Note: The previous blog was blocked so I'm revising it to see if it will be delivered.
Good Morning.
When I was six decades younger, a single woman had a choice of six professions: she could be a teacher, a nurse, a librarian, a waitress, a nun, or a secretary to a boss who was, of course, male. A really pretty, extremely thin woman could maybe be a fashion model, but that was it, baby. A married woman stayed at home. She cooked, cleaned the house, played bridge, and volunteered as a Girl Scout leader. She took the kids to the doctor and the dentist but never did she imagine that she could actually be a doctor or a dentist. If she was lucky, she had a pleasant, respectful husband who gave her enough money to buy some clothes and go out for lunch once in awhile. There was no such thing as a joint checking account.
Women, whatever their marital status, wore something with a skirt at all times, even inside the house. Katharine Hepburn was considered shocking and slightly vulgar because she wore slacks, but they were gabardine and pleated, not denim and faded, let alone with the knees ripped out. Knees were not exposed because they were knobby and private in nature, and proper women sat with their legs crossed at the ankles or scrunched up to one side. They wore clip earrings that were modest in size; boring a hole into an ear, a nose, or a tongue was unthinkable.
Women drank coffee, tea, juice, lemonade, and perhaps a bit of sherry in a small stemmed glass. They did not drink beer.
They kept a handkerchief, a lipstick, a compact with a mirror, a comb, and a wallet in their purses. There were no credit cards except for American Express and Diner's Club that men used to pay for dinner at a restaurant with white tablecloths. There were less formal establishments for people who wanted a hamburger and a milkshake but no pizza joints and no sports bars. Women did not go to bars.
Over the past sixty years, women have evolved, as they say. The economy changed to the point that both parents had to work outside of the home in order to maintain the lifestyle previously provided by the pleasant, respectful husband. Getting a job gave women a hint that they had the talent and brainpower to do something besides read a recipe and operate a motor vehicle, but it also told them that no matter what they did or how well they performed, they were expected to be content as second-class human beings. It didn't go down well, and eventually women took to the streets, yelling at the top of their lungs.
They also went through a variety of fashion trends in an attempt to figure out whether they wanted to be brainy, sexy, or both. They wore mini skirts that showed off those funny-looking knees, but then they went midi and maxi. They started wearing slacks everywhere, perhaps in an attempt to look as professional as their male counterparts, but at the other end of the spectrum there was an unfortunate item referred to as "hot pants". Bikinis became the swimwear of nearly every female under the age of seventy, including many who should have continued to opt for a floppy thing with a skirt.
Men were confused because they were, admittedly, getting mixed messages. Women were screaming about glass ceilings, they were throwing a frozen pizza in the oven rather than a pot roast, and they were telling their husbands to change diapers and vacuum the living room. They were wearing pant suits, baseball caps, and overalls, but they also paraded around in bathing suits made from an eighth of a yard of fabric. They cussed like sailors, got tattoos, and rode motorcycles, but they bought traditional wedding gowns and got their nails done. They became cardiologists, astronauts, police officers, plumbers, and members of the clergy, and a lot of men - not all, so don't e-mail me - weren't pleased about it. It was okay to contribute to the family bank account, but don't you dare make more money than I do, please don't ask me to pick up Olivia at ballet, and I'll be away next week playing golf with Jack and Charlie, but why don't you pick up a few things at Victoria's Secret while I'm gone.
The changes have come in slow climbs and scary plunges like a roller coaster, and we have either a thoughtful up or a deplorable down before us. The all white, male majority on the Senate Judiciary Committee wants to get one of their own on the Supreme Court and by cracky, no woman is going to mess it up with her misguided accusations. The woman wants an FBI investigation into the circumstances surrounding her charges, and one could reasonably conclude that if she were lying, she certainly wouldn't call in the feds. She's been subjected to death threats and other forms of hate to the point that she and her family have had to move out of their home, go into hiding, and hire security guards. She's a respected college professor with a doctorate in psychology, but she is rightfully apprehensive about being interrogated by the good ol' boys, at least a couple of whom behaved like cavemen toward Anita Hill during the Clarence Thomas hearings. One of them recently made the comment that the woman who has come forward about Judge Kavanaugh is "mixed up."
The entire scenario is frightening to me and should be to everyone.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
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