Fixing The Broken Systems

If anything turns my lip, it's these posts. How do you manage to stay married?

You don't get divorced.

Being married doesn't mean you are happy or even living with your spouse. Marriage does not indicate love, respect or...anything. It is a legal and often religious binding contract

Sorry, folks.

Divorce also doesn't mean someone broke "marriage." Or because you got divorced, you didn't work hard enough or you aren't good enough. I have family members and friends who have been married for a long, long time and see each other a couple times a year for public type functions. Otherwise, they just do their own thing.

Anyhow, for this post - if this couple has been married for 65 years, let's assume they got married in the 1940-1950s, right?

Remember, a woman's career and life-work was considered working on getting married and being married - she was not expect to go to college or work, she was only expected to find a husband. After finding a husband, she was expected to breed.

Not that there is anything wrong with this arrangement - it's just that it was the ONLY arrangement that existed for men and women.

Let's check on a little timeline of why marriages worked so well based on this slice of "when it was broken we fixed it."

• 1908: Oregon limits the workday for women to 10 hours
• 1940: WW2, most men went to combat leaving women alone
• 1941: Wonder Woman is introduced (Just like to mention this)
• 1940: Marital conflicts were usually handled within the home and kept private (Problems? We didn't talk about them so they didn't exist)
• 1950: Domesticity was idealized in the media, and women were encouraged to stay at home. Women who chose to work when they didn't need the paycheck were often considered selfish, putting themselves before the needs of their family
• 1950: Sex was viewed as a key component of a marriage. Without an effective female-controlled contraceptive, young wives faced three decades of childbearing before they reached menopause
• 1974: Equal Credit Opportunity Act passes in the US. Until this, banks required single, widowed or divorced women to bring a man along to cosign any credit application, regardless of their income. That's right, women could not get credit or often have access to money without a man
• 1978: The Pregnancy Discrimination Act is passed in the US. Until the law was put into effect, women could still legally be dismissed from their jobs for becoming pregnant. Can't get birth control? Married? Pregnant? Get thee home!
• 1980: Sexual harassment is first defined by the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, although a court had heard the first case in 1977. Up until this point, women could be openly abused outside the home.
• 1993: Marital rape becomes illegal. That's right. 1993, it became illegal for men to rape women

Experts suggested that wives consider whatever they were doing or not doing to cause their husbands to cheat, drink or abuse them. Women could not leave their marriages, they could not support themselves and "experts" easily told them it was their fault.

Husbands and wives of the 1940s began having children at a younger age on average because of lack of birth control. Therefore, most spouses learned to relate to each other in the context of parenting together early on. Couples had more children on average as well, as birth control methods were significantly limited.

Imagine that burden on people today.

So, is this to say all people who have been married for 60+ years are unhappy or all the marriages of those times were unhappy? No.

But, let's not pretend because time has past after a contract has been signed, everything is fantastic and we all need to learn a thing or two because that contract was not broken.

Make you own decisions. Walk away when it's right to walk away. Ain't no shame in admitting a mistake, in leaving a bad situation or even trying again. Don't stay in any type of bad relationship because you think the length of time you suffer is a "good" thing.

Be equal. Be smart. Be kind. Love.

The Chip Kid

Growing up in a crime-free type suburbia of engaged parents and lots of grass, I know I had a very certain childhood. I knew this more when our neighbors brought in a kid from a really bad area outside this landscaped world where horrible things were kept quiet until they were found out..and then someone’s parent went into the woods to off themselves.

This kid was in some type of program, my mother said, where they got “adopted” for a summer and lived up the street from me.  There was a good gang of us on my street so having another kid to hang out with and stuff was cool – we didn’t need some type of explanation or resume.

Another neighbor had her nieces stay over once. They left after some type of trial…anyhow…

I didn’t really get it as a child.

As an adult, I totally get how getting your young child out of the roughest part of the city during a time when there is no school or stuff to keep the kid occupied – it could be lifesaving. I don’t remember the kid’s name, but, he was younger than me. That was a big deal because I was always the youngest and…like…less fun than the other kids.

He could hang out with the older kids, though. I was still annoying.

I do remember one time, he walked around with a box of matches, he was lighting them and throwing them on the grass while he ran around with some other kids from our neighborhood. I told him I was going to tell on him, which is the worst thing you can tell another kid.

Kid: *lighting match* It’s my word against yours
Me: WHOA. Well…well…I can get evidence!

I spend most of that afternoon looking for matchsticks in the grass. I didn’t find any, as I recall. I told my Dad about it – not because the grass could catch on fire but because I could find proof to back up my story.

So, for us, he was a bad kid. He was dangerous and rebellious and funny and there is nothing better than that when you are like seven-years-old. Givin’ lip to adults and stuff. Phew. He was a blast.

But, he really wasn’t a bad kid or a dangerous kid. He was just a kid. Like us. Bored.

So, we had this neighborhood picnic once a year where we all went to the one house with the pool. Hanging out there, he was this calm, funny kid who was both out of place and so welcomed in our group. I remembered we all had burgers and the adults were asking if we wanted chips.

Kid: I want one chip
Us: What? One chip?

He held up one finger. He put the chip IN his burger and ate it. This was probably – wait – literally – the greatest thing he taught us. CHIPS IN THE BUGER! For summers long after, we would put a chip or two in our sandwiches or burgers so we could get a bite of chip with each bite.

As an adult, I can see the crunch-worthy structure. I can also see a kid who probably was taught that food was finite and by putting one chip in your sandwich, you don’t need as many. So, you have more for later or a sibling.

He never came back to our neighborhood and years later Mom told me that his brother had been shot and killed. I think everyone just lost contact in the shuffle and about a year ago the lady who “adopted” him died, too.

The thing about the Chip Kid, parents saw him as the sum of adult choices. He was become the sum of their worries and controls. They were running damage control on him. He was dealt a bad hand, no argument there. And yet, when he was allowed to just be a kid - even in the midst of all this stuff - he was...living this story.

For all the stories he had lived and all the ones he lived after - this was the story that the adults didn't see or that they couldn't see. Or that they didn't need to see.

Sometimes I tell my friends who are parents – who are stressed and trying to be all like Pinterest and over protecting the micromanaging process of living - that they are forgetting what it’s like to actually be a kid.

Childhood is inherently magical, even when it isn’t.

There is always magic.

Fringe Thanksgiving Message

For all you who struggle to eat and struggle with food, who are equally bombarded with the classic “how not to gain weight” and “how to lose weight” from MLM schemes urging you to buy their powders and potions to keep slim and appealing.

And when you say “no” you are met with, “I wish I could be ____ as you…”

For all those whose daily life is impacted by a tricky or broken digestive system that is too graphic to talk about polity and is easily dismissed because “you don’t look sick.”

I get the frustration of this time of year when all professional “team building” and social media games consist of being asked “what’s your favorite thanksgiving food” or “what is your favorite candy” or “what is your favorite pie” to be followed up by “but if you could eat, what would it be?” in attempts to dismiss conditions and struggles to normalize everything.

For all of you out there who get that this time of the year will never be about food, and knowing how hard that is to say because the rhetoric of the season untimely means family and friends are almost equal to a green bean casserole or slice of pie and sometimes people don't understand that you cannot “just sneak a bite, real quick.”

For all of those who finally found that thing you can eat so you can sit at a table and eat with people and feel normal… and then someone say “Is that all you’re having?” or “ewww, that’s gross, I could never be happy with just that.”

For all of those who are tempted by well-meaning people who earn commission by saying they can fix you if you buy that trendy thing... but your struggle does not have a quick fix because you are not broken. You are who you are and I, for one, am perfectly ok with you.

And I get it.

I love you.

I am thankful for your bravery, your ability to smile, for your weight (whatever it is), for your courage and snark. For your humor, your perception and perspective. I am so happy when something works for you and I am so sorry when it doesn't. You are awesome and you are more than your struggle.

Mostly, I am thankful for your person and that there are culturally appropriate times to express that without the need to consume something to make it palpable. 

Happy Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Week 2017 Out of Office Message

I like to make feisty Out of Office (OOO) messages for my company people. I mean, who wants to read: "Hello, I am currently out of the office I will return on _____."

BORING. I like to anticipate needs, hopes and dreams with equal gusto. I also like to prove that I probably can be replaced by a machine.

Here is my current one since I took Thanksgiving week off.
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Hello friend,

Today is a day you are emailing me – the excitement is palatial!

I, however, am not in the office and I’m not checking my email or voicemail or anything like that. Why? I’m on PTO. I’ll be back on Monday, November 27.

Here is a text base system for getting answers to your most pressing questions:

How can I book a training room?
Send an email to the local team and one of these locals here will get back to you.

You made me review online courses and I finished it. What next?
Fantastic, email me your findings and I’ll get back to you when I get back. You can also email Head Busy Bee your results for faster and more professional service.

I need to contact your direct leadership to let her know you’re awesome
Send that message directly to Manager. Copy Director if you are feeling extra sassy. It’s only with support of people like you that I stay employed.

I am IT and I found that file you accidentally deleted
I don’t use the term “hero” often…but you, my friend, are a hero.

Can you tell me why sometimes we use “payer” and sometimes it’s “payor?” I mean, what’s up with that?
Payor is a post-classical agent noun. In current English it is chiefly used in legal documents but not in the vernacular since “payer” is closer to how English styles its agent nouns.

What?
Agent nouns are nous that specifically refer back to a skill, trade or profession - basically, a verb. In English, they are built off of the verb and end with –er.

For example, if you bake you are a bake-er if you dance you are a dance-er. Thusly, if you pay on a bill, you are a pay-er.

Why is there “payor” then?
About 40%-60% of English comes from Latin and those roots are preserved in all types of wacky ways. Agent nouns from the classical and post-classical Latin period pick up the suffix of -or.

For example, if you have a book published, you are an auth-or. If you operate on people, you are (hopefully) a doct-or. If you conquer a nation, you are a conquer-or. So, if you pay, you are a payor.

Then it would be beggor or begger...?
Beggar is from Old French and keeps that French tradition in the form of its suffix –ard.  ‘cept English chopped off the “d.”

Don’t worry, you can still see this French tradition in words like bastard, buzzard and coward.

So it is lieor? Lier? Lieard?
Liar is an agent noun probably from Anglian that got into Old English and trumped a lot of similar Dutch and High German words.

Ok, ok. Payor or payer, which is right?
I would consult with your institution’s manual of style. When in doubt, I would use “payer.”

*wink*
*double finger gun*

Maddie
Direct Line: XXX-XXX-XXXX
Non-Direct Line:  XXX-XXX-XXXX ext. XXX
Email: StoriesbyMaddie@gmail.com

The Time When I Learned About PTSD Before I Knew It Was PTSD

After I graduated college and got fired from my first job – ‘cause I’m excellent – I had to move back home. My parents were always clear that I could always come home because they weren’t going to support me if I couldn’t support myself if I wasn't at home. I mean, within bounds of reason.

My second job at the time of me being fired paid about $40 a month, which, was not a good deal. So, I had to move home while I looked for ways to support myself.

Anyhow, I was working at the Body Shop part-time in the mall and I was working with this girl. I actually forget her name – she was pretty, though, with short blond hair. I’ll call her Suzanne because that’s the first female name that came up on the TV while I was writing this.

She was fun, actually. A little quiet, but, fun. The store was high-volume but very small so working with someone you got along with was key to having a good day.

We had a good day working and we were closing up.

When closing the store you had to do some register stuff, then count all the cash. The ticket from the register tells you how much you should have, then you take out everything but $100 and put it in the safe. We close one register about a half an hour before the mall closes, then the other. Tacks on about 30 minutes to how long you are going to be there.

I still remember that because it’s like the same everywhere and I worked a couple retail jobs after this one.

So, I close the doors and lock up and she is standing at the second register – and like, shaking. She’s got the money in her hand and you can tell she isn’t counting. She’s trying to count or rather, going through the motions of counting and just shaking.

Then she is scampering between the office and the register as if she isn’t sure how to do the cash thing. There is a chaos to her as if she is a child and some parent is screaming at her and she is trying to…I don’t know…fix the broken vase she just knocked over.

I wanted to get out on time. And I've dealt with crazy. So, I moved in and helped her count the coins. She is getting more upset because division of labor is part of the whole retail thing – you got to carry you half and I closed the other register so she is either going to close this thing now or she is hopeless.

I don’t think that, but, the unwritten laws of retail are harsh.

Suzanne: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
Maddie: No big deal. Look, we’re done.
Suzanne: I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…
Maddie: Nothing to be sorry about.

And then in the midst of all this...

Suzanne:…A year ago today I was sexual assaulted and it’s dark out and…

I have no idea what else she said. I also didn’t really didn’t know what “sexual assult” was. This was back in the day when women were either proven to be raped or “nothing happened.” Unless a penis goes into the vagina – I guess it didn’t really count no matter how little you wanted to be touched – anywhere. I think this is important because we hide behind these terms to make something that is violent and and crime more ok to other people.

Maddie: Do you want me to call security?
Suzanne: I call them so much, I can’t do it again. They always come but…

It’s a guy. Security is always a guy. She would be alone with some guy while reliving what some other guy did to her.

Suzanne then tells me what happened – I don’t think I asked because it wasn’t important to me to know it, it was only important to support her. She tells me she was active on her campus for women’s safety. Making sure women know they can call someone if they need to be walked home from the library to their dorm at night and stuff or even making sure security is around and going through buildings and stuff.

She tells me she was part of this committee that worked hard to get the school to put in “blue boxes” – those phones when you pick them up they automatically ring at the security place and you can get help.

One memeber was this guy who was her friend. And one night, after they had a rally or meeting type thing on campus, he walked her home saying he wanted to make sure she got to her dorm ok since her roommate had gone home for the weekend. They got to her dorm and he wouldn’t leave. At first, it was like when a friend stops by, you maybe invite them in, watch a TV show. Whatever.

But, she said he wouldn’t leave and then he…sexually assaulted her. And she can't be out at night in the dark because it happened at night and she doesn't like to work night and she had to today and it's too dark now....

As an older adult now, I think there was more than just someone grabbing her boob or something. She was alone, she was trapped, no one was coming into her dorm room. He hunted, targeted, trapped and did whatever he wanted with her. It was rape.

A year to the day after it, she is a living wreck, pouring the story out with all these little details. Not about the event – just everything.

I do what I know how to do – I just tell her it’s ok. I mean, her situation wasn’t ok, but there was no danger around her right now, it's not happening right now, it was only inside her. I can’t fix what is insider of her. Then I did the only think I knew I could do – protect the f**king hell out of her.

Maddie: I am here! You hold my hand. You stay with me. I’m going to take you to your car, I will follow you home, I am going to do anything you need, you got it?

She is crying – not like sobbing or like crying in gratitude – it’s the type of cry where you don't know you are doing it. You vision just blurs. I, at least, know that type of cry.

She gets her things and I march out of that store with her. The mall is dead closed - all the gates are down. It sort of peaceful when you work there but I could see every shadow she saw. I made sure to march down those halls and look around corners for her even though I knew no one was there.

I took her the fast way out through the loading docks, which are actually super creepy and smells like pee. She was ok with that. We took the elevator to the top of the parking...thing and I remember having her stand back while I walked into the box, checked it top to bottom and then had her come in. She didn’t want to take the stairs because it would be easier to be attacked there. I kept her behind me while we rode to the second level. Then I walked out first and told her it was ok to come out.

Suzzane: I don’t think I parked here…oh no!
Maddie: Ok, come with me.

I took her to my car and we drove to her car. I mean, I wasn’t going to walk around all over the mostly empty parking garage. And she was a mess.

Suzanne: I'm so sorry. You must think I am crazy. I’m so sorry.
Maddie: YOU HAVE NO REASON TO BE SORRY, SUZANNE! NOTHING ABOUT THIS IS YOUR FAULT! YOU ARE NOT WRONG YOU ARE STRONG AND AMAZING AND YOU DO WHAT YOU GOT TO DO BECAUSE I AM HERE!

(no, I didn't yell that, it was just what I was thinking so hard at the time)

I got her to her car. I followed her out of the mall parking lot to the stream of normal evening traffic. I never saw her again.

That's dramatic. It's not because she died but when you work part-time you generally don't see a lot of people again and again.

I just remember her story about what predators really are. I wondered which of my guy friends would rape me for a moment. In present day, maybe it's a thought a lot of people don't want to have or a thing that happened that people don't want to express.

I remember she kept apologizing for her fear. She kept saying how sorry she was. Like my care of her was somehow an inconvenience to me. Like I cared about...having to care...and she needed to be sorry.

She should not apologize, ever, and we all should care. And because we care - because someone cares - it makes what happened wrong and that guy a bad guy and a criminal and not someone who belongs mingling in society like nothing ever happened. He needs to be sorry, she does not.

Later I learned about PTSD. That’s PTSD. She was suffering with PTSD. She couldn’t function as soon as the sun went down. She couldn’t even call for help. She just lived in this state of fear and being sorry for someone else's crime that hurt her.

Once it was named, I don’t know, it felt less approachable than Suzanne's story was. If someone had PTSD it was because they went to war and the media said you just avoided them because you don’t know what will trigger them or what will happen.

I also had this feeling....belief.... when I learned about PTSD, that it was something I couldn’t do anything about. I’m not trained. I’m not good at it. I was powerless against it and so was everyone but people went to school to study it.

And that's not right, either.

I think if one person can wreck another person like that – we all have to step up. I learned from her I didn’t have to experience what she was going through to step up. I didn’t have to dismiss it or process it at any level other than she needed help. I had to walk into that war-room of her fear and do something to protect her. To take some small piece of stress from her.

I don’t know what happened to her. I would like to think the worst of the nightmare is over for her. I would like to think that she is using her story to touch other lives and walk into the war-room of other people’s fears.

I'll never know for sure, so, I'll believe that.

Words I Like

Here is a list of words I like from each letter of the alphabet:

• Alchemy
• Aprication
• Bobcat
• Catharsis
• Cattywampus
• Dodecagon
• Equinox
• Fiscal
• Fester
• Fritiniency 
• Gubernatorial
• Havana
• Ink
• Juxtaposition
• Kibble
• Lapis lazuli
• Mantel
• Melancholy
• Nomenclature
• Noodle
• Opioid
• Pugnacious
• Platter
• Quintet
• Retrograde
• Retort
• Rubric
• Silk
• Salon
• Tray
• Ukulele
• Vehicular homicide
• Waterloo
• Xiphoid
• Yack
• Zebra
• Zipper

The Time I Got A Boyfriend in College

Back in college, my roommate Wanda found this guy online. Since online stuff was still pretty new to her and meeting someone from online was scary – and we were in college – she set up a meeting.

I use Wanda's fears as something I didn't have. I was no great expert at this stuff, that's for sure. 

I went as the muscle because I’m a large-and-in-charge type lady. I also had a group of online-only friends so I was less afeard of being weirded out by meeting someone. You just want to avoid being killed and raped. Or raped and killed. Whatever.

Not to be outdone, her soon-to-be boyfriend showed up with his own large-and-in-charge friend. Big dude.

We all sat down and talked in this coffee type coffee place that was not really public – but whatever. And when the time was right, she and her really-boyfriend walked off to have some alone time chatting without the fear of murder and/or rape.

I look to the dude across from me...

Maddie: We going to make something of this?
Him: Uh. Sure.

And that’s the story of how I got my first boyfriend.