary

---

Do you hate yourself?

Now that women have the vote, do you hate yourself?

Now that women can own property, do you hate yourself?

Now that women can get credit cards in their own names, do you hate yourself?

Now that women have options and don’t have to stay with husbands just because they need someone to pay the rent, do you hate yourself?

Yeah.

Me, neither.

GO BIG and TAKE UP SPACE

Mr T, our friend Danielle, and I went to a concert (Earth Wind and Fire and they were FABULOUS) at an outdoor venue. We didn’t have seats and were standing in the back with dozens of other people. It was very very crowded.

Very crowded.

But we could still hear so that was fine.

A young woman behind us started talking to us. She asked Mr T if he had gone to Woodstock.

No. No, he did not.

Mr T laughed. “No, I was a little kid!”

Even if his parents hadn’t held contemporary music in deep disdain (Mr T’s father once said “if only Paul McCartney could sing”), they would not have taken a little boy to a rock festival.

A lecture on global warming, yes.

A music festival, no.

“My parents were born in 1970 so they didn’t go,” she said.

I guess Mr T looks old enough to be her grandfather? 🙂 Although everyone under 40 looks the same to me, so I guess I get it.

This young woman was lovely, though, and curious about our music experiences. She wanted to know how we had first gotten to like EW&F – she was there only because her friend had majored in music in college and wanted to see the band – and was a bit surprised when we explained that in our generation, almost everyone was listening to the same music because you just didn’t have access other than the radio.

“Look at them!” I said. “They are old school – they have the costumes that match and that great choreography!”

“I can’t see,” she answered.

“WHAT?” Danielle asked. Danielle is also a woman of a certain age.

Danielle grabbed the young woman’s hand and I put my hand on her shoulder and we steered her to the front of the crowd.

“You go to the front!” we told her. “You take up space! You are allowed to take up space! TAKE YOUR SPACE!”

---

I play a lot of Patriarchy Chicken. Even when I didn’t know that it was a thing and that there was a name for it, I played it.

Patriarchy Chicken is when you don’t move out of the way of men who are walking toward you without paying attention, expecting the waters to part for them.

I will move if I am in the middle of a sidewalk and someone approaches me. I don’t own the entire sidewalk. My part is the part to my right and of course I will yield the left side.

I will always yield the space to my left.

I will not yield the space to my right.

Why should I?

In this culture – in the US, we walk on the right.

If a man is approaching me on my right and his left and his head is down and he’s not looking and he is just expecting everyone to move out of his way – I do not move.

I will stop and stand still rather than move.

I will let him run into me rather than move.

---

Mr T and I argue about a specific application of Patriarchy Chicken. He agrees on moving to the right to accommodate approaching walkers on the sidewalk, but he also thinks we should be aware of who’s behind us.

Nope.

I do not have an obligation to the people behind me.

I do not have an obligation to be aware of what’s happening behind me and to adjust my space to make it easier for them.

My space is the right side of wherever.

I don’t have to be extra vigilant just in case someone behind me wants to get past me.

I get to take up space.

---

We women are taught to make ourselves small.

We are taught that our bodies are not welcome. (At least, that’s how I interpret the long lines for the ladies while the men waltz in and our with not waiting.)

That we should not be at the front of the line.

That we should be anticipating the needs of those around us and putting those needs before ours.

That we do not get to take up space.

---

I’m done with that.

I’m done with that for me and I’m done with that for other women.

Take your space. It’s yours. It’s ours.

Have we internalized the patriarchy so much that we think it’s normal to care what strange men think of us?

My friend Tina is gorgeous. Even without a drop of makeup and in baggy clothes, she is gorgeous.

She has always drawn male attention, most of it unwanted.

She just started a new job as a flight attendant and was worried that she would be hit on all the time, but – it’s not happening. The passengers are not hitting on her. At all.

---

When I moved to Chile as a Peace Corps volunteer, I discovered piropos. That is, the compliments strange men throw to women in the street.

I had experienced this before, when I was in high school in the Panama Canal Zone. When my friend Julie and I would take the city of Panama bus home from weekend swim meets, men we did not know would hiss at us: “Ay, chica ameri-caaaaaaaa-nah!”

It made us very uncomfortable, but we were together in broad daylight on busy streets, so we were not too scared.

In Chile, I heard comments like, “Saint Michael opened the gates of heaven and you fell out!”

Heads swiveled when I walked past.

I found it disconcerting and freaky.

When I tried to explain to my Chilean female friends, they laughed and said, “Do you want them not to say anything?”

Even when I explained that in the US, this kind of behavior can be the precursor to stalking and assault, they laughed it off, saying that’s not how it worked in Chile.

(I also had people tell me there was no rape in Chile during the dictadura, to which I replied that of course there was but women just didn’t report it.)

---

When I finished my two year stint in the Peace Corps, I came back to the US over land.

The piropos got worse. In Guatemala, a man whispered, “If I were your pants….” as he passed me on the sidewalk.

My jaw dropped and I stopped.

“What if someone said that to your sister?” I demanded.

I don’t think he cared.

---

Even though there were a million empty seats available, a man sat next to me on the ferry in Honduras and started talking to me.

I ignored him as long as I could, but he kept talking.

I finally told him to stop talking to me.

He was confused. Was I not feeling well, he asked.

I feel fine, I told him. I just don’t want you to talk to me.

His jaw dropped. Wasn’t his attention the most precious thing in the world?

---

When I crossed the border back into the US, the catcalling stopped.

I was relieved but I was also concerned. I looked at my reflection in shop windows and in public restrooms. Had I suddenly become ugly? Was I now completely unattractive to men?

Tina is puzzled by the lack of male attention.

She doesn’t want it but the stories are out there – that’s just how men are with flight attendants!

We wonder if the world has changed, but we also know that human nature has not evolved so much in the past few years that all men now always conduct themselves with propriety.

And we wonder why we even care, knowing that we didn’t want the attention in the first place.

Why should it matter if we are attractive to obnoxious men?

Hahaha! Not really! Insurance (and medical research) will always take care of men!

Great news! There’s yet another treatment for erectile dysfunction. Thank goodness more and more research dollars are being devoted to solving the scourge of ED. LIVES ARE BEING SAVED.

Eroxon, a topical gel intended to treat erectile dysfunction, may soon be available in the United States.

The Food and Drug Administration authorized the marketing of the product as a medical device on Friday. Eroxon, a first-of-its-kind treatment for erectile dysfunction, will not require a prescription.

Eroxon isn’t a drug; the FDA calls it a “non-medicated hydro-alcoholic gel.” Futura Medical, a U.K.-based company that manufactures Eroxon, markets the topical treatment as a “fast-acting gel” that helps men “get an erection within 10 minutes.”

Washington Post, June 15, 2023

---

My friend Zoe messaged me.

On another note, I stopped at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription after yoga. TMI alert (but I have to share with someone who will share my rage!) The prescription is for vaginal dryness (more or less the female equivalent of Viagra, right?!). Pharmacy tech looks up the prescription and looks back at me in shock. Steps away to talk to the pharmacist and returns to tell me my insurance didn’t cover this prescription; would they like me to call the doc to see if there’s an alternative? How much is it without insurance, I ask.

$500!!!!!!!!

Yes I’d appreciate your contacting my doc. And no I will not be taking the prescribed medicine. Please return it to the shelf.

And if this was for a man, you can bet you a$$ it would be covered!!!! WTF!!

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I thought I had come late to activism. I was the one who rolled my eyes at the TexPIRG organizer who wanted me to sign a petition against an arms manufacturer in our district.

“They bring jobs and tax revenue,” I said. “And how much are you getting paid to circulate that petition? If you really believed in the cause, you would do it for free.”

HOLY SMOKE I WAS A JERK.

TexPIRG organizer, I am so sorry. I was rude to you and I was wrong.

So there’s that.

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But there’s also over 20 years ago at my old job at a Fortune 100 company. I discovered they didn’t cover birth control pills but they did cover Viagra.

(OF COURSE THEY COVERED VIAGRA. OF COURSE THEY DID.)

A female co-worker told me just to have my doc say the prescription was medically necessary. (I guess insurance companies don’t think contraception is medically necessary but that’s a whole different story.)

I could have done so, but what about all the young women working at the factories making close to minimum wage?

Thirty dollars a month for BCP would be a lot for them. Our plan at the time had like a $5 copay for a 30-day supply of prescription drugs.

I wrote a letter to the head of benefits and hit a few points:

• Middle-aged men who couldn’t get it up had coverage for something that wouldn’t kill them and that they could probably afford because they were late in their careers, whereas young women making not very much money did not have coverage for something they really needed, especially if the men taking the Viagra wanted to use the Viagra. (In retrospect, maybe I should have left this part out.)
• BCP were not covered, but pregnancy and abortion were. Both pregnancy and abortion were more expensive than BCP.
• Sure looked sexist to cover Viagra and not BCP.

I sent the letter and thought nothing more of it, because honestly who actually effects change with the bureaucracy of an F100?

Guess what I did.

I made them change.

Or, at worst, their change coincided with my letter.

Also. The new VP of HR – which was separate from Benefits but I’m sure they talked – was a woman.

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It might be Lysistrata time. It might be time to challenge the employer. It might be time to challenge the insurance company. Because this age group of men who need Viagra? Who are they going to do it with? If it’s with their OG wives, the wives might be saying, “Yeah it’s good but it’s not $500 good.”

In a world of only women, I would be, to quote my Grandma Sylvia, “fat and happy”

I didn’t even get to complete the sentence – “If [your husband] dies, will you re-” – before my friend Leah answered, “Nope. No. No.”

The same with my friend Judith. “If [your husband] were to die in the next few years, would you re-” was as far as I got before she said, “No!”

I asked the same question on facebook. “If your husband died in the next few years, would you want to remarry?”

No. No. No. No.

Not one single yes.

Not one.

My friends are happy. They are happy in their marriages. Or, if they are unhappy, they have not told me about their unhappiness.

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My mom was a widow at 54. She had five marriage proposals in the ten years after my dad died.

She turned them all down.

I think she had a happy marriage. I hope so!

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My friend Joyce was widowed a few years ago. I’m pretty sure she’s not looking to get remarried. I haven’t asked her and she just turned 100, so she doesn’t get out much.

Shortly after her husband, who was also my friend and was, as far as I know, a lovely man, died, I asked her how she was holding up.

She was fine. She was fine.

It was the first time – at 90something – that she had ever lived by herself her entire life. She’d gone from home to college to grad school to marriage.

She was finally alone.

“I eat what I want when I want,” she said.

“I watch what I want when I want.”

“I can read whenever I want to.”

“I don’t have as much laundry.”

“I don’t have to cook as much.”

“I feel so empowered!” she said.

---

I haven’t done a scientific survey. This research is all anecdotal. My friends are, for the most part, middle class and either employed or employable and would be OK financially if their husbands died, so they would not need to re-marry for money.

(I assume they all have wills and, if appropriate, life insurance. I hope so, after all the talking I’ve done about MAKE A WILL MAKE A WILL MAKE A DAMN WILL.)

Also, and more interestingly, I have not asked any men this question.

* runs back to facebook to ask if husbands would want to remarry *

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I love Mr T. I like him.

But I made huge changes in my life to marry him when I was 43.

I don’t think I would ever meet someone I would love enough again to make that kind of effort.

My friends love their husbands, I am pretty sure.

But man are we tired.

I am tired.

I adore Mr T, but it is exhausting to share a house with someone.

It is exhausting to compromise and to listen when you would rather be reading your book but you listen because he is lonely and wants to talk and that’s part of the deal.

It’s exhausting to have the same arguments over and over and over (and if Mr T and I are the only ones who do this, please don’t tell me because I don’t want to know).

It’s exhausting to not be selfish.

And sometimes, I just want to be selfish.

I just want peace and quiet and to have complete control over everything.

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I asked the “would your husband remarry” question and the answers are all pretty much “yes.”

So the women – who are happy in their marriages – stay single and the men – whom I assume are equally happy in their marriages – remarry.

Hmmmm.

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Here’s my dream life (if Mr T dies before I do, which is pretty likely looking at our family histories, although Mr T is not an alcoholic like his parents, so maybe he’ll be around for a long time? I hope so. I would miss him):

All of my women friends and I live on a small compound (within walking distance of a library and a grocery store, of course). We each have our own little house. I don’t need much space – I need so much less space than I have.

Maybe there’s a communal kitchen? Or maybe just a communal area where we can hang out together when we want? I haven’t worked out the details, but there will be a way to be alone if you want and a way to hang out if you want.

Flowerbeds. Native plants. Vegetable gardens. Beehives. Calm.

And cats. There are cats everywhere. Cats who never get sick and never die.

This is my dream.