#Metoo. Now What? (Edited) December 7, 2017
Posted by voolavex in despicable, Domestic Violence, Genital Matters, guilt, Guilt relief, Halter tops, Harvey Weinstein, illegal, marriage, murder, serial monster, sex, sexist, sexy, sins, Social Issues, solutions, The 45th, vagina.Tags: anal sex, copping a feel. being felt up. finger f*cking, inserted objects., Internet, oral copulation, political, politics, questions, rape, sex, sexual assault, women
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I have been informed that I have made some errors in this post. There are 51 sets of sexual assault laws in this country. They can be found on findlaw.com. These are the 50 states and Federal law. I did not check all of them and I did not include territories or possessions, however each body of laws regarding sexual crimes have various types, sentencing recommendations and those that cross state lines become federal. What I sensed in those I read was that various degrees of these crimes exist but I also think – only my opinion – that they should be codified better throughout the various legal systems. And I hold to the idea that the accused and the abused should both have due process. I should add that sexual crimes are very complicated and very much disagreed upon globally. But indeed they are, in this country, set down by each state and the federal government and guidelines, statutes and many laws exist. I apologize for not researching this better and I hope that simply by searching a state’s sex crimes law on the Internet these resources will answer questions I cannot. I am not in law enforcement nor am I an attorney. This post has been edited to reflect my errors.
What happens when you unleash predators and dump them into a big cage with room for many, many more? Some are misdemeanor predators with only one egregious act to their name and others are serial predators who would still be doing it if they had not been exposed. It’s a valid question because every crime on our books has degrees of offenses. Sexual crimes do as well (see above) – I would guess because it has been ignored, not believed, excused or just plain denied by the offenders or the legal and LE systems these laws may slip through the cracks. It has a statute of limitations in some states so if you got assaulted 26 years ago – time has run out and the offender walks.
For many reasons – that of shame, trauma and fear of not being believed,what are considered criminals among us who don’t get charged and we have #metoos who do not get their day in court. All these particular offenses are are not equal and herein lies the rub (sorry). Is a pinch on the butt equal to a rape in an alley? Is workplace harassment comparable to a gang rape in a fraternity house or at a party. Is substance abuse a factor? Is domestic abuse with rape the same as rubbing up in subway car? Can a husband rape a spouse legally. Is flirting frought with danger. Is it an invitation or is it so complicated a message it can be a crime to even do it? You know the variations on this theme and you also know that the acts themselves are not all the same. They may make us feel violated and threatened and dirty; but they are not all the same.
Those accused – whom we so readily name and those who are not named but pointed at – areoften not charged and therefore not proven guilty. The millions of #metoos are still only making accusations. And while these offenses include the murdering of the souls and psyches of the women and male victims who have been abused and violated, there are still very broad interpretations of such crimes by judges and juries. Frequently the evidence in any court would be one word against the other. I suspect even lawyers on both sides have issues with this problem.
How could you apply a statute of limitations on better defined degrees or would all sexual high crimes and misdeanors be treated exactly the same. Anthony Weiner provided proof of his own aberrations – and he made himself the villain because he was the villain. He is in the fedslam. He has been disgraced and he is being punished through the legal system. Due process.
Because a culture of fear and shame denied the violated, the violated were denied due process. I think if I were so inclined, I would sue those who perpetuated this. And if I were in the legal arena, I would collect all the evidence available and bring causes of action in each case that could be a cause of action. I would not favor the race or age or gender of the accused or their value to a college or a career or a future. Let Justice be blind. We are a nation of accomplished finger pointers. We use reputations to defame and extol many people who deserve neither. But I am more concerned with the way in which these crimes or alleged crimes (because people do lie) are handled and have been handled. And I speak personally; that not all people violated have their lives ruined. Many do, but many don’t. There are those of us who can relegate memories to a place where #metoo no longer has a daily impact or incessant pain. We are the fortunate ones.
While members of the Congress and commerce are resigning in droves and without due process we are committing further injustice and a rush to judgment outside the courts of law. This is wrong too.
I do not claim to have answers that are effective in the moment. But the crimes of a sexual nature; the rapes, the rubs, the feel-ups, the date rapes, the marital rapes, the campus rapes the injury, the accused who do go on trial, the anger, the retaliation all have to be placed in a context that other crimes against society and people are placed. This body of crime has existed for all of humanity. Some sought power, some sought satisfaction, some went nuts in war and kept on abusing. But in any context – this is not new. And as such we need to make it fit into our legal system better and be adjudicated as we do many other offenses.
And please remember that women and men can be #metoos.
Senior? Elder? AARP? Me? June 4, 2017
Posted by voolavex in common sense, marriage, Random thoughts, Social Issues.Tags: AARP, Age, Baby Boomers, books, cats, husband, Internet, life, old ladies, senior
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I grew up in the Baby Boomer years that began in 1945/46, I went through the usual “phases” that parents like to excuse or accuse their children of entering and leaving. I never lived anywhere long enough to actually develop phases that are memorable now. Food oddities that came and went and too many schools and angst and I suspect it was basically just getting to being “of age” and then it simply moved forward from there. Once I achieved “of age”, I didn’t give it much thought until recently. Now I realize that I never got the directions on how to be “a certain age” nor the final pamphlet that covered “age”. I am neither crochety nor am I enfeebled. My hair is a good combination of white and mostly dark brown, I am tall and still at a fine weight for my frame. No tweaks, no shots, no lifts – living in the heart of Hollywood can put a smart and still looking good person in morbid fear of the “better face”. It is not better and here you see the sad results of just why it’s not really great idea. I do have crepey skin. Lack of exercise, DNA or too many parties of yore. Leggings, tights and long sleeves are all useful for this condition. I suspect I am getting a bit of arthritis – and it runs in both sides of family and I waited for years to join the clan. A few twinges but nothing that makes me groan or complain. When asked about my age I am usually thrilled with the reaction, as much as I am startled myself when I think about it. I have two adult children and several important friends.
I was raised as a little kid by the “aunts” and my grandmother. When I sat down recently and realized how old they were when I was born, these role models may have brought me to where I am right now. These were old ladies. Two widows and a “maiden” aunt. And their embrace of being elderly was epic. Steel gray hair, blue rinsed hair and touched up hair. Housedresses – the real deal. Corsets. Salmony pink lace-up, hook- up and lift-up boned custom made corsets. And yes I knew how to lace them from any early age. Huge undies, garters, hair nets – from the dime store to contain their always permed hair. Always. My grandmother was the youngest of the three and she was a tad more casual but it was not a visible tad for me. Two of them wore a little lipstick and a bit of rouge – but only on occasions. One never did. Stocking – one wore lisle and the other two wore daytime deniers (January was when they bought them) and each one had a secret place to hide their break luck money. The most memorable was the”budge” neatly folded bills tucked between ample bosoms and the bank, a garter pouch of fine suede where the real money was carried. The other two had change purses or wallets. And they all lived to old age – two past 95.
I realized early on what I had no intention of becoming. I might have become many things but an old lady was not one of them. So as I sit and realize that I do in fact qualify for that term, I have no idea what I am supposed to be. Not a clue. I curse like a sailor, pass comment on everyone and everything, speak my mind (that can be excruciating too) and still want to know more and more about more and more.
I am vain. I improve the landscape with cosmetics and despair of my difficult hair – but I hate to go to the hairdresser. I wear what I have always worn – and it still keeps me au courant style no matter what the courant of the moment is. I cannot wear stilettos. It breaks my heart. And because I am not a French woman I fail at scarves. I must have 100+. Lots of good jewelry I seldom wear – but no bling. Shoes and bags need to be leather, fabric has to be grown fiber and I realize it hasn’t ever been otherwise.
So here I am, entering a phase; dazed and annoyed at things like AARP. Especially AARP. I hate AARP. I hate their condescending advice and presumptuous codified ads that scream “YOU ARE OLD”. We have a wildly unruly source of information now called the Internet – so I do know how to find glasses and Depends and ear trumpets and canes and I’ve fallen buttons. I also have a full-time husband. I hate senior communities. I hate oldster casino trips. Dances for the Decrepit. (or Senior Mixers as they call them or did). I do like Bingo – but not enough to seek it out.
I suspect because I have no grandchildren I can still buy myself toys and play alone. I can frolic as others have babies and grand babies and buy memorable gifts and get photos in return. Is it the life I imagined for myself? The one where I didn’t get old and feeble. Not really, but since I have no idea how to prepare for it (just as I didn’t know how to prepare for marriage, pregnancy, toothaches or nearsightedness). I suspect I will figure it out. But not today.
My Mother’s Birthday April 26, 1923 -1978 April 26, 2017
Posted by voolavex in birthday, mother, serial monster, funeral, life baggage, loss, dead, death certificate, despicable, Domestic Violence, guilt, Mann & Mann, marriage, murder, My Mother, serial monster, Social Issues.Tags: death certificate birthday, funeral, life, loss, mother, murder, police, serial monster, women
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Back in the days when domestic disputes were shameful and unreported, my mother was the dead body in a domestic murder.
In a small blue-collar town in Massachusetts. On January 24, 1978. It was a long time ago and it was a moment ago. It was the tragic finale to many phone calls and plane ticket reservations and telephone commiseration for a mother who simply couldn’t. She fought back, she screamed, she saw a doctor, she drank, but she could not leave with my two much younger siblings, or the pony or the house or the lingering affection she carried for a man who was a serial monster. Bigamist, philanderer, narcissist, sociopath and murderer. One sib says many calls of service were made to the local police – their hands tied by 1977/1978 concepts and legalities. Another sib tells of death threats made to them on the night of my mother death. I did not know anything about this part. I only knew my mother wrote and cried and simply said “he” had a girlfriend and she was confused and didn’t know what to do. At 54 she was probably menopausal. Not much to go on. She didn’t want to move out with the children or leave the pets and the laundry list of excuses women have conjured for time immemorial. I was in Los Angeles and not welcome in her house. (Actually on February 10, 1958 I was no longer welcome in her life. At 12, I thought it was because he really loved her.) I blame myself for not listening harder and asking more questions. And I had no idea that physical violence was part of the picture. Neither of my siblings (19+ and 15) called me to ask for help. My mother had pride that went before all else. Including her funeral.
Her death certificate from that time reads COD: undetermined. A residual fear stops me from requesting a new one. She will still be dead.
She was only 54. Today is her 95th birthday. May I say she was beautiful and gentle and kind? May I say by the time I arrived at her house, anything of sentimental value that had belonged to her was gone? That her grieving husband knew I knew and it was not pleasant? That I swallowed my rage, stepped back and stayed for the children ( I am my mother’s daughter)? That I drank and sobbed and that the tables overflowed with funeral meats and that 200+ attended her funeral in Boston? That mourners continued; people I never knew, arrived in tears? That it was the same funeral home by her high school best friend’s parents? Mann & Mann. That I had played as small child in their huge house upstairs? That my family went back as close friends of the Manns? That the grieving husband read a sickening tribute?. And that my own father wept with me in stunned sorrow?
In 1978, it was simply another domestic dispute. Perhaps still in the local police records – on paper in a box; with so many others of the time.
There was no investigation. I knew of no interviews with siblings. That police never asked me anything. My grandmother thought it was a heart attack. She had just lost her only child. Was it mine to reveal? Information continued to seep through and very long after I found out the history of the man she had married in 1958. From his children; who loved my mother. I should have wondered more about the words of my dear step-brother who walked in, in 1978, crying, and said to me, sotto voce, “what did he do to her?”
I have always known it was murder. I have always known he patiently waited. I knew she did not wash down 40 or 50 pills with vodka. She didn’t ever take Darvon and that’s what they found. I know he sat beside her and watched. I have no idea how he managed to make it happen. He died five years later; alone in a rented apartment in Lawrence; the other woman long gone. He was soup when they found him. Dead five days of a heart attack in a fall from the up high liquor shelf. One he needed a step stool to reach. In a closed apartment on a sweltering summer day.
He was short and bald and had good teeth.
She has been gone 39 years. Since the day my broken heart and endless anger met all at once. And no one of us leftover has ever been able to move on. We try to unpack that valise, only to realize that some things travel with you forever, in your life luggage.