When I was just a little girl, no older than nine or ten years old, my mom and I watched a television special about Helter Skelter and the Charles Manson story. My mother graduated high school in 1969, and just before her first semester of college, the news stories about the tragic murders of actress Sharon Tate and her three house guests dominated the airwaves and newspapers.
My mother and grandmother were devastated over the loss of such a talented actress, who was 8 1/2 months pregnant at the time of her death. They also felt sad for Tate’s husband, director Roman Polanski, and the grief he felt over losing his wife. My family is of Polish heritage and back in the late 60s, there was a kinship felt for “one of our own.”
Several years later, in 1977, Polanski was convicted of “unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor” and subsequently fled the United States prior to his sentencing. He has said in interviews that he was afraid the judge would give him a harsh sentence.
Polanski raped a 13-year-old girl. Thirteen. He was 44 years old at the time. Forty-four.
Polanski plead guilty to the lesser charge of “unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor” but didn’t stick around to serve his time. He spent 42 days incarcerated while undergoing a psych evaluation, but he never paid for his crime. He fled to France immediately after his release. His victim did receive a settlement from Polanski, and has since stated she has forgiven him for his crime and just wants to move on.
I understand this woman just wants to be left alone, but if Polanski is let off the hook for raping a young girl, what does that say about our American justice system? That sexual assault is okay, as long as you’re famous and can buy your way out of it? That all you need to do to get away with rape is to flee the country in which you committed the crime?
Polanski himself said he didn’t think anyone was truly hurt. He doesn’t believe he raped this young girl. His victim was drugged and pumped with alcohol. He forced himself on her multiple times, despite her pleas to stop. She said no. Last time I checked, NO means NO.
Polanski has been living life as a free man for the last 32 years. He has continued to make films, despite having an arrest warrant out for him since 1978. He’s taken every action imaginable to avoid extradition, by choosing not to travel to countries that may arrest and extradite him. In so many ways, he “got away with it.”
The fact that many Hollywood actors and actresses, journalists and artists are defending Polanski, and asking for his release sickens me. It makes me want to vomit.
Whoopi Goldberg saying “it wasn’t really rape-rape” is infuriating. Rape is rape, Whoopi. If this were any other Joe Schmo, and not a famous director, you would be screaming from the rooftops that the offender be locked away in jail.
Debra Messing saying that Polanski served his time is outrageous. If this was a case against Mel Gibson and his drunken rants and insults to Judaism, you would be outraged. I’m certain some anti-Catholic rhetoric would be thrown in to the mix as well.
And this bullshit that Polanski has lived a difficult life and suffered through the Holocaust makes me angry. Yes, it’s awful that his mother died at Auschwitz. Yes, it’s horrible that his wife and unborn child were murdered. I understand the grief and the trauma he has suffered, but this does not make it acceptable to rape a 13-year-old girl. It does not make it okay to flee the country to avoid jail time.
Should we let every rapist who suffered the loss of a parent or the murder of a family member go free? Of course not. Doing so undermines the rights of the victims to receive justice.
Roman Polanski, you deserve to serve your time. You committed a crime and should be punished for it. Thank you, Switzerland for doing the right thing and arresting Polanski. May justice be served.
On the radio this morning, I heard this song and flashed back to my childhood. My father, a Ronnie Milsap fan, played a cassette of Milsap’s greatest hits in the car whenever we took a family trip. My siblings and I know all the words to these songs, and with every country chorus, the memories flood my mind.
Yesterday I went to see the doctor about the groin pain. I had to see another OB/GYN as both my other doctors are on vacation. Dr J. was the first doctor on-call when I was induced with Dawson five years ago and after exchanging niceties, we got down to business.
I expressed my discomfort, told her about the unbearable groin/pelvic pain and how I cry several times a day because I’m experiencing such feelings of malaise.
“Well, we don’t like to check the cervix before 37 weeks, because we don’t want to stir things up, but I’m willing to check if anything is happening down there.” she said.
I told her I trusted her judgment and that if she didn’t feel it necessary to do a pelvic exam then I’d be okay, but seriously, what can I do to ease the pain?
Dr. J said if the pain was that awful then she would just do the exam and try not to disrupt anything. Turns out “the dimple” of my cervix is open, or 1 cm dilated but 0% effaced. And I could stay this way for weeks.
The baby has definitely dropped lower into my pelvis, despite what the nurse told me last week, about second babies not dropping until labor begins, and the doctor thinks labor may start within the next ten days.
I asked how she could make a guess like that, after telling me I could be stuck at one centimeter forever, and she said my other symptoms (that I had told the nurse), nausea, moderate menstrual-like cramps, lower back pain and the frequent bowel movements are all very early signs that labor may begin soon.
I nearly fell off the exam table. I’m ready for this baby, but I’m not ready, you know?
We did a non-stress test and before I left, my weight and blood pressure were recorded. I’ve lost two pounds since Tuesday (my last appointment).
“Another sign that labor could happen very soon.” Dr. J told me.
My blood pressure was slightly elevated but “nothing to panic about” and another 24-hour urine collection was ordered. After having my blood drawn in the labs and collecting the urine jugs, I was on my way home.
I called Doug at work to tell him of the doctor’s predictions and he was a wreck.
“I’m not ready,” he said. “Are you?”
I told him whatever happens, happens. I can’t worry about it. Today is Dawson’s birthday party (right after soccer!). As long as labor does not begin today, I’m okay.
I am a little nervous about labor happening earlier than I expected. The baby’s room is not ready. However, Doug finally put the glider and ottoman together. When I cam home from a craft party Thursday night, he had the house somewhat clean, and the chair assembled. Someone must have tipped him offthat I was not happywith his lack of help.
So. That’s where we’re at. We’ll see what happens.
So, I’m nesting. Sort of. It goes in spurts, really. One day I’m too tired to do anything at all. The next day, I’ll be completely neurotic about something, SOME VERY IMPORTANT THING, and it will need to be done, RIGHT NOW, or no one in this house goes to bed that night.
The house must be clean! CLEAN, I say! The littlest things will bother me. Like socks on the floor (I’m looking at you, Doug and Dawson). Or toys. ALL. OVER. THE HOUSE. And the clutter. Magazines, school papers and half-opened mail are piling up on my kitchen table. I have six million tomatoes on my kitchen counter. And I cannot deal with it. Not any of it.
Add to this mix of chaos and insanity the fact that I’ve been trying to clean out the pantry for two weeks, but I cannot get to it because those other things (see above) are nagging at me. So I take time out of my day to deal with that and then have no energy whatsoever to do anything else.
I started sorting baby clothes a few days ago, and then I was sidetracked by vacuuming the living room, because in my mind people could show up unexpectedly, and why would I want them to see that a child actually lives here? One with too many toys?
Poor, poor husband. I’ve been a raging ball of hormones and have yelled at him repeatedly for not helping me enough. Several times each day he tried to escape my wrath by heading to the garden and harvesting tomatoes that I swear he already picked. The very same tomatoes on the counter. I really think he takes some away at night and brings them back in the house the next day. You know, so that it looks like he’s doing something.
Also, I think he’s shoved cotton balls in his ears because I have to REPEAT MYSELF CONSTANTLY.
I asked him five times to take the broken bread machine to the garage to be thrown away. After it sat on the dining room floor, next to the deck door, for TWELVE days, I finally took it out to the garage myself. An F-bomb was said and the neighbor across the street heard me. She no longer waves at me when we pass each other on the road. Apparently, I am now the closest thing to the devil himself. At least to her. Okay, and my husband. Whatever.
Doug was all, “Geez, Louise! Settle down! What is wrong with you? And F-word? Over a bread maker?”
And I lost my mind. I began crying and shaking and raving like a freakin’ idiot. I was sputtering, “You don’t understand! YOU JUST DON’T GET IT!”
We didn’t speak the rest of the night. The next day things were fine. That is until he buried the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream behind a bunch of other crap in the freezer. The yelling ensued. More tears were shed. I promptly sent myself to bed. I didn’t want the damn ice cream anyway. What I really wanted was a big fat margarita in a glass the size of my head. With lots of Tequila. But alas, the things we give up to bring a beautiful, chubby baby into the world.
Speaking of babies, I don’t think we’ll be having any more children after my outbursts. What man wants to have sex with a stark raving lunatic?
In my defense, I just can’t help it. It seems like I have no control over anything anymore. Especially my hormones.
Also, I’m the the only one who does anything around here. The huz tries to help, but things go unfinished because he thinks he has other, more important priorities (like painting the garage door and trim, and installing a new garage door opener, because he thinks winter is arriving tomorrow). Then I become infuriated and the stupidest things set me off. I can’t do it all. I physically cannot do everything.
My days are chaotic. This is my typical daily routine:
Wake up early (most of the time)
Work for 2 hours
Check e-mail
Wake Dawson
Get Dawson dressed
Let Murphy out to pee
Feed the dog
Make breakfast for Dawson
Make sure Dawson brushes his teeth
Check Dawson’s backpack and folder to be sure all forms and things are signed and sent back
Get Dawson on the school bus
Work 3 more hours
Check e-mail
Wait for the bus to drop off Dawson
Make lunch for Dawson (oh yeah, and for me!)
Let the dog out to pee, again.
Put on Spongebob to occupy Dawson
Finish working
Straighten the living room, dust and vacuum
Wash dishes
Check on the laundry and try to put it all away
Check Dawson’s backpack and folder for new notes and/or forms
Pay bills that may be due
Check e-mail
Pick-up stray toys around the house, or command Dawson to do it
Take Dawson outside to play
Return books to the library and check out new ones
Try to read a book that does not have colorful illustrations and rhyming words
Sort toys and set aside two boxes for Goodwill
Clean out the storage closet and donate more items to Goodwill
Fold more laundry but forget to put it away
Read books to Dawson
Ask Doug seven times to load the boxes in the car so I can drop them off at Goodwill the next day
Ask Doug to make dinner while I take a nap
Fall asleep watching television (most likely Dancing with the Stars)
Yell at someone for something because my hormones are out of whack
Oh, and did I mention the 349 times I have to stop what I am doing at any given time to pee or wipe a certain 5-year-old’s butt. And let’s not forget the occasional adjustment to the schedule for conference calls or MOPS and MOMS Club meetings, or Church Activities. And Saturday Soccer. Or going to the bank, post office and grocery store every Friday. And the fact that my husband is most often working (or hiding in the GARDEN) while I’m trying to manage this damn household.
And you people wonder why I’m crazy?
To my husband and son I say: Y’all better hope I don’t die in childbirth, because it appears you CANNOT FUNCTION WITHOUT ME.
Dana began her Mom career in 2004 with the birth of her first son, Dawson, aka The Doodlebug, and little brother, Owen, was born in 2009. She spends her days putting out fires, climbing mountains and chasing monsters. More About Dana.
Contact: thedanafilesblog [at] gmail [dot] com RSS Feed
