Tag Archives: Donald Trump

But how will they enforce it?

I’ve been thinking about the whole transgender bathroom issue. I have to admit, I’m confused.

If a fella is dressing as a woman and identifies as a woman and goes into the Ladies and into a stall and does his business . . . who’s going to know? And if a woman is dressed as a man and strolls past the urinals to do her business in one of the stalls . . . who’s going to know? And who’s going to care?

I’m much more concerned about whether someone is carrying a gun (open or concealed) in a public place than I am in where that person decides to take a tinkle. And yet, I am going to guess that the majority of the people whose panties are in a knot over the restroom dilemma are the same ones who think it’s their right to shop for Cheetos and doughnuts with an assault rifle slung over one shoulder.

Can this country get any crazier?

looking up skirt

You’re good to go, ma’am. Ladies is on your right.

So, if we stick to the status quo of one facility for the Ladies and another for the Gents, how are we going to know if someone is trying to do a switcheroo? Will Wal-Mart and Target have to hire Gender Checkers? Would you look down people’s pants for minimum wage? Would there be spot checks, or would the Gender Checker have the authority to pull aside anyone who looks suspicious?

“Excuse me, ma’am, but is that an Adam’s Apple or a goiter?” 

And let’s consider the idea of shared bathrooms. Unless you were raised by wolves, didn’t you share the family bathroom with members of the opposite sex? Yeah, I know they’re family, but nobody wants to go in the bathroom after Dad has finished the paper and unloaded or Little Brother has sprayed everywhere and left the seat up. I would say keep men in the Men’s room simply because so many of them are gross. Forget about sexual imposition.

Every time I have to fly anywhere and am forced to use the unisex bathrooms on the plane I know I’m taking my chances and that acceptable standards of sanitation are just one unfortunate visit away from being compromised. And yet, with a couple hundred people on a plane and two or three potties, everyone manages.

How annoying is it, though, when a flight attendants snarls, “You can’t stand here,” and all you’re doing is waiting to use the john. It’s not for FUN, lady. It’s not an experience I’m looking forward to, ma’am. Do you know what awaits me inside? No. Nor do I, and yet, I have no choice but to face it. And if I return to my seat? Well, then I’ll have to come back in a few minutes and stand behind more people to wait my turn and, oh, just SHUT UP.

Anyway. With nutjobs running for President and more garden-variety nutjobs packing heat on college campuses and at the Dollar Tree and Dunkin Donuts, who the hell cares if the dude who looks like a lady piddles in the women’s restroom?

The chances of a transgender person approaching a little girl in the Ladies are about as likely as a dingo eating  your baby. Now, can we please get back to worrying about real things, like how that poor Mr. Trump’s skin turned orange?

 

A Christmas political miracle

Bleary-eyed, I scraped some of the burnt crumbs off my toast this morning, then slapped on a dab of peanut butter and, lo and behold . . . a Christmas Miracle!

Is it the Virgin Mary? Jesus himself? Scraps of bread and gnarly root vegetables bearing holy images go for big bucks on eBay, and who can’t use some extra cash around the holidays?

No. It was none other than Donald Trump, and the message was clear . . . .

Trump toastTrump is toast. Merry Christmas.

My eyebrows and Donald Trump

A few years ago, my son took me aside and gently said, “Mom. You really should stop plucking your eyebrows.”

I said, “Chris. I haven’t plucked my eyebrows since the ninth grade.”

Had I known at 14 that experimenting with hair removal would result in the skimpy bits of hair left on my brow today, trust me; I would not have plucked them at all.

That’s why I was so reluctant to trim a wayward hair this week. Perched all alone on the downward curve above my right eye, that one renegade hair is all that remains in that section of eyebrow. It’s also still brown, which makes me value it even more. Some of the wilder ones have turned white and it’s hard to decide which is worse:  leaving the traitors that make my chosen hair color an obvious lie versus plucking one of the die-hards that hasn’t chosen to leave me permanently.

I think my son would say my eyebrows kind of look like these

I think my son would say my eyebrows kind of look like these

Usually I just trim the long hairs to make what’s left of my eyebrows look neater. Then I fill in the gaps with eyebrow pencil and call it a day.

But there was something about that single, long brown hair that inspired me to fashion a kind of brow comb over. For a few days I used a dab of hairspray to coax it into what would be the natural downward line of my brow, if hair actually still existed there. I carefully penciled in faux hairs to fill in the area around it. I even named it Donald, inspired as I was by King of Comb-Overs, Donald Trump.

How could anyone take a man seriously who thinks it's okay to wear his hair like this?

How could anyone take a man seriously who thinks it’s okay to wear his hair like this?

Then I thought, who am I kidding? Do I want people making fun of my right eyebrow, the way we make fun of Trump’s hair? Do I want to walk around pretending I don’t know and no one will notice that my right eyebrow just has one, long downward hair?

No. He may be delusional and incredibly odd, but I’m not. And I’m not rich enough or eccentric enough to pull it off.

I would just like to know who thought it would be amusing in my old age to thin out my eyebrows and reinstate those hairs in random spots on my chin and neck. Oh, and seriously impair my vision so I can no longer see the new hairs without heavy duty corrective lenses, a very strong magnifying mirror and natural sunlight illuminating my neck just so.

Between the existence of unwanted feminine chin hairs and Donald Trump as a presidential candidate, I think we can be pretty sure God has a quirky sense of humor.