Why I didn’t sleep with Mitt Romney
This history of my life shows how I overcame societal obstacles, metamorphosed from a female ruled by her groin into one ruled by her head, and became enabled to define goals that have made my life worthwhile.
Overcoming an uninterested and unloving mother and an entrepreneurial father preoccupied with serious financial problems, I had to face life’s conflicts on my own. I lost my virginity after my mother called me a whore.
And after my father went totally bust, I married for security. To escape my ex and my promiscuity with a few magnetic men, I abandoned my editorial service, scooped my children, and fled to impassioned Greece and adultery-laden Israel.
Back in the States, without child support or alimony, I recognized that women had better break a few glass ceilings in order to self-actualize. Throughout the ‘70s and in the ‘80s that meant I had to jump through and over male chauvinism, sex discrimination, joblessness, and men.
My husband was one of them. He would’ve become Nixon’s Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare instead of Caspar Weinberger had I not been a clone of Martha Mitchell.
Self-diagnosed for depression, I chose as therapy to become an activist fighting gender discrimination and retaliation in employment. The ensuing, inevitable unemployment prolonged my suffering, forcing me to become, again, a feral cat.
At 48, I entered law school with the hope of being rescued both personally and professionally. Becoming disappointed and angry at the justice system, I challenged it throughout the next decade and ended up in jail.
Ultimately, fired up, I ran for governor seeking court reform and the abolition of judicial immunity.
My primary opponent in the 2002 race was Mitt Romney.
Within two months of the election, the black-robed circus barkers began retaliating against me for criticizing them. I argued, “It is not only my right to criticize the judges when I see wrongdoing, it is my obligation to do so, particularly when the judiciary will not police itself.”
After a helluva 3½-year fight, I was no longer an attorney-at-law, but an attorney-in fact. Unwilling to face defeat, I wrote a whistleblowing book, Behind the Black Robes: Failed Justice, and moved to Costa Rica, where I’d be safe from further harm.
With my right to free speech restored, I’ve not stopped advocating for a change of the U.S. justice system, albeit from afar.
Author of: Behind the Black Robes: Failed Justice
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