Trump’s Atrocious Lack of Respect for Justice Ginsberg No Surprise

By now, we know not to expect dignity and respect from Trump or his lemmings in the senate. If there was ever an opportunity for Republicans to prove they have a shred of human decency, it was with the passing of Ruth Bader Ginsberg. They failed miserably.

Justice Ginsberg’s legacy of equal rights for women means a lot to me and many others of my generation who experienced many of the discriminatory practices against women. Today young women can scarcely imagine a world where women were not legally protected against many of the most invasive forms of discrimination.

Imagine that in 1958 a woman could be fired for being pregnant. It was not until 1978 until legislation passed prohibiting discrimination against pregnant women. Ruth Ginsberg drafted the pregnancy discrimination act.

This was before no-fault divorce and women had few opportunities to escape a wretched marriage. Those who chose to leave often were charged with abandonment. Abandonment, nothing more than a legal term, was a blessing, except employers could ask the reason for the divorce often putting their own spin on your situation.

In that era divorced a mom with young children, had limited options without the support of their family. Despite having a job, she could not get a bank loan without a co-signer, unless she was one of the Gettys.

In the sixties, I worked for a small-town doctor, a general practitioner. That job cemented my adamant belief that a woman, and her doctor should have the freedom to make decisions regarding her body, without restraints imposed by the government.

I know we are supposed to respect those whose views differ from ours; I’m not up to that challenge.  I cannot accept one group of people unilaterally decide what is best for all women. I remember what life was like before Roe V Wade and Ruth Bader Ginsberg.

Justice Ginsberg was a champion for women, yet the Republicans are aching for the opportunity to destroy her legacy.  The current regime would not hesitate to take us back to the sixties.

It is inconceivable that there are women who will continue to vote against their own interest i.e. Republican.

It is conceivable that all women will pay the price for their stupidity.

The Parking Garage Witch and Mask Hell

It is a routine visit. Quick labs in and out. In was fine – out was a visit to the 12th level of hell; mask hell.

I discarded the mask I was wearing on the way to the parking garage. I did not want the ick it may contain following me around. I don’t drive with a mask on and there are extra masks in my purse and the car console.

Paying at the parking garage exit is always a pain as it requires manual dexterity that exceeds my grasp. I drive up to the credit card machine, slide in my credit card; nada, zip, credit card doesn’t work. A quick view in the rearview mirror indicates several cars behind me. Frantic for release from this fustercluck, I press the “help” button to beckon the parking garage witch.

She and I have had encounters in the past and from the expression on her face I determine she recognizes me. She motions wildly for me to put on a mask. Grabbing one from the console, one ear loop breaks free from the mask, leaving the other ear loopless. As I free my hand to hold the loopless mask in place, the credit card falls from the machine to the ground.

Opening the car door to retrieve the credit card, said parking garage witch motions for me to put on a functioning mask. Now she is standing at least six feet away from me, but I respect her diligence in safety.

It is dark in the bowels of my handbag as I paw frantically for another mask and another credit card. Cars start honking and the witch is growing more agitated by the minute.

I get out of the car, retrieve my credit card from the pavement. I give the witch the look that moms give unwieldy children when they misbehave in public; the one that would make a crime boss cringe and wonder if the she is willing to sacrifice her life for a two-dollar parking fee.

She was not. After returning my scorched earth glare, she opens the exit gate and I am free. Next time I think I’ll call a cab.

Bad Feng Shui in The Whitehouse?

The horrifying tenant in the ninety’s movie Pacific Heights would not vacate the premises. His reign of terror devalued the property and forced the owners into foreclosure as he stood by ready to pick it up for a song.

Sounds like another real estate developer doesn’t it, except the person I’m referring to occupies the people’s house and there is no question he has devalued the property.

The people have an opportunity to remove this undesirable tenant in November. I imagine an eviction notice will have to be served to remove him, his family, whoever else is hiding in the closet, and his belongings.

Imagine if you will, his belongings tossed to the curb; empty buckets of KFC strewn among ugly red neckties. A tanning bed and golf clubs perched next to half-used containers of orange makeup from Switzerland. Dozens of worn-out shiny frock coats dumped helter-skelter cover vast expanses of the rose garden. Among the discards, in sharp contrast to the oversized garments, lies a tiny jacket worn to dinner with the queen.

There is too much negative chi in the White House. A major bug bomb blast of good feng shui energy will have to occur.

Smudging, or other rites involving the burning of sage; a ceremony for spiritual cleansing, might be an option. I hope the sage harvest can meet the challenge.

An aura cleansing of the 45th Presidential portrait might be a good idea too.

But to cover all the bases if I were moving in, I’d demand an exorcism.