Why Don’t Women Like to Talk About Money? You Must Be a Rich Goddamn Woman If You’re Asking That Question.

Guys. You’re making Broke-Ass feel either like a rock star or a real freaking jerk. She takes a few days off to work and doesn’t hear the goddamn end of it! Baby-dolls. My little lamb chops. I LOVE YOU. But Broke-Ass gots to WORK, sisters and brothers. For FILTHY LUCRE.  And until that blessed day that a mere noble ten of you elect to funnel your kids’ college funds into what’s left of Broke-Ass’ hemophiliac savings account, just love her up for what she is: heartbleedingly loyal, unfailingly unreliable.

(For real. If Broke-Ass really had enough time on her hands to update this fucking thing every day, wouldn’t you begin to suspect that she was a poser living off of a trust fund? Because let me tell you, that’s what she would be. And that would be awesome. Awe. Some.)

Anywho, on that note, we got a live one here from P.T.:

Why don’t more women talk about how money? We are more than half of the workforce and still, women are more likely to talk to complete strangers about vaginal dryness than salary, budget, and how freakin’ hard and frustrating and pressure-filled it can be to support a family. Come on, ladies! Can we all agree that we are working– not just to be social, find fulfillment and, in the case of you publishing types, bring Great Art to the American public– but also TO MAKE MONEY. There. I said it. Why are women so weird about money? Broke-Ass, please discuss.

P.T., I know two things. First, you’ve got the kung fu like no one else I know–which includes being able to talk about any damn thing you please–so your question obviously does not relate to your own exalted fantastic-ness. Second: Girl, you’ve been hanging around rich Park Slope folk for too long to ask a question like that.

Because Broke-Ass has observed this enough to feel comfortable declaring it as an unalienable truth: Only relatively rich women who come from a respectably long line of relatively rich women have a problem talking about money. All other women have no problem talking about money. That’s ALL they talk about.

They talk about the filthy rich cheapskate asshole who tries to nickle-and-dime them over a thankless, shaming ghostwriting gig (you know what I’m saying here, P.T.). They talk about the rich, jobless woman whose kids they nanny who won’t give them a buck-fifty raise after three years of loyal service. When you tell them about a job you’re considering, their first question is not, “But is it really what you want to do?” but “How much are they going to pay you?” Broke women don’t talk about vaginal dryness. If they have to live in the shit, at least they’re going to have SEX, for fuck’s sake. Juice is ALL we got, baby. And if we don’t got it, we’ve got two words: Hello, Astroglide.

When you’re poor, the top thing on your mind is money. Other than that, you think about food and how to get it as cheaply as possible. Then, you worry about rent, water, power. After that, you think about clothes for your family and how to get those as cheaply as possible. If you have time, maybe you think about your digestion. You don’t mind talking with other poor people about this stuff because there is no shame among you.

If you’re all sitting on the same shitbag bleacher in Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs–that is, the Basic Needs for Survival–there’s a great equalizing camaraderie. Have you ever noticed how a lot of world religions have specific stipulations for nutrition, clothing, and bodily excretions? That’s because most people are POOR. The only people who don’t discuss money, food, shit, and sex are White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. That’s because they have been, historically, rich–having raped and savaged everyone else.

But, P.T., it’s not like Broke-Ass doesn’t totally know what you’re saying. Indeed, Broke-Ass is one of those White Anglo-Saxon Protestants who came from a respectably long line of relatively rich women. Then, the shit hit the fan, and now she finds herself holed up with her little schmushkies and the rest of the barnyard wrecking crew here at Rancho Del Broke-Ass. But back in the day, Broke-Ass felt nervous about talking about money–totally felt nervous about it. Why? To be honest, I can’t for the life of me remember. I’m too tired and broke. But I’ll bet you it had something to do with being a WASP. It always does.

One thing is for sure, at least in Broke-Ass’ experience: If you’re afraid of it, it’ll come and smack you in the face or fire-hose you with such ferocity that you will have no option but to decide to survive it full bore. As a child, Broke-Ass was terrified that her parents would get divorced, and they did. Later, she was wretched with fear that her beloved, brute-hearted father would die without wanting to make things right, and he did. Still later, she became paralyzed by the idea that she might ever find herself divorced, and it happened anyway. Broke-Ass was, however, never concerned that her children’s father wouldn’t do everything in his power to be an excellent dad, and he is an excellent dad. And Broke-Ass was worried about money, and now she doesn’t have any.

But she’s here. And there is very little left that scares her.


About brokeassgrouch

I'm goddamned broke and grouchy. I live in the middle of the damned ghetto and raise chickens for eggs; grow all my own vegetables and fruit; bake the bread and make the cleaning products. Why? Because I fucking have to, that's why! That's what you do when you're fucking poor! You have to make the shit yourself, dumb-ass! Broke-Ass Grouch is sick of all you Bennington and RISD trustafarians yapping about your "urban farming co-ops" and your "carbon conscious lifestyle" and your "green choices" in the Times Styles section and every alternapress periodical that you can pick up for free in every eye-wateringly expensive, edgy bakery or green-market. Maybe when you have a trust fund, you can make "choices" or have a "lifestyle" or "decide" how to "spend" your "money." Excuse me, but Mama is just trying to feed her kids over here, you little shits. And stop spraying your art-school graffiti on the fence of the vacant lot across the street from my house. I know who you are, and I'm telling my friend Keith (who lives in the projects) that it was you who painted that cartoon of the African mask. So what can I tell you? I don't fucking know. I know a lot about being broke, sure as Bob's your fucking uncle. I know about how useless an Ivy League degree is when you're flat-ass broke. I know how to unclog a drain with baking soda and vinegar, and I know how to make my own CHEESE, for fuck's sake. You tell me.
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4 Responses to Why Don’t Women Like to Talk About Money? You Must Be a Rich Goddamn Woman If You’re Asking That Question.

  1. glad to meet the grouchy says:

    This is kinda very profound at the end: the things we do not worry about do not come our way. The secret of sorts:-)
    Need to apply to every day living! MUCHO gusto all your writing. Merci. Spasibo. Gracias.

  2. PT says:

    Fantastic, SGT. Keep this going.

  3. Chiquita says:

    I agree with PT. This is awesome.

  4. A.A. says:

    Funny, I guess this is sort of true… But it’s also quite different from what I’ve experienced. See, I don’t really mind talking about money with others. It’s one friend of mine who’s constantly throwing money around, who has bragged (on multiple occasions) about how she voluntarily worked a full-time job in high school (and got special treatment in school for it), who has bragged about getting a student loan even though she has absolutely no need for one, who has absolutely no clue why the rest of us are unconfortable when she buys things for us and refuses–repeatedly–to let us pay her back, who I cannot stand to even mention money to.

    Idk. I’m not technically even poor right now–heck, you’d prob consider me one of those WASPs even though I’m not religious (particularly since parents are paying for uni education, etc.)–but I’m trying to brace for the impact of being flung into the world on high-speed with no cushion to break my fall. Only three more years to go. Did I mention that I want to be an author? … I’m trying to make these three years count toward learning to fend–completely–for myself. I’ve only read a few articles so far, and I know this one is old, but I just have to say that you’re such an inspiration.

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