Saturday, October 8, 2016


I am dining alone.

The manager, or so he appears, comes out to the patio, sweeps past me and asks, "How ya doing Sweety?"

Really? But one thing I like less than being called Sweety is unnecessary confrontation. Maybe he was a genuinely caring manager who like terms of endearment. Bottom line, it doesn't matter.

While riding my bike around the island, I pass the golf course, and a hole that is right up against the fence.   I'm the recipient of a cat call. Or so I think. Bottom line, it doesn't matter.

I then bike past a gardener who looks up as I pass and makes the same overture. It doesn't matter. I know who I am; I am secure in who I am. I am not flattered. I am not insulted. It's a minor confrontation for which I will not be bothered.

But somehow it bothers me, it all comes back, when I hear the language, the machismo insults of a man running for president, the disregard of the sacred female body and her right to not be thought of as a physical open playground. The man who is seeking the most esteemed position in American government---should his past attitudes towards females make a difference in the US Presidential election?