Can Texas Women Travel to Mexico Now for a Safe Abortion?

I always thought Governor Abbott was an imbecile, (which automatically makes me smarter than him) and that he couldn’t possibly top his harebrained ban on masks, but I would be wrong. Sending women back into the dark ages with his new abortion law isn’t only asinine and sexist, it’s dangerous. But perhaps I shouldn’t speak up right now because he might be suffering from some bad period cramps . . . oh wait, he doesn’t have a period. Well then maybe he should keep his legislation out of my uterus. I particularly love the bounty on the body thing, but that’s another story. I’m sure you know about this, but I’m going to post portions of these articles anyway:

“MEXICO CITY, Sept 7 (Reuters) – Mexico’s Supreme Court unanimously ruled on Tuesday that penalizing abortion is unconstitutional, a major victory for advocates of women’s health and human rights, just as parts of the United States enact tougher laws against the practice.

The decision in the world’s second-biggest Roman Catholic country means that courts can no longer prosecute abortion cases, and follows the historic legalization of the right in Argentina, which took effect earlier this year.”

And from NPR:

“Now that women in Coahuila, which borders the state of Texas, can choose to terminate their pregnancies through the first trimester, Avila-Guillen suggests some American women may benefit from Mexico’s new law.

She asks: “Could the safest way for Texan women to have access to a safe, legal abortion soon be to make their way to Mexico?”

Who’d a thunk it? I love the irony. Maybe rape and incest victims won’t have to schlep so far away to end their trauma.

As a former Houstonian, born and raised, I’m ashamed about what’s happening to my state. I pray that one day a blue wave will rise up, cover the rot, and send the scoundrels running.

A Real Blog Post

Because I’m old-fashioned, (meaning I’m tech-stupid) I’ve mainly used my blog in a cathartic way. (To bitch.) It’s been another “a while” since I’ve posted. I swear I’m not going to discuss politics. Really. It’s not good for my blood pressure, and I’m already too upset about everything else that’s destroying our country, world, and planet. I’m looking forward to Halloween, (my favorite holiday) so I’ll probably post one of my favorite ghost stories. But for now I’ll just share a few things that have transpired lately. Just a few links because I don’t know how to do anything else. That’s my Halloween resolution. To transform and invigorate my blog so my posts, (rants) aren’t so scary. I’ll reach out for viewers, add photos, jokes, (I really do have a sense of humor) my music, and anything I else I can think of to impress. Or connect, (which is what I need). I’ve been overwhelmed lately, (but it’s been artistic stuff so it’s okay). So here are a few links to some recent successes. You’ll know when I’ve figured out how to do anything else. I’m just an old-fashioned girl for now.

My latest play, The Harmonica In Your Closet, was just published in Stage It! 5: 20 Ten-Minute Plays. It’s about cultural appropriation, and it includes kippahs and dashikis. The info is on my Amazon page below. (And no, you don’t have to buy it.)

My latest monologue, Cheating Schmeating, which is about—you guessed it—was just named as a finalist in Paradox Theatre’s New Works Festival. I’d love to go to Chicago to see it but I’m Delta-variant shy.

https://www.paradoxtheatreworks.com/copy-of-about-3?fbclid=IwAR0fn3CpFUVDk6wevAW_4HO-osK-veUBkwaSET1ZWgBPBbzsXZuQPIEX0kY

You know what? I can’t do this anymore. It feels kind of . . . boastful. I’ll list a few of my misses in my next post. For now I’m going to hop and spend some time with Josh. I hope you have a great weekend. And don’t forget to get your jab. Be well!

Where Have All the Ballots Gone . . .

No, I haven’t written in over seven months. I penned something just before the impeachment, which now seems like a ridiculous exercise from a bygone era. It’s the usual problem. I become so outraged by the latest travesty that I have exorcise my demons on the keypad. But when I finally get to my computer to unload, the insult has gone into hiding. You know, it’s vanished to make room for the next insult, and the next one, and the next one, until I’m too demoralized and disoriented to remember which travesty I was upset about. I’ll tell you what else is disorienting. The migraine that tortured my head for five days. The one that started pulsating after RBG’s death. Three days over the right eyebrow, one day over the left, and then a vestibular plant right in the middle of the head. I had to hold on to the bed so it would stop spinning. The bed, I mean.

Yes, I grieved this remarkable woman’s death, but I grieved her legacy even more. And then I grieved over the predictable shit show to come. It’s been much worse than I expected. I anticipated maniacal glee from Trump, McConnell, Barr, and the sycophants, but the rest of the lot?  Complete senatorial acquiescence? (With the exception of Murkowski and Collins, whose gestures are empty at this point.) I was foolish to cling to any notion of honor. But yada, yada, I could go on for days about the ugliness of the Supreme Court and election battles, etc. Our democracy is at stake, the American experiment is failing, blah, blah. I’ve been paralyzed over the power grabs and the prospect of a Trumpian future for days–despite the vertigo.

So I’ve discussed/disgust/snarled about all this ramming of the nominees, and the voter suppression ahead, with my husband, who is accustomed to my histrionics. But I haven’t been histrionic. I predicted how all of this mess was going to play out almost a week ago. I’ve managed my expectations too much to wig out. Any hysteria over this nightmare has morphed into a calm paranoia.  And I don’t care what he says, or the Wall Street Journal, or even Nate Silver. We do have something to fear.

And no, it’s not Trump, the autocrat baby, refusing to leave. He’ll be forced out kicking and screaming if he’s shown the door. We have the military for that. And Bill Maher. No, what keeps me up at night are the ballots. It won’t matter if Biden wins in a landslide if the landslide can’t be counted. And I’m not being simplistic. We received a letter from Florida the other day that took over five weeks to arrive. Five weeks. (Hats off to DeJoy, he knew what he was doing.)  I don’t care what the cut-off is, if people start mailing their ballots this very second, what guarantees they’ll arrive in time to be processed? “Ballots that are postmarked by Election Day will count, if received within six and nine days of the election.” (NPR) Nine days? What about within three weeks of the election? Or five weeks like our letter?

CNN reports, “But beyond Trump’s rhetoric, his campaign and Republicans at the state and local level are moving to make it more difficult for voters to cast a ballot, more difficult for states to count votes and more likely that tallies will be challenged in the courts — with a particular focus on mail-in voting.”

Every vote must be counted—no matter how delayed–if we’re going to be beat this man. God knows he’s pulling every dirty trick he can to win. I don’t want the ballots, like the insults, to go into hiding.

Feeling Trumped. (But I’m Almost Done.)

There’s a reason I haven’t contributed to this blog in well over a year. And with a plethora of SENTIMENTS ABOUT FAMILY, SOCIETY, AND DUMBFOUNDING HUMAN BEHAVIOR, there’s really no excuse. It’s not that I haven’t been writing—as paralyzed and hopeless as I’ve been feeling for the past 1109 days—it’s just that every time I start to unload on my computer I’m incited by another ridiculous, jaw-dropping political event, and my blood pressure goes up. I have to stop clicking in preparation for the sleazy, salacious details. Am I “shocked” about the latest national insult? Of course not. Demoralized, but never surprised.

I know I’m not the only one who’s been stuck in mud and despondent over our president’s antics. I have plenty of friends who’ve re-enameled their teeth because they’ve gritted them so much for the past three years. (That’s actually a lie, I don’t even know if there’s a procedure for that except for wearing one of those horse-bit things at night.) But I do know people who, like me, have taken to the bed only to throw their covers over their heads and pray that it’s just been an ugly, protracted dream.

I mean—and I know you’ve heard this before—it’s just that when you compound Trump’s behaviors with the sins of his relentless defenders—and they’re buzzing all over the place like worker bees—you wonder how the country will ever recover and regain its equilibrium. You attempt to hold on to your personal guardrails and remain stable in a republic you don’t recognize anymore. One that is morphing into an autocracy every day. This shit keeps me up at night. As well as the 24-hour news cycle.

I must liberate myself from the tyranny that is Trump. I’ve given my power over to him and I’m ashamed of myself. Besides, I have too much work piling up. And I don’t care if I sound melodramatic about all this. I’m a dramatist after all, so it’s okay. But more importantly, I’m an uber patriot, daughter of a double war veteran who’s just heartbroken about the current state of our union. I don’t care how good the economy is. (Don’t repeat that to my husband.) If I scratch my head one more time about the dumbfounding things I’ve witnessed lately I’ll need hair replacement soon. (Like tomorrow.)

Yes, you’ve heard all of this before. I swear I’ll refrain from posting anything else about our Useful-Idiot-In-Chief. I won’t mention his breathlessly corrupt colleagues, his turkey-necked partner-in-crime, McConnell, his treasonous, two-faced toady, Lindsay Graham, and the rest of the sycophantic turncoats in Congress. I won’t mention my disgust over the neutered impeachment trial, or the clear and present danger of Fox and Friends, The Hannity File, The Ingraham Angle, The Rush Limbaugh Show, and the Lou Dobbs whatever.

Yes, I’m done feeling Trumped, it’s just too unhealthy. I mean it. And you better damn well bet I’m taking it to the ballot box. Hell, I don’t care if the democratic nominee is Tarzan, he’ll get my vote. He’s certainly smarter and more civilized than the malignancy in office now. Take heart patriots and international friends, an election is upon us, and the American nightmare will soon be over! That’s what I tell myself anyway, when I finally cast off my covers, ready to face another unpredictable, “shocking” day.

 

My Latest TED Talk Could, (But Won’t) Teach Trump a Thing or Two

Well, it’s only taken me about two months to post my new(ish) TED talk. I gave it last spring but it was re-edited and re-introduced this fall. It’s called The Road to Empathy and it addresses ableism and racism through mini-scenes performed by four actors, (including myself). It’s a mash-up of my play My Son, and Driving Miss Daisy. I used excerpts from the latter with Alfred Uhry’s permission.

I’d been too distracted by the upcoming mid-terms to post, but now I’m motivated considering the latest xenophobic, racist rants from our distinguished Commander in Chief. He could take a lesson from the talk, but as we all know empathy and compassion aren’t his strong suits. Thank you for watching, and please don’t forget to vote.