By Kathleen Hoy Foley
Let’s be clear, the signing of the law to unseal closed adoptions records by Governor Chris Christie—an act of covert violence against all women—would not have been passed were it not championed by The Girls of the New Jersey State Legislature. Who are The Girls? I’m so glad you asked. The Girls are the very ones you knew in high school and college who spent quality time putting on makeup, flirting with cute professors, drooling over sweaty rock stars, and punishing less worthy girls with gossip, exclusion, and eye rolls. We all know The Girls. Every one of them excels at covert abuse: What? Me? I didn’t do anything.
Oh, speaking of sweaty rock stars… Maybe I am the only one who remembers cringing at Senator Diane Allen’s animated public display of LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! fawning over Run DMC during a committee hearing about sealed adoption records a while back. Of course, Mr. DMC is a rap star, not a rock star, but he does sweat and gyrate professionally which evidently qualified him for Senator Allen’s fawning. Senator Allen was herself a media personality of some note before wrinkles and sturdy shoes took over. That’s when the real power brokers—the he-men—stepped in and gave her the boot. After her stint as a television beauty and before her entry into the pseudo-powerful The Girls’ clique, Ms. Allen was just another aging woman trending toward stout. Then with her big election win, Ms. Allen became an aging woman trending toward stout clutching political privileges that presented her with many fine opportunities, including the chance to degrade herself by flaunting her goods (big breasts are always in demand) at a sweaty celebrity in a public forum. Which is…which is…I don’t know…sad? Desperate? Embarrassing especially because of the sturdy shoes? Fill in any description that fits.
Senator Diane Allen and all The Girls of the New Jersey State Legislature serve at the behest of the he-men in the He-Men Only Power Club. The Girls know this. It’s just that The Girls don’t want you to know it. Because once you know it, their outward show of power is seriously diminished, since basically The Girls are just puppets dressed up in power suits. How do I know this? Because no powerful woman of voice would ever condone—much less promote—the abuse of another woman. No powerful woman of voice would willfully expose another woman to governmental abuse, sanctioned physical and emotional indignities, or deprive any woman of her human rights to her own body and her personal privacy. But The Girls of the New Jersey State Legislature did just that. Without the support of girl senators and girl assemblywomen, Governor Chris Christie’s bill to punish women by publicly exposing us for suffering a confidential, catastrophic pregnancy would have been burned in a garbage can like a dirty bra long before it reached the governor’s he-man desk.
It’s a pathetic, open secret that The Girls in the New Jersey State Legislature exist to obey and serve the he-men. So long as they comply, their power suits are relatively safe. If a he-man declares that a woman’s highest purpose is joyful procreation, The Girls shall agree. If a he-man dusts off a framed picture of his long-suffering mother and weeps over the tale of his mom crawling across the Rockies with two broken legs while caring for the eighteen kids she gladly birthed three at a time in a covered wagon in-between fighting off masked marauders with a rifle that kept misfiring, The Girls better have a long-suffering pioneer woman tale of their own to recite to the accompaniment of misty eyes.
Of course The Girls are well compensated for their blind loyalty to he-men who sell fantasies of wagon trains, motherhood, and lemonade—which, by the way, can be created out of the contents of a burdened uterus when necessary, just ask one of The Girls. For their silent obedience…oh, excuse me…I mean selfless dedication to he-men, The Girls are permitted not only to flaunt power suits, but are granted a certain degree of immunity for personal failings and dire missteps for which less worthy women would be immediately drawn and quartered. Such as: unwanted pregnancies (but…The Girls must never tell and if outed, sob hysterically and beg forgiveness from the he-men). Politically inconvenient partners (but…The Girls must keep them hidden). Bigotry (but…The Girls must destroy all who could verify a loud trash mouth). And drunken partying at conventions that result in a viral YouTube debacle (but…The Girls must deny, deny, deny just like the he-men: What? Me? I didn’t do anything).
Unfortunately, the he-man lip service of immunity does not extend to protecting The Girls from being cast out in an underhanded political maneuver; being called upon to take the fall for a he-man; or covertly being deemed a liability for her too many failings, which include gray hair, sagging breasts, and varicose veins. Whereby, The Girl becomes just another voiceless, aging woman in support hose trending toward stout.
Divested of her power suit, Diane Allen is just another old fat woman in sturdy shoes drooling over a sweaty he-man who wouldn’t look at her twice if she wasn’t seated on the dais with her political status announced by an engraved nameplate. Unless she’s married to Santa Claus and has a knack for entertaining sweaty elves, a drooling old fat woman has no power in our society. None. Zilch. Zero. Sorry about that, Diane.
But hold on! There is another option! Diane and all The Girls could stop drooling and actually cultivate genuine woman courage and authentic personal power. A he-man would call it growing a set of balls. However, I won’t be that crass. Oh wait…yes, I will. Grow some balls, girls. There’s going to come a time when you’ll need them. One day you’ll look around and the sweaty he-men won’t be anywhere to be found. In fact, no he-man will even take your calls. Welcome to the club you thought you thought you could escape. Sorry about that, Diane.
Let’s be clear, the signing of the law to unseal closed adoptions records by Governor Chris Christie—an act of covert violence against all women—would not have been passed were it not championed by The Girls of the New Jersey State Legislature. Who are The Girls? I’m so glad you asked. The Girls are the very ones you knew in high school and college who spent quality time putting on makeup, flirting with cute professors, drooling over sweaty rock stars, and punishing less worthy girls with gossip, exclusion, and eye rolls. We all know The Girls. Every one of them excels at covert abuse: What? Me? I didn’t do anything.
Oh, speaking of sweaty rock stars… Maybe I am the only one who remembers cringing at Senator Diane Allen’s animated public display of LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! fawning over Run DMC during a committee hearing about sealed adoption records a while back. Of course, Mr. DMC is a rap star, not a rock star, but he does sweat and gyrate professionally which evidently qualified him for Senator Allen’s fawning. Senator Allen was herself a media personality of some note before wrinkles and sturdy shoes took over. That’s when the real power brokers—the he-men—stepped in and gave her the boot. After her stint as a television beauty and before her entry into the pseudo-powerful The Girls’ clique, Ms. Allen was just another aging woman trending toward stout. Then with her big election win, Ms. Allen became an aging woman trending toward stout clutching political privileges that presented her with many fine opportunities, including the chance to degrade herself by flaunting her goods (big breasts are always in demand) at a sweaty celebrity in a public forum. Which is…which is…I don’t know…sad? Desperate? Embarrassing especially because of the sturdy shoes? Fill in any description that fits.
Senator Diane Allen and all The Girls of the New Jersey State Legislature serve at the behest of the he-men in the He-Men Only Power Club. The Girls know this. It’s just that The Girls don’t want you to know it. Because once you know it, their outward show of power is seriously diminished, since basically The Girls are just puppets dressed up in power suits. How do I know this? Because no powerful woman of voice would ever condone—much less promote—the abuse of another woman. No powerful woman of voice would willfully expose another woman to governmental abuse, sanctioned physical and emotional indignities, or deprive any woman of her human rights to her own body and her personal privacy. But The Girls of the New Jersey State Legislature did just that. Without the support of girl senators and girl assemblywomen, Governor Chris Christie’s bill to punish women by publicly exposing us for suffering a confidential, catastrophic pregnancy would have been burned in a garbage can like a dirty bra long before it reached the governor’s he-man desk.
It’s a pathetic, open secret that The Girls in the New Jersey State Legislature exist to obey and serve the he-men. So long as they comply, their power suits are relatively safe. If a he-man declares that a woman’s highest purpose is joyful procreation, The Girls shall agree. If a he-man dusts off a framed picture of his long-suffering mother and weeps over the tale of his mom crawling across the Rockies with two broken legs while caring for the eighteen kids she gladly birthed three at a time in a covered wagon in-between fighting off masked marauders with a rifle that kept misfiring, The Girls better have a long-suffering pioneer woman tale of their own to recite to the accompaniment of misty eyes.
Of course The Girls are well compensated for their blind loyalty to he-men who sell fantasies of wagon trains, motherhood, and lemonade—which, by the way, can be created out of the contents of a burdened uterus when necessary, just ask one of The Girls. For their silent obedience…oh, excuse me…I mean selfless dedication to he-men, The Girls are permitted not only to flaunt power suits, but are granted a certain degree of immunity for personal failings and dire missteps for which less worthy women would be immediately drawn and quartered. Such as: unwanted pregnancies (but…The Girls must never tell and if outed, sob hysterically and beg forgiveness from the he-men). Politically inconvenient partners (but…The Girls must keep them hidden). Bigotry (but…The Girls must destroy all who could verify a loud trash mouth). And drunken partying at conventions that result in a viral YouTube debacle (but…The Girls must deny, deny, deny just like the he-men: What? Me? I didn’t do anything).
Unfortunately, the he-man lip service of immunity does not extend to protecting The Girls from being cast out in an underhanded political maneuver; being called upon to take the fall for a he-man; or covertly being deemed a liability for her too many failings, which include gray hair, sagging breasts, and varicose veins. Whereby, The Girl becomes just another voiceless, aging woman in support hose trending toward stout.
Divested of her power suit, Diane Allen is just another old fat woman in sturdy shoes drooling over a sweaty he-man who wouldn’t look at her twice if she wasn’t seated on the dais with her political status announced by an engraved nameplate. Unless she’s married to Santa Claus and has a knack for entertaining sweaty elves, a drooling old fat woman has no power in our society. None. Zilch. Zero. Sorry about that, Diane.
But hold on! There is another option! Diane and all The Girls could stop drooling and actually cultivate genuine woman courage and authentic personal power. A he-man would call it growing a set of balls. However, I won’t be that crass. Oh wait…yes, I will. Grow some balls, girls. There’s going to come a time when you’ll need them. One day you’ll look around and the sweaty he-men won’t be anywhere to be found. In fact, no he-man will even take your calls. Welcome to the club you thought you thought you could escape. Sorry about that, Diane.
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