*For which, I note, I am no longer Google's number one link. Ah, fleeting fame.
Of course, I'm tired of just about everything, after working 60 hours this weekend, doing emergency fill-ins in my home-caregiver job. But hey, they were nice people, and they needed somebody, and as I've said many times before, there's a profound satisfaction in knowing that you're doing a job that absolutely has to be done.
I wish I was getting more massage business, though.
And I wish the election would be over.
It's over for me already -- I voted on Saturday at the kitchen table, in the new Oregon ritual of democracy. My ballot and Kathe's came in the mail, though Tes and Waldy's didn't. If they don't come in today's mail, I'll need to go down to the Courthouse and try to sort it out.
That reminds me: somebody said the other day that she strongly disapproved of voting by mail, and I didn't have time to ask her why. I'll be seeing her later today, and I must remember to bring the subject up again.
Anyway, about Ballot Measure 43: I was strongly impressed by an article in yesterday's Oregonian. The content is well summed up by two of the subheads: "I'm sorry there wasn't a law in place that forced me to tell my parents" and "It was not having an abortion that changed my position. It was being beaten for it."
Here we have one woman still trying to push off responsibility for her decisions onto Daddy (Big Daddy Oregon, in this case), and one who lays out in the starkest possible terms the consequences of indulging our moral vanity by putting the poisoned Band-Aid of Measure 43 over the festering wound of our dysfunctional culture.
//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "I was going to call that a grotesque metaphor, but really it's more rococo."\\
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