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Member since: 2003 before July 6th
Number of posts: 34,265

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It's time for drastic measures.

To get to Trump, you have to get to the FOX News Channel.

And it's simple: BOYCOTT THEIR SPONSORS. You don't have to watch those awful shows. You can still exercise your freedom to purchase otherwise and write to the manufacturers to let them know why you aren't buying their coffee or potato chips or pillows.

Reverse blacklist.

If we all do it, we have leverage.

I paid for my 16 year old sister's abortion in 1975. One of my best choices.

My sister was sexually active and found herself pregnant one month after her 16th birthday. Of course she didn't use birth control, but then again, she was 16 and couldn't have visited a gynecologist (at least someone who didn't know our father, another doctor).

I gave her $214* for the procedure. She had to have it in New York State, Long Island. Her boyfriend, age 20, went with her. She was fine. I was in another state, at college.

She left her boyfriend about six months after that. Because our father never found out, she went on to a good life. She enrolled in the same college where I was enrolled. She met a very nice man and married him and remains happily married 30+ years later. Because of a sperm issue, they couldn't have children. But they have four rescue dogs and that's enough for them.

I never told on her. Not even when I was totally furious at her and she used our parents against me.

I could have had a niece or nephew aged 43 years old now I suppose. But my sister had nobody else to turn to in her hour of need. We were just lucky that she was able to decide.

* $214 was big bucks in '75. Minimal wage was $2.10. It took a long time to save up that money as I only worked 20 hours a week.


It's five years since my father passed at age 93. I felt disoriented, confused, and angry during the last 10 years of his life. Dad had always been difficult, but he was in new territory after my mother/his wife passed.

I'm talking about words and deeds that were beyond the Pale. Stuff like when my sister's beloved puppy was struck and killed right before Thanksgiving dinner, and she and my brother-in-law were weeping and cradling the little dead body, Dad was trying his damnedest to get us to the supper table. No empathy whatsoever. Stuff like disinheriting me and my sibs but leaving $35,000 to the neighbor. Stuff like screaming at me for washing all the pots and pans and dishes on the counter b/c it would give the cleaning lady "nothing to do". Repeating verbatim whatever he had heard on FOX News, repeating like every 3 minutes. Bad driving (which eventually and consequently killed him). Refusing to let any of us prepare checks for him to sign for six months of unpaid bills. And more.

My sister and brother didn't have an answer. He was too functional to be senile or suffering from full blown dementia. And we were certain that if we couldn't exactly put our proverbial finger on the problem, we couldn't get help for the "new normal".

But today, I believe I know what the problem was: Frontotemporal Dementia. https://www.alzheimers.net/signs-of-frontotemporal-dementia/

My father had 9 of the 10 warning signs. If anything, all of us are nominated for sainthood for the extra abuse we received from our father. When he died, it was truly a relief. (I had the brunt of the responsibility as I lived the closest.)

Please appreciate this revelation/discovery has done wonders for me. My head has stopped spinning and the anger really starting to dissipate. My father "died" years before his mortality caught up with him. I was dealing with dementia, not Dad.
Posted by no_hypocrisy | Sat May 4, 2019, 10:55 AM (2 replies)

Paying back a bad loan

I'm an attorney and have a new case.

My client had a shopping disorder and maxed out her credit cards behind her husband's back. Five figures.

Worried about the debt, she consolidated her debt and took out a loan that paid off her credit cards. Behind her husband's back. She signed the papers but didn't read them and didn't understand what the conditions were.

Her husband found out about the loan when he protested the cost of his auto premium. (Your credit history affects your premium.) But she denied, denied, denied. And he couldn't do anything about it.

My client fell and is effectively disabled and got a lump sum for her workers comp. She wants to pay back the loan in full, which is responsible. With the outrageous interest on the loan, the figure is $65,000-something. It's almost the sales price of their home when they bought it in 1978.

She tried to pay off the loan but the company is refusing the payment and wants her to continue monthly payments in order to allow accrued and compound interest.

I'm taking over and closing the file.

I really don't want to do this case, but I realize that she's in bad medical shape and if this isn't addressed and concluded now, the debt will attach to the marital home and her husband will have worked for more than 40 years to pay for the home that he would effectively lose. Or at least dramatically affect his credit, his ability to borrow, and his insurance premiums.

Trump ignoring his role as Consoler In Chief is reminiscent

of our father on Thanksgiving Night seven years ago.

We had a tragedy. My sister had four dogs*, and one of them escaped when she went out to walk our father's dog, right before Dinner. The dog got hit by a car in the dark and the rain and died. The police returned its body to my sister and her husband. The unearthly cry of sorrow and shock still rings in my ears.

They brought in the corpse and were cradling it, crying. Reminded me of La Pieta at The Vatican. I was crying with them.

Our father (age 90) tried to distract, not comfort. He reminded my sister that she had three other dogs. I mean it. That's what he said. And what else could he say that was worse than that? Dinner's ready, let's eat!

Needless to say, Thanksgiving was canceled. My sister and BIL and their dogs and I went home, grieving and miserable.

Our father's attitude was "What's the problem? You have three dogs. I've got mine."

* My sister and her husband were unable to have children and the dogs were their FAMILY.

I am Christine Blasey Ford


In 1989, I was nearly raped in my bed in my bedroom. Up until the last minute, I believed I was going to be violently raped and then murdered. In the safety of my bed in my bedroom in my home with three housemates sleeping soundly nearby.

I wasn't a teenager and had experience with men both wanted and unwanted.

My housemates were guys, unmarried, less than ten years younger than I was. Nice, reliable. One of them invited a friend over. I only met that guest for two minutes and returned to my room to study for the LSATs, scheduled in 3 days.

I was told that guest was too drunk to drive and would be crashing on the couch. Not knowing this guy, I locked my bedroom door before I retired and tested the door. It was secure.

About 4 a.m., I heard a noise. It was a light knock. It was the guest. He called me by my name and asked me to open the door b/c he wanted to talk to me. I didn't answer and hoped the silence indicated I was asleep and not about to wake up.

And he persisted. I heard a drawer in the kitchen loudly open and the sound of rifling of metal utensils. I figured he was going to get something to eat. He wasn't.

I heard metal on metal at my door. Shit, no! The door flew up. In the light, I saw the silhouette of his body. I saw the chiffon yellow V-neck sweater -- and he was wearing no pants or anything else. And he was brandishing a large chicken carving knife.

Let's review the situation: I locked my door, he broke into my bedroom with a large carving knife, and he wasn't wearing anything except a sweater.

I yelled at him to leave. He didn't. He just stood in the frame of the doorway. I yelled for my housemates, who continued sleeping. I picked up my phone and called one of them and screamed that his friend broke into my room with a large knife and he was wearing no pants. The message went on voicemail.

I'm fucked literally and figuratively. I had no weapon to defend myself.

Having no other recourse, I held up the phone and announced I was calling 911. Don't know why that made him back up and leave, but it did. I closed and re-locked the door -- and sat up in bed for the rest of the night.

My friend/housemate/host of the guest was ready to leave for law school at 7 a.m. I asked him if he listened to my message. No, he hadn't and he was in a hurry. I saw that his guest was sleeping soundly on the couch -- with his pants on. Shit, now nobody would believe my story.

I insisted that my housemate listen to the message which fortunately had been recorded entirely. Without a word, he rushed into the living room, picked up his sleeping friend, and literally threw him through the glass pane of the outer door, out onto the grass, and screamed at him to get out of his sight.

I was still shaken, but my friend must have felt that he did enough, and left for school. Nobody else heard anything that night.

Three days later, I began my law career by taking the LSATs.

It's 30 years later. I still remember. And there's no way to prove it happened.

Hurricane Gloria


It was October 1985. My mother was living in a small Cape Cod home in Southampton, on the South Shore of Long Island. I was living and working in northern New Jersey. (My parents had a home in northern New Jersey as well.)

I was at work, typing medical reports. Mom called to tell me that her car had a hole in the gas tank and it couldn't be repaired until next week. Meanwhile reports of the impending hurricane warned not only would it hit Long Island the next day, but the eye of the storm would go over exactly where Mom was. I told her that I'd be there in a few hours.

So in my small Ford Escort, I drove three hours to Southampton. Bad rain and wind. But I made it by 5:00 and it was still light outside. My illusions of rescue were shattered when Mom cheerfully greeted me with "You're just in time for the Hurricane Party!" And no, she was sober and she wasn't kidding. She thought that I left work and risked my life on the Long Island Expressway to get drunk during a dangerous hurricane.

I had a fit of anger. Told her to look out the window at my car, because in 30 minutes, it would be leaving and I didn't care if she was in the passenger seat or not.

Grumbling, Mom decided to return to New Jersey, to safety with me. We then drove with bumper-to-bumper traffic BACK on the Long Island Expressway for four hours with greater wind and greater rain. It was amazing that I had any gas left in my tank. Mom constantly complained about missing the damned party during the ride.

Once home, Mom promptly poured herself a Scotch and attended the Hurricane Party by phone conversation. I was beyond words to express my dismay. I did the right thing. It was just the most bizarre experience I had had up to that point. (But then again, it WAS my family . . . . . )

Epilogue: Gloria did in fact hit Southampton hard. Many old trees were uprooted and laid across streets. No electricity for 10 days.

Generally, Trump reminds me of my father when he was 92.


Dad had to have two cataracts removed, obviously one at a time. He chose to have the surgery in NYC, about 45 minutes drive from our home in NJ. His status post-op would be one eye with a cataract, one with an eye patch, and effects of anesthesia.

I offered to drive him there and back. He refused outright. I asked if he were ordering a car service. Nope. How did he intend to safely return home as he wasn't staying overnight? Taxi? No, he intended to drive to the hospital and drive back.

I outright told him he wasn't going to do that as his vision would be severely compromised, he wouldn't be alert, and he'd be attempting to drive Midtown during midday during midweek. And three major highways. There would be a great chance of an accident with injury(ies) of other cars and/or pedestrians.

While I was in the bathroom, he snuck down to the garage, got in his car, and drove to the hospital. While I wasn't going to call the Police, I did the next best thing: I called the surgeon's office and advised them not to release him as he didn't have a driver. I further advised the office if they did let him drive home and there were an accident, I'd call the victim's (victims') attorney and give the law office the surgeon's name, address, and phone # to add to the Complaint.

To my horror, the surgeon and hospital released my father and he drove home himself. How he managed NOT to hit anyone or anything still amazes me.

My point: My father was a dangerous driver even without the surgery. But short of a court order and/or an arrest, you couldn't keep him from driving. My siblings and I knew he was dangerous and felt helpless. Like Trump, out father had poor judgment and impulse control. And a mercurial temper.

Epilogue: Dad died because he rear-ended a van at a gas station, hitting his chest on the steering wheel (no airbag). He didn't tell any of us about the accident. For one week, he internally bled from a torn aorta, thus suffering a fatal heart attack.

I don't know what, but there IS something wrong with Trump's mentation.

That is, mental activity.

It's so similar to my friend's brother. While this brother was an alcoholic and Trump abstains from alcohol, both men speak similar tomes.

This brother was the kind of alcoholic who would be celebrated patron at the local bar. They even reserved his seat (sort of like Norm in "Cheers" ). And this guy would sit and drink beer after beer after beer and proselytize politics, sex, religion, life from his bar stool. And nobody corrected him. He just reached around and pulled "facts" out of his ass all night. And he'd make these statements with certitude. And the other bar patrons loved him because he blew his money on drinks for the house. (See any parallels so far?)

He'd come back to his home and try the bar routine and he wasn't as popular as he was in the bar. He'd claim, insist, stuff like "We Will Rock You" was originated in Germany in the 1970s and that Queen stole the song. I mean he'd get worked up about this nonsense. Nearly hysterical. And this was even when he was somewhat not as drunk. (At best, he was dry, but not sober.)

One incident convinced his brother that this drunk was beyond help and redemption. His brother was hyperpatriotic. (He served in Vietnam). In Germany, this guy was anti-American but as soon as he moved back, he was hyper-American. One day, my friend was driving around town with his brother who was screaming and raving, just getting worked up. My friend inadvertently fed him some fuel when he popped in a tape of "God Bless the U.S.A." Instead of calming down his brother, this was like throwing gas on a fire. Whoosh! This guy was leaning towards dangerous with his screaming and hysteria.

My point: I've seen this movie before. I figure not only will Trump not level off, but he'll get worse over time. He needs these rallies where his ravings are welcomed and integrated. He feeds the audience and they feed him back.

It doesn't matter that Trump doesn't drink. He's acting exactly like my friend's brother.
Posted by no_hypocrisy | Wed Aug 1, 2018, 10:52 AM (6 replies)

It's easy to understand why Trump's base would be OK with Russian interference.

Because Russia helped to elect their boy. Otherwise, the Base would remain a political minority. Nobody taking them seriously. Their prejudices unaddressed. Their wish for their religious views to be enacted into law ignored. Democracy was passing them by every election.

So whatever it took to get them to the front of the line, they're down with it! Trump knows and appreciates that. Democracy is not how inadequate candidates get elected. Russians are cool (until their boy no longer matters to them).
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