“I’ll be damned if my granddaughter is going to have fewer rights than I did”

Mr T and I knocked on a lot of doors in the week before the election.

Not everyone answered their door, but the times I did get to talk to voters and the voters were older women, they were angry.

Here are some of their stories.

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Bernice #265, 73 years old.

I was Republican when I grew up. I campaigned for Goldwater. GOLDWATER! And I cried when he lost!

And then I met Nixon and shook his hand.

Now I wash that hand all the time.

I got pregnant before abortion was legal. For me, it worked out OK to have the baby, although there were times when it was touch and go.

But I have friends who had abortions. This was before you could get birth control. I took them to Madison. It was the only place.

And I have a younger friend who had a planned pregnancy. She and her husband were so happy and excited. Then the doctor discovered that the baby had serious problems. The baby would live for only a short time after birth – there was no way it would survive – but would be in terrible pain the entire time.

My friend could not bear the idea of her baby suffering, even for an hour. Suffering and then dying. So she had an abortion.

What happens to someone like my friend now?

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Bernice #821, retired nurse.

I don’t like abortion for me, but you see a lot when you’re a nurse for over 30 years. You see cases where it’s the life of the mother or the life of the baby and you can’t save both. You see babies who aren’t going to survive. Or who are going to have horrible painful deformities.

And with a rape – what, the mother is supposed to have that baby – a baby who might look like her rapist – and see that child every single day of her life?

And a child who is raped? A little girl? Whose body is not mature enough for a pregnancy?

(Bernice starts to cry.)

We’re supposed to make her carry a pregnancy?

No. I will not do that. I will not tell another woman what she can do with her own body.

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Bernice #746, retired nurse.

I wouldn’t choose an abortion for myself, but I was a nurse for 30 years and oh I have seen some things. Little girls who are raped? What? Those women think counseling solves that problem? NO! I used to volunteer at a counseling center. No, counseling is not the solution. And even if it were, are those people willing to pay higher taxes to fund counseling services? Of course not.

When girls who had been raped came in, we took care of it. They never needed to know. There is no amount of counseling that can make it better for a girl.

My husband – my ex – used to beat me.

(Bernice is about 5′ tall and weighed about 100 lbs back then. Her husband was much bigger.)

I would call the cops on him and they would come and say they couldn’t do anything unless I was dead.

I have spent my entire life fighting for women’s rights. We’re going backwards. I thought we were finally going to have time to fight for the ERA but now we have to go back and fight for abortion rights again.

I’m taking my granddaughter to vote on Tuesday. She’s 19. It will be her first time. I’m fighting for her.

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Bernice #523, takes care of her grandson while her daughter works.

I don’t like abortion, but it is none of my damn business to tell another woman what to do with her body. I think Michels [Tim Michels, who was the R candidate for governor in Wisconsin] is going to take women back. That look in his eyes – there’s just something about him. He’s a rich kid who’s never had to do anything and he just has this look. He looks like a child molester to me.

And he doesn’t know anything about what ordinary people live like. I walked into the grocery store and almost passed out. Have you seen those prices?

And child care! Forget it! If you can even find it, it’s too expensive. That’s why I watch my grandson.

I don’t like Michels. He’s going to take us back to coat hangers.

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Bernice #478, was pushing her granddaughter in a stroller while I was campaigning.

I’ve been fighting for women’s rights my whole life and I’m not about to see my granddaughter’s rights go backwards. I will be voting blue.

When I was 19, I started working at Allis-Chalmers. One day, my supervisor grabbed me. I was tiny back then but still with a lot up top.

I told his boss and he laughed. “Bob’s a married man with five kids!” he said.

“Are you calling me a liar?” I asked.

So I went to his boss and told him the same thing. And he said the same thing – that Bob was a married man. I asked *him* if he was calling me a liar.

He didn’t do nothing, so I reported it to the West Allis police. I never took it further than that – there’s no way I coulda won, but at least it was there.

And when he grabbed me? I was holding a big stack of time cards. I slammed them down on his arm and knocked him down. He fell – but all he did was laugh at me. He thought it was funny!

But I won in the end. He had a heart attack. I don’t wish a heart attack on nobody – but he was out for a long time. So I took over his job. And I was good at it.

And when the company started to shut down, they kept me on instead of him. *I’m* the one who kept *his* job. I had a job until they closed completely.

I will vote. I will probably just be canceling out my husband, but I will vote.

A room of our own. That’s all we want. A room of our own.

I know we have a lot going on with Roe and with democracy in general, but the other fights haven’t disappeared.

This is at a theatre that was just remodeled last year.

On the left is the line for the women’s room.

On the right is the line for the men’s room.

Do you see the problem here?

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The next day, we went to another show in the same complex. I stopped at the women’s room in the hotel on the first floor.

The men’s room – right across from the women’s – was closed for cleaning.

I walked into the women’s room and there were a couple of women there and a man who was clearly exasperated that the men’s was closed. It seemed like he knew the women so I was pretty sure he wasn’t some predator.

But still.

When I was done, he was still at the sinks. His friends had already left.

I kept my eyes down, washed my hands, and got out.

But WTF dude?

You really think that you are so important that you should not be inconvenienced in any way whatsoever? That you should not have to wait? That you should not have to walk three minutes to the next men’s room?

You think you should not wait.

Dude.

What do you think my world is like?

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There might be some who say Pot meet Kettle about a man in the women’s room. After all, I have used the men’s room before.

I used it when it was empty. I used it after calling out to make sure it was empty.

And – No man feels threatened seeing a woman in the men’s room. No man feels fear when he sees a woman in the men’s room. He might feel confusion, but he doesn’t feel fear. No man keeps his head down and avoids eye contact when he sees a woman he doesn’t know in a space where he’s not expecting to see women.

And the most obvious reason – I used it BECAUSE THERE IS NOT ENOUGH PROVISION FOR WOMEN.

---

Mr T asked why I didn’t say something to the invading man.

“Why not just ask, ‘Dude! This is the ladies! What are you doing in here?'”

Spoken like someone who has never been worried about being flashed or attacked. Spoken like someone who has never had to wait to pee.

Please make a will and get your affairs in order

Two days ago, my beloved sister in law – Stephanie, for those of you from my old blog, died suddenly and unexpectedly.

She was not old. She was only 61.

This could happen to anyone. TO ANYONE.

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Stephanie is the only one of my in-laws I liked. I ADORED her. A warm, loud, welcoming Italian woman from South Philly, Stephanie (and her children) was the only one of Mr T’s relatives who embraced me (both figuratively and literally) when I met his family.

She is the only one who ever willingly and happily gave me food. I couldn’t cross her threshold without an offer of something to eat – pizzellas (from scratch), gravy (I felt very in the know when I learned that gravy is what South Philly Italians call spaghetti sauce), pretzels that her dad, whom I also adored, had brought with him from Philly.

But it wasn’t about the food. It was about her very being. She was the kind of person you want to be friends with. She was frank and open and funny and opinionated and fun.

Of all the people in this world to die, it had to be her?

It couldn’t be [any of a list of odious politicians and criminals, some of which overlap]?

---

She did not have a will.

Clearly, she thought she had time.

We all thought she had time.

I hadn’t even visited her for the past few years. Covid, for one thing.

But – we thought we had time!

---

It’s not like there will be some huge fight or drama because of the lack of a will. The law in her state is that her children will inherit (Stephanie and the kids’ dad divorced years ago), but there will be extra hassle.

Fortunately, Stephanie’s brother and his wife, who happen to be in professions that deal with wills and trusts, are ON IT and have already talked to a lawyer. They are also arranging the funeral and doing all the heavy lifting. I am so grateful for the kids’ sake. I have seen what happens when there isn’t a will and there’s a fight and it’s not pretty.

But make a will. Make it easy for the people you love.

And if you hate them all – make a will and disinherit them. Give them each a dollar and leave the rest to the Humane Society.

Make. A. Will.

---

Figure out what you want done with your body when you die. Make those arrangements: pay for your headstone, decide what it should say, pay for the plot, choose a coffin, choose the music for your service, call the medical school or the body farm about donating your body (that’s what Mr T and I will do).

FIGURE OUT WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR PETS.

Put your kids on your bank accounts and on your safe deposit box, arrange a meeting between you, your kids, and your financial advisor, make a spreadsheet of all your accounts and investments and passwords, organize your files (like – buy a file cabinet and make actual physical files by topic).

I read this article about the bureaucracy of death last week and there are some good recommendations in it as well.

I’m not trying to be a ghoul. But unless you are the Second Coming (and I bet you are not), you are going to die.

Stephanie’s kids will be OK because they have expert help from Stephanie’s brother and his wife and because other than the will, Stephanie was super organized. (She was a bookkeeper.)

But not everyone has that luxury. So please please please. If you are wondering what you should do today – should you go shopping? Should you clean the bathroom?

Do this instead:

• Make an appointment with a lawyer to write a will before the end of the year. Also do your POAs and your medical wishes – do you want a DNR?
• Start a list of all your accounts. Name of account, number, name of institution, website, phone number, how much money you have there (yes, this will change but for rough ideas)
  • Bank accounts
  • Investment accounts
  • Pensions (hahahaha)
  • Social security?
  • Bills (phone, internet, utilities)
  • Credit cards
  • Mortgage
  • Life insurance
  • Health insurance
• If you don’t already have a file box or cabinet, ask for one on Buy Nothing or buy one and make a file for everything.
  • The things listed above
  • Mortgage/deed to the house
  • Car title
  • Social security cards and statements
  • Current year tax information/receipts
  • Credit card receipts and statements
  • Utility bills
  • Phone bills
  • I keep my investment statements and bank statements and taxes in binders because I don’t have enough file space, but you might have room. I want everything on paper because I don’t trust institutions and I want proof of my money. 🙂
  • Etc etc etc – remember that your executor is going to have to keep things going until your house is sold

It’s one of the best gifts you could give your family.

Also – what did I miss? Please share your own advice.

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I will miss Stephanie so much. I loved her. I loved her so much.

Before you make a will today, go call a friend you haven’t spoken to in a while. Because you never know. You just never know.

It’s a man’s world, even for disease, so yay kidney stones

Who knew kidney stones were a good thing?

They are.

Why?

They happen to men, so we know how to treat them.

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Q: What is 13 million dollars?

A: The amount the US government spent on research on endometriosis – a condition that affects about 10% of girls and women and takes about seven years to diagnose – in 2019.

In 2020, the U.S. government announced that funding for endometriosis research would be doubled to $26 million annually.

Medical News Today

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My friend – call her Cassandra – had a hysterectomy last year. She has one ovary remaining.

She has also had kidney stones:

I had a huge stone about 15 years ago and what struck me is that the urologist’s office was all male genitalia diagrams and then like a woman’s model back in the corner.

(Reader. I didn’t even know urologists treated women until a few years ago when I saw one! I thought they were penis docs! And apparently, so do they.)

For months, she’s been having random pain and sweats.

It took her doc a while to diagnose her.

It took an ultrasound, lots of messages to my OBGYN, a brief stint on hormone replacement in case it was menopause, me tracking him down for a full week to say that we are not done here, then an ultrasound, then two weeks of me tracking him down to say that we are not done here, then finally a CT scan, followed by a message from him that was basically like “Oh thank goodness it’s not in my wheelhouse, here’s a urology referral” and then urology is so backed up I can’t get in until [three weeks from the date this was written].

Cassandra did initially think she might be in menopause – the reason she called her doc the first time and for his initial RX (apparently, the symptoms of kidney stones and perimenopause can overlap – keep this in mind if you find yourself with random pain, including dull pain in the flank, and sweats), but no.

---

Cassandra was worried her doc would think she was a stalker.

Yes. That can happen.

If you’re a woman and you advocate for yourself, you can get a reputation.

What? You thought that was over after high school?

Nope.

If you speak up for yourself in a health care environment, you can be ignored as a troublemaker!

(If you’re a woman, that is.)

In Anushay Hossain‘s book, The Pain Gap, she talks about (I can’t find the stories online) doctors and nurses chastising women in labor to be nicer as they are asking for painkillers.

---

Cassandra was once labeled as a drug seeker for not accepting an OB/GYN’s diagnosis.

And yet, she persisted.

They thought it might be ovarian cancer – even if you get a hysterectomy, if you still have only one ovary, you can get cancer in it!

They thought it might be endometriosis. You don’t need to have your uterus anymore to have endo!

Finally, they figured out that it was kidney stones.

(Which she had had before. Which – I dunno – I would have thought might have been higher on the list to look for than endo or cancer but I AM NOT A DOC I WAS AN ENGLISH MAJOR.)

But anyhow.

Kidney stones is actually a pretty good diagnosis.

Because unlike endo, there’s a treatment for kidney stones.

Because there’s been research on kidney stones.

Because there’s plenty of research on conditions that affect men.

---

Q: What is 84 million dollars?

A: More than six times 13 million dollars, which is the amount the US government spent on endometriosis research in 2019.

A: The amount the Department of Defense (which is not the entire US government) spent on drugs for erectile dysfunction – a condition that does not cause pain or infertility – in 2014.

the U.S. Department of Defense spent $41.6 million on Viagra and $84.24 million total on drugs for erectile dysfunction in 2014.

CBS News

And you can be a part of it

Yesterday was election day.

It didn’t go as well as it could but it sure didn’t go as badly as it could.

Mr T and I spent the five days leading up to election day knocking doors for our local candidates: Tony Ever, Mandela Barnes, and some Wisconsin Assembly candidates, including a few outside our district but who really mattered, including LuAnn Bird, who is this amazing grandma who gets crap done and would have been fabulous and lost by only 500 votes.

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Never think your vote doesn’t count or your efforts don’t count.

Never think that.

Last year, our city council rep won by one vote.

One. Vote.

In Wisconsin, when you register, you have to show some kind of proof that you live where you say you live. If you don’t have the proof with you, you may cast a provisional vote, which is set aside in a special envelope, and return before the Friday after the election to cure your ballot. That is, if you return with an acceptable proof of residence, your vote will be counted.

On that election night last year, this city council seat race ended in a tie.

There was one provisional ballot outstanding.

You can’t count the ballot unless the voter returns with the proper information.

The voter returned the next day with the information and cured the ballot.

The canvassing board convened on Friday to certify the election, I think. Usually, this is not a big deal, as even if there are provisional ballots, there are not enough to affect the outcome.

But in this case, there were.

This time, the board and the two candidates and other city officials and the press gathered for the official vote count announcement.

---

Wisconsin is a racist place. It’s the most racist place I’ve ever lived and I’ve lived in the south.

On Tuesday, our governor, Tony Evers, a Democrat, was re-elected.

On Tuesday, Mandela Barnes, a Democrat who was running for Senate against the horrible Ron Johnson, was not elected.

If all the people who had voted for Tony had also voted for Mandela, Mandela would have won.

Did I mention Mandela is Black?

---

Mr T and I knocked on over 400 doors in five days. We didn’t talk to over 400 voters, but we knocked on over 400 doors. Other volunteers also knocked on doors. Some people made phone calls.

It wasn’t enough.

What if just ten more people had each agreed to talk to 50 voters about LuAnn? Had committed five hours over the course of a month?

What might have happened then?

What if we could have gotten one more Democrat into the Wisconsin Assembly?

These games are won by inches. And everyone can play a part.

---

The city council race in my town last year was between a white candidate and a Black one.

There has never been a Black city council representative in my town.

Oh yeah I know you are so shocked. After all, this is the town that until 60 years ago didn’t even allow Black people to buy houses.

---

They opened the ballot.

The voter had chosen the Black candidate.

My city council, in my city, which had a cop who had shot and killed three Black people in five years, which has cops who routinely pull over more Black drivers than white ones, which used to deny home ownership to Black people, for the first time ever, has a Black person on it.

We are making progress.

It’s slow.

But we’re going in the right direction.

---

What can you do today to keep us going in the right direction?

DONATE TO RAPHAEL WARNOCK. We need him in the Senate.

Because everything does depend on it

You all already know what’s on the line on Tuesday.

So I’m going to talk about the things that I wish were the most important issues in our lives. I wish these were the only battles we were fighting. I wish we were fighting for pockets and sleeves and potty parity and not for control over our own bodies and for, you know, DEMOCRACY.

But first, a reminder:

VOTEVOTEVOTEVOTE

And some encouragement. Remember – it took more than 100 years to make chattel slavery illegal in the US. (Note I did not say “get rid of slavery,” as forms of slavery persist in this country.)

It took more than 100 years for women to get the vote.

We have been through tough times before. Some people gave up, but others kept fighting, even though they never saw the fruits of their fight. But their efforts were essential to the eventual victory. Never think what you’re doing doesn’t matter. It does. It will.

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I wish our battles now were about getting little ledges in every shower in every bathroom in every hotel in every city in the world. I wish that so I could shave my legs easily when I travel, even though I barely have hair on my legs anymore and even though nobody hardly sees my bare legs anymore.

At least I no longer have to wish for hairdryers in hotel rooms. Remember when we had to carry our own hairdryers when we traveled? And companies designed these small, collapsible hairdryers and we thought, “THAT’S the solution!” instead of wondering why hotels, which offered outlets for electric shavers and razor disposal in the wall, didn’t have equipment for female guests?

It didn’t even occur to us that our needs should be met. Instead, we hauled yet another bulky item in our luggage, along with the stupid suits and stupid starched blouses and stupid bow ties and stupid pantyhose.

I wish the exam table in my doctor’s office were calibrated for my height, which is 5’5″, which is not extraordinarily short – indeed, I am taller than the average woman in the US.

I wish I could sit on the exam table in my doctor’s office and not have my feet dangle off the edge.

I wish someone at the exam table company would think, “I wonder if anyone but men, whose average height is 5’8″, uses these tables” and would do the research and design accordingly.

Everything fitted now. Her back snugly against the seat-back, her feet comfortably on the floor.

If I Were A Man, Charlotte Perkins

I wish my clothes had pockets.

Remember when I said that it took over 100 years for women to get the vote?

It looks like it’s going to take at least that long for us to get pockets.

These pockets came as a revelation. Of course she had known they were there, had counted them, made fun of them, mended them, even envied them; but she never had dreamed of how it felt to have pockets.

If I Were A Man, Charlotte Perkins

This story – If I Were A Man, by Charlotte Perkins, was written more than 100 years ago. Read it – it’s short and it’s fun and it’s totally depressing and you will see that some things have not changed at all in over a century.

But we persist.

Keep fighting, my friends.

And VOTE.

Even Hollywood knows you don’t share a room at your boyfriend’s parents’ house. You sneak into his bed after dark like normal people.

I watched all five seasons of In Plain Sight and I’m sad because it’s over and I have to find a new show to binge and thus far, nothing has proven worthy and no, I don’t want anything that involves vampires or weird names or dragons or the supernatural so don’t recommend Game of Thrones or A Discovery of Witches or anything like that.

I want great stories about ordinary people.

And I want stories where there are moments I can relate to, like the scene in In Plain Sight where Raph’s mom doesn’t visit Mary and him to help plan their wedding because she cannot condone their “non-marital fornication.” The mom’s sister – shown in the image above – comes, but the mom refuses.

My friends.

I thought all parents were like that!

I thought all parents were against non-marital fornication. At least, I thought they did not want it to be happening under their roof.

My parents did not want it happening, even though my dad is the one who, the night before he drove me to Houston to start college, told me not to be stupid if I had sex.

“But DAD!” I protested. “YOU KNOW I DON’T BELIEVE IN PRE-MARITAL SEX!”

(Which I didn’t. Then. I was 17. Oh bless my sweet heart.)

He sighed, rolled his eyes, and said, “It’s going to happen. Just don’t be stupid about it.”

My mom and dad did not offer joint accommodations to my boyfriends and me. We slept in separate rooms.

DIDN’T EVERYONE?

---

Imagine my surprise when Mr T took me to meet his parents.

He warned me before we went.

“They’re going to put us both in the guest room,” he said.

“That’s weird!” I replied.

He shrugged. “They pride themselves on being hip. And they’re too lazy to clean out the spare room.”

“It would feel strange sleeping in the same bed as you at your mom and dad’s house.”

“OK. I’ll ask them to clear out some space in the other room.”

Which he did.

Which made them very annoyed with me.

Because they were very busy people.

Mr T’s dad had porn to watch.

And they had decades worth of junk not to sort through.

---

When Mr T and I arrived at their house that first day – we had taken a 7 a.m. flight, flown four hours, rented a car, driven an hour and a half, and arrived after lunchtime without having eaten either breakfast or lunch, we walked into their house and they did not offer us a thing.

After half an hour, I asked if I could have a glass of water.

Mr T’s mom told him to get me one.

I walked into the kitchen with him and asked him if they were going to give us lunch.

“They don’t eat lunch,” he told me.

“BUT I DO!” I said.

---

I will talk more about this later, but just so you know, for all future visits to Mr T’s parents, I TOOK MY OWN FOOD.

Yes. I packed almonds and other high-protein snacks just so I could be sure I would have something to eat. They drank most of their calories. And the one time I ate some supper leftovers for lunch, Mr T heard about it for years, including on his dad’s deathbed.

I wish I were making this up but I am not.

---

I come from people who do not let you get more than half a step across the threshold before they are forcing food upon you. “I baked this strudel/cake/torte just for you!” my grandmother would tell me.

---

My people eat.

More importantly, my people feed.

---

The next morning, Mr T’s dad suggested that if I did not wish to shower in the guest bathroom, I could use the large shower in the master bath.

Indeed, Mr T and I could shower in the master bath together.

“[Mr T’s mom] and I do that all the time,” he smirked.

It’s been 22 years and I still cannot scrub that image from my mind.

Doesn’t everyone want to think about their boyfriend’s parents/their in-laws naked?

---

When I brought my college boyfriend home, he slept in my bed.

I slept on the floor in my sister’s room.

---

When I went to my college boyfriend’s house, he slept in his room.

I slept in the guest room.

He didn’t even sneak into my room because we were too scared of being caught.

---

When I was working and went to Kansas City with my boyfriend Tom meet his parents, he stayed in his old room and I stayed in his sister’s old room.

He sneaked into my room at night.

Like normal people.

---

When I was in grad school and went to Boston with my boyfriend Barry to meet his parents, he slept in his old room and I slept on the pull-out bed in the basement. He sneaked downstairs and I said, “WHAT IF SOMEONE SEES YOU?”

He was not concerned.

---

When I went with my boyfriend John to his nephew’s wedding in Miami, we stayed with his brother. The brother wanted to put us in separate rooms and John was not having it.

I was on John’s side.

The brother <> parent.

I don’t feel weird about S-E-X around a sibling.

---

I was so sure I was right on this issue.

“MY MOTHER WOULD NOT DO THIS,” I told Mr T.

And my mother never had done this.

When John and I had visited my mom, she had put him on a trundle bed in the basement. She had done the same with my sister’s boyfriend. I was pretty sure I was on the high ground here.

I took Mr T to my mom’s for Thanksgiving.

(More on the crime of not spending every single holiday with Mr T’s parents later.)

Mr T had already met my mom at a family reunion a few months after he and I met. My mom threw her arms around him when she saw him, said “YOU MUST BE MR T I’M SO HAPPY TO MEET YOU!” and said “Come over here let’s get some food tell me everything about yourself.”

I knew Mr T’s parents for ten years before they (finally) died.

I don’t think they ever asked me one question about myself.

Anyhow.

After a flight delay, we get to my mom’s at 2:00 a.m. and let ourselves in. We tiptoe quietly down to the basement. I look for the trundle bed in the den.

And it’s not there.

We go into the bedroom – where we see both twin beds made up, each with a chocolate on the pillow.

I look for the other horsemen and whisper, “I guess we’re both supposed to sleep in the same room.”

---

The next morning, I ask WTH MOM?

She shrugs.

“I’m having everyone over here for supper and I didn’t want to deal with getting the bed out of the den and well you’re both over 40 and I’m pretty sure you don’t sleep in separate rooms back in Memphis and Milwaukee so whatever.”

“Plus it’s TWIN BEDS. It’s not like I put you in THE SAME BED.”

---

But she did not offer us her shower.

Or reminisce about showering with my dad.

And the fridge,, after a month of her texting questions to me about what Mr T likes to eat, was full.

“Eat whatever you want!” she said.

And other reasons I will never ever ever see Mr T’s brother again. Ever.

You all already know I don’t like Mr T’s brother, the one who insisted that Mr T, as trustee for the trust for Brother’s son, take advantage of the amazing investment opportunity that Brother’s Friend offering Brother even though Brother didn’t have the $250K required.

I warned Mr T that Friend was not doing it right – that Friend’s company’s compliance department was going to come down hard on this and it was going to be a pain in the neck and of course I was right and Mr T ended up having to deal with a huge mess.

There are so many other reasons I don’t like Mr T’s brother. Let’s just leave it at I won’t be inviting him to Mr T’s funeral. I won’t even tell him Mr T is dead.

I will tell my sister in law (not the one married to Brother, but the other one – the one I ADORE) about Mr T’s death and of course adored SIL will be welcome, but I will ask her maybe not to share the info right away. Adored SIL also is not a fan of Brother so she will be OK with it.

Where was I?

Oh.

Reasons.

So Many Reasons.

Brother screamed at Mr T when Mr T wouldn’t give him $800 for the frequent flyer miles Brother used to attend their father’s funeral.

Brother accused Mr T of stealing from Brother’s son’s trust.

Brother accused Mr T of influencing their father to change his will. (The will that disinherited Mr T but also made him the executor.)

Brother told Mr T, when he learned we had gone to a Mark Knopfler concert, that our tastes were “pedestrian.”

---

Over the past few years, despite his apparent disdain for our musical tastes and for Mr T’s handling of their father’s estate, Brother has insisted that he and his wife want to “host us at [House Name].” Of course their house has a name Brother is a pretentious twit.

I am not interested.

Mr T asks me “But what do I say?”

“Nothing,” I tell him.

“But he keeps telling me they want to host us!”

I shrug. “So?”

“Don’t I have to give him an answer?”

“Nope.”

I have told Mr T to feel free to visit Brother without me.

Mr T has not availed himself of that opportunity.

In case Mr T does need to answer Brother and does not want to say “We don’t want to visit you because you’re a jerk whose own best friend broke up with you six years ago,” what should Mr T say?

Here are some ideas to get you started:

• We’re just not into you that way.
• Texan’s mom won’t let her travel.
• We just got out of a bad relative-ship.

What do you think? What should we say?

The wings are good so it’s cool, right?

A college friend – let’s call him Bob – posted on facebook how proud he is that a former student is going to be on the Hooters calendar.

Another college friend – Steph – and I – are trying to explain to Bob why this is not exactly an accomplishment.

Bob thinks we are

1. attacking the young woman who will be on the calendar and

2. jealous because we would never have been hired at Hooters.

Steph and I have tried to explain that we support this young woman doing what she needs to do but that we think that Hooters is gross and the men who go there are gross and the system is gross and that we would like to see a world where women are celebrated for their accomplishments and not for their looks.

Bob maintains that getting onto a calendar is an accomplishment.

Oh Bob.

---

I was talking to a teacher friend of mine. I told her that Bob was proud that a former student was going to be on the Hooters calendar.

“WHAT?” she asked.

I repeated myself. “He’s proud that a former student is going to be on the Hooters calendar.”

“I thought that’s what you said but I couldn’t believe it,” she said. “He’s a teacher and he’s proud that a former student is on the Hooters calendar?”

“Yes.”

“Good God.”

---

There is an entire category of eateries called “breastaurants.”

Yes, Hooters is in this category. I think they invented it.

---

A VP at a former job couldn’t understand why I was not happy at the idea of having a work meeting at a Hooters.

“But their wings are really good!” he protested.

This is the argument men always seem to pull out of their pocket about Hooters: BUT THE WINGS!

As if there is no other place in the world that could possibly have decent wings? As if no other restaurant could master this chicken part that used to be considered a garbage part?

As if it’s not all about the breasts? The human ones?

I tried to explain that fully-clothed women are not necessarily comfortable in an environment that exploits scantily-clad ones.

He still didn’t get it.

Then I asked, “Do you want your little girl to work there when she gets older?”

The blood drained from his face.

His eyes closed.

He exhaled slowly through his mouth.

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh. I think I see what you mean.”

---

Why does it have to be personal for men?

Why does it have to be their mother or sister or wife or daughter being treated badly for them to get it?

Why can’t it be any girl or woman being treated badly for them to understand?

---

I was a cocktail waitress at a dive bar over winter break during college. A man – an old man, like my dad’s age – grabbed my butt. I was so shocked that I said nothing in the moment.

But after several minutes, I gathered my courage and marched up to him.

I don’t remember my exact words, but I said something to the effect of, “Don’t do that again!” or “How dare you!”

He answered, “But you looked so cute!” laughed, and turned away.

My anger was cute to him.

His dismissiveness made me angrier.

“How would you feel if someone treated your daughter that way?” I demanded.

He laughed again.

“I don’t have a daughter,” he replied.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

And then I did.

“Well IF YOU DID HAVE A DAUGHTER.”

Because clearly just the higher moral principle of DON’T TOUCH SOMEONE ELSE’S BODY WITHOUT PERMISSION could not be invoked. We can’t expect that of people, can we?

He had the grace to look ashamed and hand me a twenty.

Which I took.

I am still not ashamed that I took his money.

He needed to pay some kind of price.

---

Bob said I was bothered because I know I could never have been hired at Hooters.

He’s right – I never would have been hired there. I wasn’t pretty or shapely enough for Hooters.

But that’s not the part that bothers me. I have been keenly aware of where I stand relative to other girls and women on the looks scale since I was a little girl. I think all women are aware of that. I am well used to that fact by now.

The part that bothers me is that we live in a system where that’s how girls and women are judged.

And that Bob doesn’t see that that’s a problem.

---

Men go to Hooters to leer at these beautiful young women.

And they think these young women like them.

Yeah.

I really do think they think that the women like them.

Sit with that for a second.

They think that the women who are paid to be there and paid to be nice to the customers so that the customers will continue to spend money on beer and WINGS actually find the men attractive.

As if.

I do not blame the women who work there. It’s probably good money. I made good money when I was a cocktail waitress. I made more money when I wore skirts than when I wore pants, so I bet the very pretty, very shapely Hooters waitresses with their awful scanty uniforms make way more tips than I ever did.

I do not blame Hooters waitresses for optimizing their incomes within a crummy system.

I do not blame them for playing a game within the existing boundaries.

But the men?

The men who go there?

Who tell themselves that it’s about the food?

Who tell themselves that the waitresses like them?

The men – the men who sit in church on Sunday – the men who are elders in these very same churches (churches that would condemn female congregants who worked at Hooters I bet) – who call themselves Good Men – who convince themselves that what they are doing is harmless?

They are part of and are perpetuating an evil system. A system they could opt out of and even help dismantle.

Does that make them evil? I mean – THE WINGS ARE GOOD.

With age comes memories and the realization that so many things I did were so bizarre

Oh y’all I am cringing thinking about how, after I had visited my friend B for a weekend and her husband had insisted we go clothes and shoe shopping together because B never did anything nice for herself, I sent her a box of clothes I wasn’t wearing anymore.

I was thinking of it in terms of “We used to be roommates and didn’t we swap contents of our closets back then? I mean I totally share clothes with my sister!”

But the part I forgot was I HAVE AWFUL TASTE and any sharing was done from B and my sister to me, not in the other direction.

---

When I say I have awful taste, I mean it.

When I was in junior high and high school, anything my mom (who is an amazing seamstress) didn’t sew for me, I sewed myself. My pants wardrobe consisted of about a dozen pairs of polyester double-knit slacks with elastic waistbands in colors ranging from bright orange – which was translucent enough that the flowers on my underpants were visible – to mud brown to lime green.

My mom had found a remnant sale and had gotten a bunch of pieces for 25 cents each.

My mother knew how to spend wisely.

I made shirts to go with these pants and my one or two pairs of jeans. Not windowpane jeans or the other cool jeans, but regular ones from Sears. I was very proud of my shirts – I made western-style blouses with plaid fabric that I matched at the seams and with piping on the yoke. For those who don’t sew, it’s very hard to match patterns and it’s very hard to put in piping.

I also made those blouses with the ruffles on the front. Ruffles are also difficult to do properly.

My favorite shirt was a t-shirt with black and white trains on it – I wore that with the orange pants.

And I had made myself a jumpsuit with green krinkle cloth.

Do not doubt me when I say I have awful taste.

---

I did not improve when I got to college. My mom gave me $100 to shop for college clothes and I still remember what I bought. Even if fashion had been valued at my school, these would not have been the proper items:

• A green Izod polo
• A green, pink, and yellow plaid blazer – it looked very preppy
• Ralph Lauren jeans
• I don’t remember the rest, but I’m sure it was a bunch of beige sweaters because that’s how I rolled.

I also sewed several Hawaiian shirts and made those shorts that were like diapers that tied at the waist.

And reader, I wore those shorts. I wore them with pride.

---

In my first job out of college, I wore the uniform: a navy blue suit with a white or a pink blouse and those stupid little bow ties.

I did not know that to get wrinkles out of an all-cotton blouse, I needed to use starch. I did not know this until a kind co-worker asked me one day, “Are you – using starch when you iron? Because that blouse sure has a lot of wrinkles.”

My mother had not taught this secret of starching to me, for which I am sincerely grateful. I mean it. My mother has never been about “This is what a woman does. Women iron and women starch.”

My father also had not taught this skill to me. He did, however, teach me how to change a tire and the oil and the fan belts.

My parents were not into sexist stereotypes. They didn’t buy that BS. There were tasks that were required to make life move forward and everyone in the house shared those tasks. Mowing the lawn and washing the dishes and cleaning the bathroom were chores for everyone – they were not boy chores and girl chores. (I was actually kind of shocked when I discovered as an adult that some women had grown up having to wait on their brothers.)

Back to clothes. Later in my career, I discovered consignment stores and started to dress like a middle-aged lady from Boca Raton.

Not a surprise, as I was living in Miami and shopping in the wealthy Miami neighborhoods.

I thought the all-silk suits were cute! I had a green pantsuit and a peach skirt suit that were in heavy rotation.

Y’all, I was 32.

I was 32 and I looked like I was on my way to a mah-jongg tournament.

---

When I think now about clothing swaps with B and with my sister, I realize with the clarity of hindsight that I was always accepting their castoffs because THEY HAD GREAT TASTE.

My sister was and is always on trend. She got the hair and makeup gene that I most definitely did not. She always looks fabulous.

And B was the same. When we lived together, there wasn’t much I could take from B because she is built like a model and I am definitely not, but she was always very well put together: she did her hair and her makeup and dressed perfectly.

But they were not shopping my closet.

Gee why is that I wonder?

I was – and still am – the Glamour Don’t. As I write this, I am wearing the same thing I have been wearing for pretty much the past three years: a pair of running tights that I do not use for running but like because they are elastic and don’t hurt, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. And slippers.

My hair, which I have been cutting myself since our hairdresser retired plus covid, is in a ponytail. I washed it yesterday and might wash it tomorrow, but as I rarely go out in public anymore, I might not. Mr T is out of town, so – eh. Who cares?

Honestly, I am becoming the crazy old cat lady I was always scared I would become only now I wonder WHY WAS I SO SCARED? Why was I so scared of becoming a cat lady? It’s FABULOUS!

But also – why did I ever think anyone would want my clothes?

B, I am so sorry! I am so sorry for insulting you. I promise I meant no offense. I was clueless, not malicious. If you took those clothes straight to Goodwill or even put them in the ragbag, I would not be surprised and for sure would not be offended.