Don’t shove your ID in my face. I can’t anything in this light, especially not tiny print. I can’t concentrate on your ID when I’m trying to look you up in a book.
For goodness sake! Every ballot in NY state history has “party lines.” “Vote the party line” has a literal meaning.
Oh come on! “Pick one” shouldn’t be difficult.
Don’t throw out other people’s pieces of paper. Really. Just don’t.
When I was a high-school girl my (very few) lovers came from the groups of people I hung out with. I didn’t date.
I dated boys in college, and I hated it. Every single one of them made a pass at me on the first (and usually last) date. As far as I could tell, not only were they uninterested in me personally (which I was fine with, I neither knew, nor cared, about them), they were uninterested in sex.
Making that pass was simply an item on a date agenda.
Coping with it got so boring.
I understand intellectually what the right is doing. I don’t understand it emotionally.
I’m not intuitive or empathetic – ask anyone – and even I don’t get the cruelty:
- 3 trillion in tax cuts to the rich
- Gutting the EPA
- Oil drilling in national parks
- Defunding social security
- Destroying public education
- Dismantling health-care
- Supporting Nazis and pedophiles
- Putting a ranting misogynist cry baby on the Supreme Court
- Openly knocking Black people off the voting rolls
- Denying passports to citizens
- Locking children in cages – and stealing from FEMA to do so
- Supplying no aid to Puerto Rico
This is what I can remember off the top of my head.
May they rot.
I feel a little foolish. I’m experiencing flashbacks.
Look, I objected to Kavanaugh on the Supreme Court because of Roe, because he would support Trump if Trump were investigated, because he is an utterly partisan douche bag.
I believe the women who accuse him of assault.
And the reason I’m crying into my coffee right now –
I have had abusive partners.
I watched Kavanaugh and thought “I’ve seen this rage, followed by tears. This is familiar.”
Then I saw his wife’s face.
My face. The face of someone who knows what will happen when he gets home.
I worked at the polls yesterday for the primaries.
In my neighborhood there are a quite a few people who think they are above party politics.
New York City and New York State are big on party politics though.
Every primary, the “above party politics” crew show up and are incensed they can’t vote (in the Democratic primary).
Usually I get my jolies by (snickering inwardly and) saying politely “You have to be a registered Democrat to vote in the primary.”
This time I did something different.
“You’re not registered to any party.”
“You mean I can’t vote.”
“Nope. You have a choice, and here are your options. You can walk away without voting. You can vote in the Reform Party – here are their candidates – oh not interested? Or, you can vote in the Democratic primary, but you’ll have to register as a Democrat.”
“Oh ? How do I do that?”
“Two ways. You can head over to 200 Varick and get a judge to certify you as a Democrat -” (I note they look miserable) ” or you can fill out an Affidavit Ballot and choose to register as a Democrat.”
All ten of them took the ballot and registered as Democrats.
To a great degree I judge by the actions and the results of actions, as opposed to the words someone uses to describe their motives.
Thus A used to say that he thought I was brilliant, and a good person worthy of love. He used to say he wanted me to do fun stuff and have nice things. And yet,
– He never did pay for me to have expensive dye jobs (that I didn’t care about but he claimed were important).
– He also said “I hope you’re not as unclear at work as you are at home. You make no sense at all.”
– He claimed that the reason we didn’t entertain was that he was ashamed of the boxes. Once they were gone it was something else. He knew I love parties.
– He claimed that telling a friend I liked X porn was a terrible betrayal. Much worse than sneaking into my email and reading the message in which I said it.
– He yelled at me so often for looking at his screen that I was afraid to look toward him when he was at his desk.
I can’t remember what internet hole I fell down that led me to it.
To recap: a bunch of folks were hanging out at a convention. Some of the men in the group lamented that they didn’t live in a world in which it would be ok to go up to women and ask to touch their breasts. One of the women said they could touch hers. The men (and women ?) proceded to grope all the women in the group.
Then they asked more women if they could grope them.
Then they decided this would be a great activity for another convention. They made up buttons which said yes you may or no you may not. They groped a bit at the second convention. They wrote it up.
I am pleased that hundreds of people thought OSBP was a lousy idea.
Here’s my take : we already live in the world those men wanted. I’m pushing 60, and ever since I was 11, no more than a day or two goes by without some man “asking” if he can touch me.
I can hear the pushback:
“But no one thinks it’s ok”
I disagree. Clearly all the men and boys who’ve asked to touch me think it’s ok. So do the men and boys with them. So does every creep who says we like catcalls.
“You can say no”
I do. I’m often terrified, but I do.