Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, December 31, 2003 Reality Wednesday
One Hour Photo
The contestant will endeavor to drop off film and receive prints during the holiday season.
Contestant enters the urban pharmacy/mart/grocery with one roll of APS film.
At the camera counter, the contestant hands over the roll of film to the Camera Counter Trainee.
"This is APS, do you offer one hour developing for APS film?" the contestant inquires.
"I don't know." Camera Counter Trainee answers. Without further comment.
Silence.
Silence.
"Well, um, can we maybe find out?" the contestant further inquires.
"You want to know if we develop this film in an hour?" the clearly very astute Camera Counter Trainee asks.
"Yes. I would like to know if you develop APS film via One Hour Service and what it will cost." The Contestant confirms.
Camera Counter Trainee, clearly in over her head in the matter, picks up the intercom telephone, and over the store speakers, interrupting Holly Jolly Christmas, can be heard, "Assistance needed at the Cam-er-ah coun-er, assistance needed at the Cam-er-ah Coun-er." Oh ho, the mistletoe, hung where you can see.
She stands there.
Silence.
Somebody waits for you, kiss her once for me.
Silence.
Silence.
"BEEP BEEP from the intercom phone.
We only hear her side of the conversation. Us and the entire store because she didn't turn off the speaker com.
Have a holly jolly Christmas.
"Do we do...what is this again," she asks the contestant, who whispers A-P-S.
"Huh?" she responds, over the speaker com to the entire store. I don't know if there'll be snow...
"A. P. S." the contestant slowly annunciates, and hears herself over the store speakers.
"APS." Silence. ...a cup of cheer. "Huh? I don't know. How many films is on here?" still over the speaker com and to The Contestant.
"Just the one roll." the contestant, slightly confused over the question, and resigned to her fate of carrying out the conversation so the entire store could hear.
"One." the camera Counter Trainee answers over the speaker com. "Huh? There's only one film on here?" inquiring of the Contestant.
"Oh, no," now understanding the use of the term "films," the contestant says, "It's a roll of 25 exposures."
"Twenny fi." Silence. "She say twenny fi." still over the store speakers.
Oh by golly have a holly jolly Christmas, this...
"Uh huh. Yeah. Uh huh. No. Uh huh. Uh huh. Yeah. Yeah." from the Camera Counter Trainee, still over the store loud speaker. She then hangs up the phone, making a loud squealing noise over the store speakers.
"She say she be right here." the Camera Counter Trainee says to no one in particular, but the Contestant assumes she is talking to her.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
A bothered looking Ms. Jones appears. We know she is Ms. Jones because it says so on her smock.
"Let's see." Ms. Jones says to the Camera Counter Trainee, who offers the roll of film.
"Oh, this is APS." As if that explains everything. Everything that had already been explained to the entire store over the loud speakers.
"Do you develop APS in the One Hour Service?" The Contestant inquires of Ms. Jones.
"I don't know. I'll have to ask the manager."
Silence.
Silence.
"Do you want me to get the manager?" Ms. Jones finally asks the Contestant.
"Well, um, really, all I want to know is if I can have this developed via One Hour Service and how much it will cost." the contestant blurts out.
"Manager needed at Camera Counter. Manager needed at Camera Counter." Ms. Jones calls over the store speakers.
Silence.
"Camera, pick up line three!"
"Yeah. Uh huh. APS. Uh huh. One hour service. Yeah. Alright then." Ms. Jones carries on this conversation while never taking her eyes off the Contestant, sizing her up, as if speaking in cryptic CIA code. The Contestant imagines on the other end Ms. Jones is being told, "Just stall her, keep her there as long as possible. We're sending in back up. Don't let her know we're onto her, if she gets nervous she might run."
"We can do this in One Hour Service." Ms. Jones tells the contestant.
"What will it cost?" the contestant repeats her initial inquiry.
Ms. Jones and the Camera Counter Trainee pull out a chart, which is fastened by an industrial strength chain to the Camera Counter. Apparently this is classified information. Can't let those pricing charts get into the wrong hands. The guys down at Super Sav would pay good money for that chart.
Ms. Jones and the Camera Counter Trainee study the chart as if it were a newly discovered religious text. Ms. Jones triumphantly says, "$11.99!" (Eureka! implied)
"Okay, great. Not to complicate matters, but is that one set of 4" x 6" prints?" the contestant queried, feeling more confident with the advent of The Chart.
"You just want one set?" Ms. Jones inquires.
"Yes, but if it's $11.99 for two sets, that's okay."
Ms. Jones translates for the Camera Counter Trainee, "She only wants one set. But if it's $11.99 for two sets she'll have two sets."
Ignoring the implied two set/one set question, Ms. Jones inquires of the Contestant, "Okay then, when do you want to pick them up?"
Leaving the two set/one set issue and now pondering this pop trick question, the contestant looks at her watch, then the clock above the store exit. "It's 12:30 now, so....one hour...1:30?"
"You want them at 1:30?!" Ms. Jones incredulously asks the Contestant.
"One Hour Service. Right? An hour from now is 1:30." The contestant responds as politely as she is able, thinking perhaps she didn't answer correctly, or that perhaps she slipped through an alternate time dimension where time as she knows it doesn't exist and is calibrated in completely different increments.
"Yeah, but we're really backed up. We say One Hour Service, but that's only if there's no other films waiting." Ms. Jones, suddenly very confident in the ways of the Camera Counter, moves aside a display of FotoFunny Magnets and points with a purple and pink airbrushed and diamond studded nail to the fine print disclaimer printed on the actual Camera Counter.
"Okay, so, how about if you tell me when it will be ready?" the contestant offers.
"When do you need it?" Ms. Jones counters.
"In an hour." The contestant deadpans.
"I towd you, we're backed up. It won't be ready in an hour." Ms. Jones getting uppity, one hand on hip, the other making that all in your face motion so popular on the Jerry Springer Show.
"Fine. You know what, since you are too busy to have the film developed in an hour, at the One Hour Photo, let's just go with regular overnight service. Which I realize due to the holiday is probably two night service." The contestant lets loose. She wants to add, "Me: Paying Customer. You: Name emblazoned smock wearing employee." But fearing for her physical well being and sanity, clips her sentence before the summary of relationship status comes out of her mouth.
"You want it overnight now?" Ms. Jones, getting angry at The Contestant raises her eyebrows in a threatening manner.
"Yes. Because you are unable to develop it in an hour. Why would I pay premium price for a service didn't get, plus waste however long it's going to take to get them developed, when I could pay less and pick them up in a few days?" The contestant tries to explain the illogicity of Ms. Jones flawed One Hour Photo scheme.
"They won't be back until next Tuesday." Ms. Jones, suddenly now the supreme authority of all things Camera Counter.
"Tuesday?! That's a week from now!" The contestant shockingly exclaims.
"Holiday schedule. The lab's behind from Christmas, and they don't work New Year's Day." Ms. Jones revealed.
"Okay. Fine. I will pick them up Tuesday. How much does the overnight-but-in-actuality-seven-nights service cost?" the contestant knows better than to ask this question, but is thinking perhaps it would be better to take the film to Super Sav, even if it will cost more and the developing will be inferior.
Camera Counter Trainee refers to the chained down chart. "A-P-S. Overnight....$11.99!" (Eureka! implied)
"$11.99? The same price for One Hour Service?!" the Contestant asks.
"Mmmm hmmm." Ms. Jones confirms.
"Okay, then, go ahead and develop them in the One Hour Service." the Contestant says, knowing this will cause much confusion and regretting the words as she speaks them.
"Now you want One Hour Service?" Ms. Jones looks as if she is going to rip off her smock and initiate a smack down with the Contestant.
"Might as well, it costs the same, and I'll get them faster than a week from now." the Contestant replied.
"So when do you want them?" Ms. Jones again asks.
"Sometime between an hour from now and next Tuesday, how's that for fair?" the Contestant, beyond caring at this point, just wants to leave.
"Fine. What's your phone number?" Ms. Jones punches in the phone number, and walks away, leaving the Camera Counter Trainee to finish the details.
The Camera Counter Trainee hands over the pick up slip and says, "Those will be ready in an hour."
The Camera Counter Trainee is learning from the best. Soon both she and Ms. Jones will be ready for long and prosperous careers with the US government.
Will the film be developed prior to next Tuesday? Will the Contestant receive threatening and harassing phone calls? Will the Contestant receive her prints? Should the Contestant have trusted her precious family holiday memories to the Camera Counter Crew?
Come back in an hour to find out. Or next Tuesday.
Same price either way.
Some day my prints will come,
Some day I'll find my love
Some day some day
I say some day my prints will come
Some day some day
Some day my prints will come,
Some day I'll find my love,
And how thrilling that moment will be,
When the prints of my dreams comes to me.... 8:59 AM
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Get into bed. Get into your comfortable spot. Doze off to sleep. Insert behemoth furry purring creature here. Knead with all four paws. "Kiss" human on the chin (a wet nose works best). Whisper purrs in the sleeping human's ear. While kneading. Human wakes, rolls over, tries to pretend you're not there and dozes off again. Repeat above steps. This time, when human awakes, insist on ear scratches. Lull the human into a false sense of serenity. When the human again falls asleep, repeat above steps. Do this twice an hour until the alarm rings waking the human for work. When the alarm rings, be sure to look extra cute and beguiling, comfortable in the warm bed the human must now leave.
Welcome home from Furry Creature.
Back from the land of Mullets and hunters and The Nuge, Oh My!
Without further adieu, I present:
The 2003 Holiday Sho-Lo Awards
This year's Holiday Sho-Lo (mullet) count: 218. And I didn't get out that much. I hit 35 before I even left Detroit Metro Airport. They were out in force this year.
Best Performance by a Child Too Young to Have Any Say Over Their Hair: The three boys under the age of 8 in Meijer Thrifty Acres with Lo parts only a few strands thick, showing the evolution of their hair color from infant to current age. By the time these boys reach maturity, they will be walking timelines of hair color history and passage into manhood.
Best Performance by an Entire Family: The family of four, father, mother, two boys, with the exact same, I mean EXACT same lengths and cut. And I get on my mother's case for dressing us in the same fabric-ed outfits when we were kids. After seeing this family I went home and hugged and thanked my mother profusely for never inflicting matching haircuts, much less matching BAD haircuts on us.
Best Sho-Lo Innovation/Improvisation, Male: (My favorite this year, a new twist I haven't seen) A combination Sho-Lo/Comb over. I always kind of wondered what a Mullethead does when he goes bald*. Now I know.
Best Sho-Lo Innovation/Improvisation, Female: A shag haircut gone obviously very wrong, wherein the only solution was to cut parts of it off completely and start over. The poor woman didn't want to part with all her hair, so the result was a very bizarre Sho-Lo. Think: The Friends haircut (circa 1995) modified into a Sho-Lo. Actually, just envision Jennifer Aniston with a Sho-Lo.
Best Performance by Someone Who Otherwise Looks Like They Should Know Better, Male: The approximately 26-year-old guy at the local pharmacy, dressed very hip and actually very good looking once you get past the Ted Nugent Worthy Sho-Lo.
Best Performance by Someone Who Otherwise Looks Like They Should Know Better, Female: The 30-something woman with what appeared to be a natural blonde Sho-Lo, the Sho part shaved so close to her head she could make Schindler's List, the Lo part so long she could be Rapunzel in this year's community production. None of the usual accompaniments to the female Sho-Lo. (For those unfamiliar with the usual female accompaniments: Either the Sho or Lo part dyed so badly and cheaply blonde it's sort of orangey, the alternating part dark mouse brown, blue eye shadow, mascara and eyeliner, completely tweezed eyebrows re-drawn in, one of those acrylic patterned sweaters from the 80's with lots of pils, acid wash jean leggings, "scrunch" boots or those weird suede boots with the fringe and metal studs - not quite cool cowboy or biker boots, cigarette hanging out of mouth, feather earrings.)
Best Performance by Someone Completely Surrounded by a non-Sho-Lo Crowd, Male: The guy in my parents' church taking communion on Christmas Eve. He even had a moustache, almost a 1974 Greg Alman moustache. This guy was really working his look in front of the conservative and more modern crowd in the church. Most everyone opts to take communion by intinction, but the alter is set up for anyone desiring a more traditional kneeling communion. He is obviously a guy not swayed by easy or popular ways. Even when the last pew had been re-seated, he was up there communioning away. So that he had to make a show of his leaving the alter. So that anyone who didn't catch his hair and moustache on his way up, noticed it on his way back. Down the center aisle. Good show (lo) Dude! WWJD? Man, he'd move to mid-Michigan and go for the Sho-Lo! You and Jesus, man, working the look!
Best Performance by Someone Completely Surrounded by a non-Sho-Lo Crowd, Female: The woman in the newly opened Starbuck's in my parents' very small, yet wants to prove it's cool so badly it hurts, town. My guess is this was her first visit to a Starbuck's. No, not based on her "look" (see above, she was in full regalia). "Can I just get a regular cuppa coffee?" Pierced, tattooed, gothed out slacker barista had no patience for her and her unsavvy ways. My mother and I tried to help out Sho-Lo woman. She didn't "get it." We later heard her exclaim, GODDAM! THAT'S FREAKIN' HOT!! Thus further calling even more attention to herself and causing much stir and disapproval from the trying way too hard yuppie crowd.
Best Performance by Someone Embracing the Sho-Lo Lifestyle, Male: Again, as always, Ted Nugent. He's let the Sho part grow a bit on the sides, but he embodies the Sho-Lo/Mullet culture so well not even a little longer Sho can knock him off the Throne of Sho-Lo, his cross-bow scepter firmly in hand.
Best Performance by Someone Embracing the Sho-Lo Lifestyle, Female: The woman working the counter at the Donut Hole, in her full regalia (see above) smoking while dispensing donuts (Oops. Don't mind a little ash on that, do yuz? Ha ha ha. (Cigarette dangle off the side of her lip) Extra protein! We won't charge yuz any extra! Ha ha ha. Wanted to say: "No, I guess not. Does that throat cancer of yours hurt as much as it sounds like it does?" But instead said, "um, on second thought I think I'd like a maple cream.) Later she was cackling out to anyone who would listen about her plans to go snowmobiling with her old man Upnorth (Tawas, apparently) after work. You go, girl.
This visit's Madonna Perm circa 1984 (See Borderline/Like A Virgin/Get Into the Groove videos) count: 52. Madonna may have left Bay Cit/Detroit, but her hair didn't. Yeah. The numbers are up this year. I am musing on the social significance of this. Will flesh out a full report.
Guide says: Enter if you dare. All things Mullet: http://www.mulletsgalore.com/ Faint of head and queasy of stomach are strongly cautioned. Only the bravest should enter, go to "Classifications" for encyclopedic descriptions and photos. Also check out "Picturebooks" then "Mulletfest 2001." See also http://www.mulletmadness.com and for an interactive adventure, http://ratemymullet.com
* I really want to see a Hair Club for Men testimonial from a Mullethead. "My male pattern balding left me feeling unworthy. Hair Club for Men gave me back my Sho-Lo AND my confidence."
9:36 AM
Thursday, December 25, 2003 Holy. Swutting. Belgium.
Me. Who only went through the whole St. Andrew Prayer-A-Thon thing out of guilt over not stopping the little joke/test.
Me who blogged blasphemous.
St. Andrew came through.
On Christmas Eve, no less.
Call it a Christmas miracle.
Call me...well, call me a little less agnostic for now.
Which is saying a lot. It represents a huge leap of faith for me.
Literally.
Don't worry. I am not going to start preaching on this blog (REPENT!). I leave that to the experts at NeoTheologue (rollest not thine eyes, it's an interesting blog). (SAVE YOURSELVES BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!)
Tuesday, December 23, 2003 Ghosts of Christmas Past
Mod Hair Ken
When I was a wee tot, I wanted a new, cool Ken for my Barbies. My Barbies and affiliated girlfriends were all very Malibu, very Mod, and very au currant.
But my few hand-me-down Kens were square. Four cornered. And don't get me started on Brad.
To put it bluntly, no self respecting Barbie would be seen with my Kens.
However, I was ahead of most of the other girls because I actually had Kens and a Brad.
So we made do. Our cool Barbies dated nerds with plastic molded hair.
I was younger than most of the girls in my class and in my various neighborhoods around the Universe. Which put me at an instant disadvantage with the in crowds of the lunch rooms and playgrounds.
But.
I possessed Kens and a Brad. Along with one of the best Barbie collections this side of the Mattel manufacturing facility.
So I had an in. It didn't get me far, but it opened a few doors.
Then it happened. Christmas. Which was always a doll-fest for me. Ooo-oooh that smell. That smell of newly injected plastic. I had asked Santa for a new Francie, which I knew was a risky proposition. There had been a Francine Incident earlier in the year, which left my fairly new Francie a paraplegic. My parents are of the school that dictates that you take care of your toys because they will not be replaced. Especially if it's broken under suspicious circumstances. I know what happened to Francie, but that case is in a sealed document. Protection of the innocent and all that. The sordid details will only be revealed when all parties are deceased.
But mustering all my courage, thinking news of the Francine Incident might not have reached the North Pole, I asked Santa for a new Francie.
I dared not ask for a Ken, too. And since none of the other girls had even one Ken, I figured I could coast until my birthday with my existing Kens and dorky Brad. Besides, asking for a male doll was, well, I mean, I just wasn't that sort of girl. Kens are to be given without solicitation. A nod from mother/aunt to the girl's prepubescent blossoming womanhood.
I held my breath from October to December 24th. I regretted my error in Santa judgment immediately. How could I have been so stupid to ask for a replacement toy? What was I thinking? I worried that Santa might get wind of the Francine Incident. (After all, he knows if you've been bad or good...) That he would be mad at me for asking for a replacement toy. That to teach me a lesson he might not even leave me anything. So I was extra good.
Christmas morning arrived. Long story short, not only did I get a new Francie, but, shock! Amazement! What to my wondering eyes should appear?!
GASP!
DON'T FAINT, GET A GRIP GIRL, GET A GRIP!!!
A BARBIE AIRPLANE!!! (scream at the top of your lungs)
And sitting in the plane, in First Class, of course, was:
MOD HAIR KEN!!!! With his Sun Luvin' companion, MALIBU P.J.!!! WITH TAN LINES!!!! OMG!!!!!!!
And they were being served by a REAL, CAN ONLY BUY ON THE PLANE FROM THE GOODS TROLLEY AIR FRANCE STEWARDESS DOLL!!!! IN A REAL OFFICIAL UNIFORM!!!!
To the uninitiated, Francie is Barbie's cousin. Sometimes really square, sometimes really mod. She hasn't been seen or heard from since about 1978. I suspect she's a Keds wearing soccer mom in Wilmette. P.J. was the very fast (slutty) friend of Barbie. She's come and gone over the years, my guess is in and out of re-hab. Last I heard she was living in Sedona selling crystals and aligning chakras.
But. Mod Hair Ken.
MOD HAIR KEN. MOD SWUTTING HAIR KEN!
Oh, I knew of him. I'd heard stories from some of the older girls. Girls named Tina. Linda. Julie. Cathy. Reneé. Janet. Cheryl. Karen. Patty. Cool girls with cool names. They'd talk in hushed, reverent tones about this Ken. They knew of girls who had actually seen Mod Hair Ken. Julie even had a cousin, Beth, who had played with Mod Hair Ken. Gasp, no, really? What was he like? Does he look as good as in the ads?
But never in my wildest dreams would I dare request such a being to grace my bedroom. Never could I ask for the likes of Mod Hair Ken to grace the family room after school and on Saturdays. To mingle with Barbie and Skipper and Francie and Midge.
No. Old fashioned Midge who was old and square when she arrived with my sister's discarded Kens and Brad would never tolerate Mod Hair Ken. She already didn't approve of all the Malibu gang. The sorority mother of the Barbie Dream Townhouse (with elevator), she'd oust Mod Hair Ken from the Townhouse faster than the neighbor's dog who loved to abduct fashion dolls.
Mod Hair Ken was out there. Mod Hair Ken was for older girls. Mod Hair Ken was expensive. Mod Hair Ken was a guy doll. Guy dolls could only be had if they were passed down from an older sister or cousin and terribly out of date (which is how I acquired mine). Or, as mentioned, given by a mother or aunt when it is deemed a young girl is "ready" for a new Ken.
But there he was. Under our Christmas tree. Looking smart in his brown and white plaid sport coat, white snap-on dickie and tan polyester slacks with attached belt. And real, synthetic hair. Luscious synthetic locks shining and waving in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. None of this injected molded and painted stuff.
No. This was Barbie worthy hair. His hair accessories were arranged on the pull down tray in front of him. Adhesive mutton chops, two different mustaches, and a beard/mustache combo, a brown ascot to wear instead of the dickie (for when Ken went to Monte Carlo) and a brush and comb. A Ken who arrived with a brush and comb!
His white Pepsodent teeth smiling at Malibu P.J. (with tan lines!) by his side.
After the Francine Incident I thought I'd be lucky to get a Skipper and few coloring books, maybe a puppy and kitten puzzle.
But all this?! A Barbie Airplane, with a real stewardess doll, a Malibu P.J. (with tan lines) AND A MOD HAIR KEN?! Was it all a dream?
I couldn't believe it. After the screams of delight subsided, I sat staring at the affair. I was afraid to touch any of it for fear it wasn't real or that I'd break it.
Then reality hit.
Maybe it wasn't for me. Maybe Santa had made a mistake. Maybe it was left at the wrong house. Yes, that's it, Julie up the street would get a set up like this. She had that cousin, Beth. Between them they had everything. Chrissy AND Velvet dolls. Mrs. Beasley dolls. A Barbie dunebuggy. Jewelry boxes with ballerinas that twirled around and played music when you opened them. Batons with glittery water in them. Those cool glass balls on strings you clicked together. Purses. Everything.
Yes, that's it. A big mistake, the North Pole people would show up any minute to rectify the situation and it would all be gone.
I cried.
All day.
Wouldn't go anywhere near any of it. I didn't want to get attached to it only to have it all taken away from me.
Even if there wasn't a mistake, even if it really was all for me, even if Santa had for some reason chosen to so generously gift me with all of this, my parents would never allow Mod Hair Ken to stay. P.J., scantily clad, with those tan lines and funky sunglasses, would probably not be welcome in our home, either.
I cried.
That night, my (much older) brother coerced the truth out of me, got to the bottom of the whole crying game. In more ways than one, now that I think about it.
He took Mod Hair Ken out of the airplane, proffered him to my parents and said, mocking me, "Trillian thinks Santa made a mistake and that none of this is for her. And she thinks you wouldn't let her keep Mod Hair Ken, anyway."
My parents were, understandably, confused. I can see that now. But at the time I thought they were shocked by this revelation my brother had presented. I thought the shock on their faces was the dawn of realization. That any minute now the call would be placed to Santa's hotline. In that split second it all flashed before me. The call would go like this: "Santa? Yes, this is Mrs. McMillian. Seems you left a lot of toys for our daughter Trillian. Yes. Trillian. Right. Two l's. Yes, I know about Francie. That's why I'm calling. I think there's been a mistake. There's a Barbie plane, a P.J. with tan lines, no less, an Air France Stewardess doll. Yes, that's right, Air France. From the airplane. And this Mod Hair Ken fellow...."
"Is that Santa on the line?" my father would interject, "Let me talk to him. Santa? Mr. McMillian here. Just what are you getting up to with this Mod Hair Ken? Trillian doesn't deserve one as mod and expensive as him. Besides, she's already got Kens and some Brad chap, and Santa, I don't think I have to tell you, they're, ah, they're boy dolls. Trillian's not really old enough. Yes. Yes. Of course. Yes. We didn't realize until our son brought it to our attention. I see. Yes. You'll have someone pick it up tonight. Box it up? Sure. We'll just leave it there on the hearth. I'll have my wife call Julie's mother and explain what happened. Yes. Merry Christmas to you, too!"
I don't think I've ever hated my brother more than I did at that moment.
Once my parents knew about the mistake, they'd be in touch with the North Pole. It was all over.
The jig was up.
The minute I saw the glorious display that early Christmas morning, I knew it was too good to be true. I knew it would come to this sooner or later, but I was holding out hope that if we got through all of Christmas day people might forget, time would pass, and I might be able to keep some of it.
Of course if that did happen, I could never expect another thing from Santa again in my life. Toward the end of the day I convinced myself it would be a fair trade off. That I'd never want another thing from Santa anyway, that my life would be complete.
I stood there utterly frozen in the moment of discovery. Trying to discern the looks on my parents' faces. Trying to kill my brother with an evil gaze of death.
Then my brother made it worse.
He "investigated" Mod Hair Ken.
In front of my parents.
"Is this guy 'correct'?!" I had no idea what he was talking about, but I knew it wasn't good. I knew he should not be talking about whatever it was in front of my parents.
So all that schoolyard talk was true. He had facial hair and something else. Down there. In his polyester slacks with attached belt.
"And he's wearing a dickie?! You wouldn't let me keep Secret Agent Man, but you let her have a correct doll wearing a dickie?!" For some reason the dickie really got to him. I didn't understand why.
At this my parents burst out in fits of laughter the likes of which I had never witnessed.
Through fits of hysterics, my mother said, "And...he's....got...ha ha...stick on...titter titter...facial...hair!" HA HA HA
My dad was turning purple trying to contain his laughter in front of me.
My brother, past the injustice of it all, was laughing, too.
And then uttered the infamous words, "Is he hairy all over? Does he come with a chest wig?"
At the thought of this my parents were beside themselves. You hear that expression a lot, but my parents were actually beside themselves over this. My dad was bursting in fits..."chest..guffaw guffaw...wig...HA HA HA!"
My mother, trying to regain composure and sensing my distress, said, "Trillian, it's all for you, dear, it's yours. Santa left it all for you. Now fetch Ken's facial hair and bring it here. Let's see how he looks with a beard."
This sent Dad and brother, who were now weak in the knees, holding each other up, all but rolling on the floor into further fits of laughter.
I did as I was told. Very somberly and reverently. This was all very grown-up stuff. And I was just a kid. And somehow, for some reason, I was being invited into this grown-up world of Mod Hair and boy dolls. By my mother. I was never allowed in the grown-up stuff. Until that day.
The Christmas day my mother and I put facial hair on Mod Hair Ken.
Who ended up looking exactly like Matt Clement.
Mod Hair Ken, it turned out, also had a "bump" in his polyester slacks with attached belt. A sort of athletic cup shaped area. Which sent the older girls, Tina. Linda. Julie. Cathy. Reneé. Janet. Cheryl. Karen. Patty. into wide eyed awe when they saw him. Turned out Julie also got a Malibu P.J. (with tan lines) that year, but my real stewardess trumped her Malibu P.J.
For a few blessed weeks, I was cool. Word got out and spread quickly. I was the talk of the school. Kids wanted to sit with me at lunch. Even with my totally uncool red plaid lunch box (which my mother insisted on using during the holiday season). Girls who never visited my house made excuses to stop by after school to see the airplane, the stewardess, and mainly to inspect Mod Hair Ken. They'd timidly ask to brush his hair. Then they'd inquire about the various stick-on amenities. The bravest (sluttiest) among them would lift the brown and white plaid jacket to see the bump.
My moment of popularity was short lived. It all came to grinding halt when Patty's mother found out I brought Mod Hair Ken to play at their house. She made me leave and take "that horrible doll" with me.
Rumors spread. Kids stopped coming by after school. I sat alone at lunch. Even with my Snoopy lunchbox.
My brother would offer cans of shaving cream and razors, a relentless joke that got really old, really quick. I played with Mod Hair Ken alone. We had many adventures around the globe together. That plane took us places we'd only dreamed about. I loved him. I still do.
All these years later I am longing for another man who is out of my reach. More suited to Julie down the street. But I've been very good. Come to think of it, he sort of looks like Mod Hair Ken. Huh. Just thought of that. No. He doesn't wear dickies. Or attached belt slacks. So I'm hoping maybe Santa will make a mistake and leave that man under my parents' tree for me.
Apparently I haven't lost the ability to hope against all odds that maybe Santa will come through for me.
There's a thin line between hope and delusion.
Happy Holidays everyone. I hope everyone gets their Mod Hair Ken or Malibu P.J. with tan lines. Much happiness, new beginnings and happy endings to everyone hurting this season.
Ghosts of Christmas Geeze, I'm out of the office two and a half days and I can barely find my desk under all the work that's been piled there for me. I'm hoping it's because everyone left for a week or two out of the office and wanted to get all this off their desks before leaving. That none of it requires much, if any, action from me today or tomorrow. I'm taking some time off, too, you know! I may be alone, single, sad and broken hearted but it's the holidays for me, too!
Add to that the surreality of coming back to work after a job interview. Or in my case, three job interviews. It's amazing what interviewing for another job does for your perspective on your current job and co-workers.
I'm feeling very odd today. Untethered. Unhinged. Unbound.
I saw great stage production of A Christmas Carol last night. I'm an A Christmas Carol - o - phile. I need and crave it the way addicts need their drugs. I know it's not good for me, I know it will hurt me, but it's so good I have to have it. This story never ceases to reach out, grab my heart and soul and touch me deeply on many levels.
I vividly remember the first time my father read me the story. I remember it well because it was the first time I remember being conscious of the fact that I was deeply touched. I was about five, maybe four - not in school - I remember thinking that I was thinking big thoughts. That I was experiencing grown-up emotions. (yeah, I was kind of a sensitive kid. Okay. A very sensitive kid.) That I was "getting" something beyond and deeper than the surface level.
I was moved.
I was really scared.
Not of the ghosts (yeah, I was kind of a weird kid, too) but of the fact that I knew I was experiencing grown-up emotions. I knew not too many, if any, of my friends had experienced these feelings. Especially over a story. I was scared that I was dabbling in a grown-up place where I had no business being. I instinctively kept all of this completely to myself.
A few years later, after attending a community production of the play, I cautiously asked my best friend if she believed in redemption (I think I actually asked her if she thought second chances were real and if they could make things right) and made a few remarks about some of the deeper points. (what a geek - a Lit Wit even then) Fortunately (Bless you Friend, bless you always) she didn't laugh at me and we actually had a conversation about it. If you think your 7-year-olds are incapable of thinking beyond Barbie dresses and soccer balls, think again. I knew she "got it" on a few levels, but I still felt like I had been given some deeper meaning and insight long before I should have understood any of it. I never said another word about it to anyone.
But when I witnessed Scrooge-like behavior, I thought I understood there were deeper reasons for the behavior. While the other kids would tease or mock or be afraid of certain mean teachers or weirdoes in the community, I would quietly hope they would have their own Scrooge experience and be happier before they died and It Was Too Late.
Thus began a (so far) lifelong compulsion for Dickens. Could I find deeper meaning in other works? Did Dickens hold the keys to the answers for every life issue? Was I somehow channeling Dickens himself by reading his works? Was I to be a Dickensian scholar? Was this my calling? Scary as it sounds, I nearly did devote my life and career to literature, with a specialty in Dickens. Swear it's true. I devoured every Dickens work. I studied all the criticism and praise. The essays. The inspirations. I studied Charles himself. I developed an encyclopedic knowledge of the man and his work. All by the age of 16.
One of my life's biggest ironies is that I am now literally Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. Life imitating art.
In spite of me now living out Miss Havisham's life, it's still A Christmas Carol above all others that sends me deep within myself, brings tears to my eyes and gives me hope for state of humanity. (Though I can argue a good point that Miss Havisham and Scrooge are actually the same character, that Dickens just dressed Scrooge up in a wedding dress and girl's name, fleshed out the broken heart and disappointment issues to further push his point about growing old, bitter and jaded with love lost, and hence, very little hope for certain members of humanity.)
This year in particular, I am left even more full of emotion over A Christmas Carol, sensing that I am experiencing feelings I am too young to experience. As we streamed out of the theatre I could barely hold my head up. I was sad. I was touched. I was alone in a crowd. I was trying to hide my tears and hoping my mascara wasn't running Alice Cooper-ish down my face. Being visited by one too many ghosts of my own Christmases past. Everyone else was happy and jovial. No one else seemed to be having emotional issues after viewing this stage production.
It was a good production, I was there man, I was there. I hope others in the audience "felt" it too. Otherwise it's just kind of freaky or I'm being way too sensitive. Again.
God bless us, everyone.
I will watch any version of A Christmas Carol at least once. I think I've seen all of them. Including Very Special Episodes of television shows I'd otherwise never watch. And so, I present:
Top Ten List of My Favorite A Christmas Carols.
1. A Christmas Carol with George C. Scott as Scrooge (1984) This is the best production of the story, bar none.
2. A Christmas Carol with Alistair Sim (1951) Until George C. Scott's performance, this was the best.
3. Scrooged with Bill Murray (1988) Fantastic comedic and touching adaptation.
4. A Muppet Christmas Carol with Michael Cain (1992) This is really funny and extremely well done. Trust me. This is very, very good.
5. Black Adder's A Christmas Carol with Rowen Atkinson (1988) Black Adder. Dickens. Together at last.
6. Mr. Magoo's A Christmas Carol with Jim Backus (1962) Really. This is good. I'm not kidding.
7. A Christmas Carol with Patrick Stewart (1999) Good if you can forget Star Trek long enough to believe Stewart isn't going to go galactic.
8. A Christmas Carol with Reginald Owen (1938) The acting is not so great, the effects are cheesy, but hey, it was 1938. Good piece of film history.
9. A Christmas Carol with Whoppi Goldberg (1997) Animated with all star voice cast.
10. Flintstones/Jetsons Christmas Carol(s) These two are actually not too bad. Fred and Mr. Spacely, respectively are Scrooge. Musts for Hannah Barbara fans.
Bonus! 11. A Christmas Carol live stage production (1982) This is good, especially if you're a live theatre fan.
Don't go there: All Dogs Christmas Carol Walt Disney's Mickey's Christmas Carol (Sorry Disney fans, this is just a really annoying adaptation. Admit it. You know I'm right.)
Rich Little's A Christmas Carol (I know people who like this...I've watched it several times trying to see what I'm missing. All I get is creeped out and not in a Christmas Spirits kind of way.)
A Diva's Christmas Carol A Christmas Carol animated with Simon Callow and Kate Winslet (there's no excuse for this, it's bad with a capital Phoning in the Performance)
8:50 AM
Saturday, December 20, 2003 My Life as a Blonde My Life as a Blonde
Or, well, at least a honey blonde highlighted brunette.
The saga continues. I am disappointed to announce: It's true.
After a week as a much fairer haired lass, I can report the sad facts.
Lighter hair = more approachable.
I hate admitting this. I hate that this is true. But it's the only conclusion I can come to with any degree of honesty.
I have had a chance to put my fairer locks to the test in the alleged rudest city in the world.
Apart from The Boss who kept me hostage in a poorly ventilated conference room for four and a half hours, everyone, and I mean everyone, has been remarkable nice to me. Out of their way nice to me. Okay, so not everyone is walking up and saying, "Hi Trillian, what can I do to make your life easier right now?" But across the board I am getting more hellos, g'day's, head nods and, the big one, eye contact.
I have had more direct eye contact, people looking me square in the eyes, in the past three days than I think I have had in my entire life.
I can only conclude that sultry brunettes, broody brunettes and mysterious brunettes are just so intimidating they strike such deep chords that people are too scared, ashamed or shy to engage in any eye contact.
And here I've lived my life thinking 90% of the population are big fat liars because they won't give me eye contact!
How was I to know all these years it was the hue of my hair that was causing people to avoid eye contact with me?!
I may owe a few apologies.
Girl down the street. You wouldn't look me in the eye when you said you didn't break my Krissy doll. I always thought you were lying so you wouldn't get in trouble. Now I know you were just too afraid of me to look me in the eye. Of course you didn't pull her growing hair out of it's socket. How could I have doubted you all these years? I'm sorry.
School chemistry lab partner. You wouldn't look me in the eye when you said you thought the liquid spilled on the table was water when in fact it turned out to be highly flammable alcohol. I always thought you were lying so you wouldn't get in trouble. Now I know you were just too afraid of me to look me in the eye. Of course you had no idea it was alcohol and me igniting the burner would set the table ablaze. How could I have doubted you all these years? I'm sorry.
Teenaged Boy: You wouldn't look me in the eye when I turned around after being pinched in the ass in the lunch line. I always thought it was you and you were lying by ignoring me afterward. Now I know you were too afraid and shy to look me in the eye. Of course you didn't pinch my teenaged ass. I must have caught it on the lunch tray shelf. How could I have doubted you all these years? I'm sorry.
College Crush Guy: You wouldn't look me in the eye when you said you were transferring to a college 200 miles away. I always thought you were
lying because you had no spine. Now I know you were afraid aid to look me in the eye. Of course you went there to study nuclear physics instead of art history. How could I have doubted you all these years? I'm sorry.
College Professor: You wouldn't look me in the eye when you said you thought my work wasn't right for XYZ agency and therefore didn't recommend me for interview. I always thought you were lying because you wanted the job yourself. Now I know you were intimidated to look me in the eye. Of course they never would have hired me, and you were a far better choice for the job. How could I have doubted you all these years. I'm sorry.
Ex Boss I: You wouldn't look me in the eye when you told me I was only being laid off because we lost two accounts. I always thought you were lying because you hated me from day one. Now I know you were too afraid to look me in the eye. Of course you didn't hate me because I was better in every capacity than you. Of course you weren't looking for the first reason to get rid of me. Of course you didn't then hire a team of bigger fools than you. How could I have doubted you all these years? I'm sorry.
Ex Boss II: You wouldn't look me in the eye when you told me I wouldn't get anywhere in the agency if I didn't adjust my attitude. I always thought you were lying because you were mad I wouldn't sleep with you. Now I know you were just too intimidated to look me in the eye. Of course you didn't want to sleep with me. You were nearly twice my age and had all those other girls to sleep with in your office. How could I have doubted you all these years? I'm sorry.
Every guy I've ever dated except HWNMNBS: You wouldn't look me in the eye when you said "It's not you, it's me." I always thought you were all lying to avoid confrontation or an ugly scene. Now I know you were just too afraid to look me in the eye. Of course it's you. You've got issues. I'm too good for you. I'm better off without you. I deserve a better man. How could I have doubted you all these years? I'm sorry.
See what a few blonde highlights will do? One minute you're going around not trusting anyone because they won't look you in the eye, let alone engage in conversation, the next you realize they were only avoiding eye contact because they were intimidated or shy because of your hair color.
Interestingly enough, the new hair color hasn't thwarted anyone from asking me directions. Three days: 12 people/groups stopping me and asking directions to one place or another. So that little sociological oddity is going to have further investigation and study. As it stands, I think it's safe to conclude hair color must not be a factor.
Nothing too unusual about this news photo, Islams in Pakistan hate the U.S. and march in protest. But check out the guy in the second row on the left. The guy with the beard. What the...?
Friday, December 19, 2003 Life Imitating Art One of my all time favorite movies is Planes, Trains and Automobiles. From the roll of the opening credits to its close, that movie never, ever ceases to entertain me.
The opening scene always grabs me. It is ever poignant in my life, past, present and sure to be future. Steve Martin and a colleague are in an enormous board room, huge conference table, with the Boss (waayyyyyyy down) at the head of the table. The Boss is looking at composition boards. One. Then the other. One. Then the other. One. Then the other. Nary a word is spoken. Looks of hope grow and falter on Steve Martin. He looks at his watch. Boss seems to be in another world. Or doing this on purpose. A way of exercising his power in his role of The Boss (or The Client). It's before a holiday and Steve is trying catch a flight home. The Boss can't decide, they break for the holiday, and so begins the movie.
It's those opening moments of the movie that grip my heart. (Okay, there are a few John Candy moments that always, always make me cry.) Why are the opening credits so heart wrenching for me? I live this. This is my life. And so do a lot of other people. It's a painful scene played out over and over hundreds of times a week the world over.
Welcome to the wonderful world of advertising/marketing/design/selling your soul.
If you're in The Biz, you know exactly what I'm talking about and you're nodding in knowing recognition. Everyone else: That scene is the epitome of The Ad Biz. In all it's unspoken glory, that's really what it all comes down to in the end.
And that was my life yesterday afternoon. Insert me in Steve Martin's role and that is how I spent four and a half hours yesterday afternoon. Fun, huh? Jealous? I wasn't trying to catch a plane ("You'll never make the 6:00...") but dinner with other colleagues. Kind of a big deal. Boss Man was completely aware of this obligation. He was in fact supposed to be at the dinner as well. He didn't care. He didn't have to care. He's The Boss and he can be late or not show up at all if he chooses. But me, well, I'm NOT the boss. If I'm late or don't show up, it will not be good. It will get back to my boss and others in my office. Others who pawned off this holiday tour of duty on me will not be pleased with me shirking the obligation and responsibility. There were a few people in my office who were even jealous of me going to New York the week before Christmas. Apparently they think it's all fun and games and shopping and ice skating. Truth is, I'm on my own dime and time from this morning until I go home. Had I not scheduled some personal time off and used a hotel rewards account to pay for the extra nights in the hotel, I'd already be home and expected back in the office as I type this. I would have been trying to make the 6:00 to O'Hare. Yeah. It's a glamorous job. But consequently, to avoid the frustration, aggravation and stupidity of the people in my office, I fulfilled by professional obligations. And then some. Almost anyone else would have blown off the dinner and gone out clubbing or shopping or crashed in their room.
After four and a half hours of alternating silence and rapid fire questions tantamount to the Spanish Inquisition from The Boss, all I wanted was to return to my little hotel lair sanctuary away from Holiday Hell, put on my sweats and Red Wings jersey (I know, but it's not as if HWNMNBS or any other man is going to come knocking on me door here. Now. Might as well make myself comfortable. Right?) order room service, and watch cable channels I've never even heard of let alone seen.
But no. Obligations. Since I'm the one in the office sent to represent us in New York at this particular little funfest, I am expected to attend the stupid dinner.
I did. The Boss fortunately has A Car, and he offered me a ride to the dinner. (A reprieve from cabs!)
I didn't pull a drink and ditch, but I didn't linger any longer than absolutely necessary. And it wasn't that awful. In fact I left feeling not as bad as I did when I got there, so one could even call it a success.
I walked several blocks before getting a cab to the hotel.
I always forget how much I love New York. It's easy to remember the bad things - expense, crime, dirt, crowds - as excuses for leaving or not moving back, and they're all true. But it's the little things unique to New York that flood back once stepping foot on a few blocks.
Can I see myself moving back here?
Better give this serious thought because I've had three job interviews.
And here's where my life again imitates art.
In Kramer vs. Kramer (another favorite movie) Dustin Hoffman, recently dumped by Meryl Streep, is an ad guy. He's a hotshot. He's a Madison Avenue guru who has devoted his life to his job, or rather, has devoted a lot of hours to his job (sound familiar?) and Meryl's had it, sick of being second or third to his job. She leaves Dustin with their young son. Dustin now has to figure out how to juggle work and single parenthood.
Dustin loses a job because he can't keep up with both. So he's forced to hit the pavement, prostituting himself all over town to find a job. Fast. It's the Friday before Christmas and he's talking to a big shot creative director. The job available is way below Dustin's level. Meanwhile, in the background, there are holiday party innuendos, merry making and frivolity. The creative director's mind is not on hiring anyone, let alone Dustin. Finally he levels with him on this and tells Dustin he's too good for the job, they'll talk about this after the holiday. Dustin is pleading. "I need this job."
The emphasis - the passion, the angst, the desire...Dustin hits all of that and more in the way he emphasizes "need." It's so much more than desperation. It's the humility of his situation, the interview situation, the world of work situation that Dustin nails in that one word.
While I don't need any of these jobs for the reasons or emotions Dustin did, the concept of interviewing for a job a few days before Christmas, when no one is concentrating or caring about any job vacancies or requirements or dazzling body of work...is slapping me in the face. And no, I'm not caring for a young child on my own, but I'm floundering out there on my own without the one person I thought would always be there for me.
The interview yesterday morning wasn't so awful. But more than a little scary. If dropped inside those offices you'd be hard pressed to know if it was July, a week before Christmas or Christmas Day. Work. Work. Work. Noses to the grindstones.
But I still felt the whole process lacked the usual air of gravitas a job interview usually carries. No matter how laid back or casual the office or job structure. Perhaps that's a good thing, but I do wonder how serious the hiring managers and human resources people were taking me or the job. Yesterday's less so, but still...the interviews today, well...I'm sitting here in my hotel lair sanctuary away from Holiday Hell, trying to sort out the events of the past 36 hours, weeding through the options, separating the grain from the chafe, and wondering if I can honestly see myself in any of these jobs, let alone back here doing The New York Thing. Painful phone conversations with my boss in the office, trying to explain what happened yesterday afternoon to a complete nincompoop who has no comprehension of what I do, the way this all works or what needs to be done next make me want to never go back to that office. I met two potential new bosses. One I think would be fine. The other...well...I don't know. I'm trying not to judge by first impressions. The third (or actually second in order of appearance) I didn't meet. Barely got past human resources. Didn't really expect to, this was one of those Huge Corporate Empires where everyone is screened and interviewed a gazillion times before they even get to meet their potential boss, if at all. I liked the human resources rep, if that counts for anything.
And now, I am going to brave Holiday Hell head on. My new best friend the concierge somehow, some very weird how, got me a dinner reservation to end all dinner reservations.
2:49 PM
Thursday, December 18, 2003 A Sanctuary from Holiday Hell Thank you to the Universe for business hotels. Real, bona fide business hotels. Hotels that have an unwritten no tourists, no children rule.
That sounds terrible. I know.
It's that time of the year. Holiday Hell. When you're single it's double the nightmare. Everything seems so utterly hopeless because everything this time of year is about family and couples and cutesy this and that and mistletoe and oh just shoot me now. So having to travel on business, endure what is sure to be a painful, boring and long meeting right now, a week before Christmas is in a way, fitting for me. I'm already depressed, lonely, sad...might as well be the only one having to work, and travel for work while I'm down.
But what I realized, as the taxi pulled up to my hotel last night, is that I am not alone. There are lots of other people stuck working and traveling for business this week. Hence the gratitude for bona fide business hotels. They make business travelers feel more in control. Work, meetings...those are known quantities. That can be dealt with on some level. A business hotel allows an air of work no matter the season. Oh sure, a Christmas tree in the lobby, snowflakes or stars hanging around...but it's not all "HOLIDAY! HOLIDAY! HOLIDAY!" Which helps people like me feel slightly more in control at this very out of control time of year. So not so poor me in that regard. I had planned to do all sorts of holiday themed things while in town, and I will (must) do some shopping, but once I walked in those lobby doors and left all the Holiday Insanity outside, I felt a lot better. Calmer. So I may revise my itinerary where I am able - spend time here in my sanctuary from my sad holiday reality.
This is more than a little disconcerting. That I am finding calmness, sanity and control by leaving the "fun of the season" for "get down to business" austerity is not something I want for myself. That's not how I am. That's not me. Or, at least, it didn't used to be me. But now it's helping me cope with a very difficult time. They say it's difficult to see change while it's happening. I beg to differ. It's blazingly obvious to me. And I'm not talking about honey blonde highlights.
I used to love the holidays. Always stressful, financially and time wise, but always fun. Always filled with hope and promise. Always loving to do things for my family and friends. The holiday gatherings. Just being with my family and close friends. Loved it. Then I met HWNMNBS. These have been the pinnacle years of holidays for me. Some years we were apart during the holidays and those were horrible. But filled with hope and promise of our future nonetheless. The years we were together for the holidays were the best of my life. Bar none. Just being together were the best presents I've ever been given. Having him by my side with my family, all the people I love right there with me, in the stillness of Christmas Eve services, in all our traditions, meant (and still does mean) more to me than anything I can think of. And without him, well, it's all very hollow. I'm trying really hard to put on a good face for my family, and once I'm with them it will be better. But there is a huge conspicuous absence in my heart and soul.
Okay, enough Miss Havisham buzzkill. Just trying to bring you to my current emotional place. It's not that I hate the holidays in general, I hate them for me personally this year. I wish everyone else all the best and much happiness and love, but me? Well. Frankly it's just as well I'm having to focus on an interview this morning, a long meeting this afternoon, and two interviews tomorrow. As stressful as that all sounds, it's a relief.
I'm here in my very professional hotel, full of other "strictly business" type people, where the holidays and all the happy togetherness stuff can be forgotten for a few days. Where a person can focus on aspects of their life over which they have some control. Where there are super flying internet lines in every room. Where a very serious business traveler can plug in and surf and blog to their hearts content, just like at home or in the office.
I have my curtains open to the very early morning. If anyone were to look up the 25 floors and see a light on, me feverishly typing away, they might think, "Wow, what dedication, staying at that hotel she must be here on business, the week before Christmas! Up at the crack of dawn working away!" If they only knew. Blogging away my jitters over a first thing in the morning interview. Isn't there some theory about that? I seem to recall some sage advice, "Never schedule an interview before 10 AM" Oh well. Leave it to me to not listen to sage advice. No choice in this matter. I've got two scheduled for a Friday, as well, another interview taboo. Friday before Christmas? That's got to be the all time biggest interview scheduling no-no. Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now.
Book of work: Check.
Extra copies of resumé: Check.
Personal business cards: Check.
Clothes: Check.
Shoes: Well. Check-ish. They're just going to have to understand. Aircast. Can't help it. I can't believe I'm going on job interviews in Payless shoes.
Cab fare: Check.
Phone numbers for meeting this afternoon: Check.
Okay. Ready. Here's hoping.
Thursdays Things I Know for Sure (This Ain't Oprah's List)
Flying for business during the holidays is a nightmare unique to itself. Any business requiring flight between December 15 and January 2 will be fraught with extra time and challenges.
Companies scheduling "real" work between December 15 and January 2, requiring people to fly or travel, should re-evaluate their scheduling. (Do they really think anyone is going to be giving 100% of themselves during this time period??? 50%???)
Being able to schedule interviews for other jobs in another town while you are there on business for a current job is a serendipitous gift from the Universe.
No matter how much you prepare for a job interview you will be nervous.
The more you do not want a job you are interviewing for, the higher the likelihood that you will be made an offer. And a counter offer when you hedge on salary.
The more you really want a job you are interviewing for, the higher the likelihood that you will never hear from the company except for a form rejection letter.
The more people for whom you have to buy holiday gifts, the longer you will wait to buy them.
The more organized and budgeted you try to be regarding holiday spending, the more disorganized and blown the budget will become.
No matter how organized you are about holiday shopping, there will always be someone for whom you feel you would have liked to have done more or better.
It may be a financial relief to not have to shop for a boy/girlfriend, but those are the presents you will miss shopping for the most.
You will find nothing suitable to give to your mother or father, but every store, catalog and website you browse will feature at least 10 items your ex would love.
Madonna's endorsement for any political candidate has no significance whatsoever.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
The thing about office parties is: It forces people who rarely, if ever, interact socially, to not only socially interact, but party during the holidays together.
Holidays are stressful times for most people. Even if a person's life is on a very even keel, most people are busy. From the end of November to the beginning of January, people have obligations. Family, friends...nerves are frayed, tempers flare easily...throwing in a work obligation in the form of a party is wrong.
Or at least a recipe for disaster.
Reality Wednesday
Office Holiday Party
The object of this reality show is to either: A) Behave so outrageously bad the contestant will have to quit or be fired, or B) Behave so well the rest of the office can't remember if the contestant was even at the party.
Contestants from diverse social, ethnic, age and professional backgrounds with nothing in common except they work in the same office are forced to engage in party activity.
The office party planning committee has spent the past three months planning this activity. The party takes place in a private room of an upscale restaurant. Cocktails are to commence at 6:00 PM, hors d'ouevres and "activities" at 6:45 and dinner is served at 7:30 PM. A memo has been circulated that all staff members are to be in attendance by 6:45 sharp.
6:15 PM, half the office has arrived. Alcohol is being poured freely and many are on their second cocktail. The discussions focus primarily on work related issues.
6:30 PM More staffers have arrived. Two dressed in evening formal wear, three in Sunday afternoon on the couch wear.
The die hard "I'm here for the free booze" participants are now on their third or fourth cocktails. Their conversations have become louder. A few are already casting loud commentary on specific issues between themselves and other co-workers. Another few are casting lewd looks at co-workers.
"I never agreed to that expenditure...I knew it was going to be a problem right from the start. I didn't want to spend the money on the Nagle project, we'll never recoup the difference. I told everyone it was a bad idea. But they went ahead and did it anyway, and NOW look what's happening. I told you this was a bad idea. I. Told. You."
"Stickley's got his head up his ass half the time, the project he's been "working" on is two months behind deadline and not close to being finished. Carson could have done it in half the time at half the expense. Why do they keep Stickley around? Can him and replace him with someone like Carson."
From near the bar:
"Heh heh heh. Getta load a Tara over there. She's really showing off the new girls tonight. Gotta get me a piece of that. It's amazing what a boob job does for a girl's looks. I barely noticed her before."
"Yeah, and look at Kelly. The two of them should get a TV show. I'd watch even if it was just a camera following them around the office all day."
From the other side of the room:
"Oh God, look at those two. What do they think this is, the Oscars? Do they know there are not actually awards or celebrities here tonight? Way over the top. I'm still not used to Tara's boob job."
"No kidding. Have you tried to talk to her without staring at them?! It's impossible! And look at her. We all know she has them, she doesn't need to show them off like that tonight. Time and a place for everything."
"Maybe she's on the clock."
"Don't know about her, but Kelly looks like she's hitting the corner after the party."
"But then again, look at Stickley. Are those sweat pants?"
"I think they're those microfleece jog things he wears when he's trying to be young and cool."
"Pathetic."
"And what do you think about the new highlights Trillian's got? I was so shocked I didn't know what to say."
"No kidding. Pathetic attention grab. She's a brunette personality through and through. Those honey blonde highlights won't fool anyone."
"I dyed my hair once, I suppose every woman does it at one point or another. Looks like Randy likes them. He's all over her like Velcro. Poor Trillian. He just will not leave her alone. When will he ever understand no woman is interested in a 50 year old guy with a wife and two children who isn't stinking rich?"
"She says they're just friends. I know she's not interested in him THAT way. And he is a nice guy when he's not drunk."
6:45 The room is called to quiet by the Office Party Committee Chair. She is standing on a chair. "Okay! Who are we missing? Quick headcount!"
"Geoff isn't here!"
"DeVon isn't here!"
"Where's Trudy?"
"Her kid's sick."
"Okay!" Office Party Committee Chair yells from her chair. "We'll start without them. Did you all submit a card with two secrets in the box?"
Nods and yeses.
"Great. We're each going to draw a card from the box. If you get your own card, put it back and draw another. Then you are to go around the room asking questions until you find the person who's card you've drawn. When you find your person, you help them find their person if they haven't already. Okay? Here we go! Who wants to draw first. (no one) Come on, don't be shy - no more drinks until we get through this!" (Mass dash to the box.)
The room is abuzz with odd questions.
"Do you fish?"
"Are you taking karate lessons?"
"Have you been to every state capital?"
"Do you do carpentry?"
"Were you in the Navy?"
"Do you hate bananas?"
"Have you made every recipe in the Better Crocker Cookbook?"
"Do you have six tattoos?"
"Do you play the cello?"
"Have you dated a famous musician?"
"Do you collect stamps?"
"Do you speak Russian?"
"Were you born in a car?"
"Have you met two prime ministers and three presidents while in office?"
"Are you studying Buddhism?"
One by one, connections are made. The point of the exercise, to learn something about colleagues and promote conversation is made. A few normally polar co-workers are chatting.
The room is called to order. "Has everyone found the person on their card?"
"No! Who's been to Nigeria and doesn't like the color green?"
No answer.
"Must be Geoff!"
"Yes, I think I do recall him saying he's been to Africa."
"And he never wears green!"
"Okay! Mystery solved! Apparently DeVon and Trudy didn't turn in cards. Everyone take a seat - get a drink or hors d'ouevre if you'd like." Office Holiday Party Committee Chair announces.
Much commotion. Line at the bar and hors d'ouvres table.
"Smart - two plates. Could be a long time before we get real food."
"One's for Kelly, she's getting drinks for a bunch of us and asked if I'd get her something to eat." Drops a few carrot sticks on the plate. "That should hold her. For a week."
Guffaws at the old joke about Kelly's diminutive frame and lack of food intake.
The salmon, long since devoured, is conspicuous in its absence and a cry goes out for more.
"Whatever is there is what we've got. Dinner will be served at 7:30. Have some cheese." One of the Office Holiday Party Committee people yells in disgust.
Everyone seated, the Office Party Committee Chair again addresses the group. "Great! Super! Now, we're going to go around the room and tell the two things listed on the card you drew. Then you'll tell us who you thought it was when you drew the card, and how many tries it took you to find your person. But don't tell us who it is! Because then we're all going to try to guess!"
"So, why did we just chase each other down? Couldn't we have just skipped right to this portion?" one of the more sarcastic staff asks of her neighbor. And is overheard by the Office Party Committee Chair.
"Mingle! It got you mingling!"
Collective roll of eyes.
Things progress predictably. Fascinating facts are shared about each and every staff person. Some are actually rather interesting and more than a little surprising. Most are mundane and boring. Chatter develops among staff halfway through the game. Chatter not to do with the fascinating facts being told. Office Party Committee Chair feels she is losing the audience. "There will be plenty of time for chat during dinner!"
Silence. Adults behaving like reprimanded school children.
Downcast mumbles of reproach.
The game continues. More facts are shared. Waddaya knows and hmmms replace chatter.
Finally all the secrets are revealed.
"Can we eat now?!"
Office Party Committee Chair looks at her watch. "Yes! It's time!"
Committee Member leaves to summon the wait staff.
Splinter groups are formed. More alcohol is consumed.
Talk is louder and more lewd.
Dinner is finally served.
Geoff appears. In tighter than tight pleather pants and a lycra t-shirt which shows off his nipple rings.
He's making an "entrance."
No one cares.
This bothers Geoff. He's screaming for attention and can't stand that he isn't getting any. "Oooh, have I missed the fun game? I hope I'm not too late!"
"You're 45 minutes late Geoff. You've been to Nigeria and you don't like green. Game over. Sit down and eat."
Much laughing.
Dinner proceeds relatively good natured and low key.
Until dessert.
Delightfully frothed delicacies artfully arranged appear. It is soon discovered some of them are essentially giant chocolate candies, filled with liquor goo.
Things slide downhill quickly.
Tara, who has had far too much to drink, tries to make a physical joke about her newly augmented breasts by dripping some of the goo onto her chest. She is wearing a very low cut dress. But the goo is dripping into dangerous territory. She begins to dab it with her napkin.
"Oh, no, let me help you with that." one of the lecherous males on staff screams at her in delight. He's on his feet and at her side in seconds flat. He, too, has had one too many cocktails. And commences dabbing Tara's chest area. She's laughing. Everyone else is laughing.
He takes this as a signal to take it a step further.
And licks Tara's chest.
Tara, though, is laughing.
"mmmmm, tastes like chicken!" young lewd boy proclaims.
More laughter. But now mixed with uncomfortable glances. Maybe this is getting a bit out of hand.
Kelly, sitting next to Tara, not to be outdone by Tara, gets in on the action. She is also wearing a very low cut top. She spoons some of the froth from a pastry on her chest and says, "I've got something a lot better than chicken!"
A few people take this as a sign to leave the party.
Another newly minted letch jumps to Kelly's display. And in turn, licks off the froth. He looks up with froth on his face like a Santa beard and moustache. "Ho ho ho!"
"Who you callin' a ho?" Tara proclaims.
Letch one says, "If the boob fits, Tara..."
Tara is now angry and hurt. She tries to get up to leave, but at mid rise, the alcohol hits her and she falls back into her chair. In doing so, she dislodges her top.
Most people only see a lacy bra. But a few seated in the exact line of fire get a look a the full horror that is Tara's new breast.
Absolute silence.
From across the room, a woman comes to Tara's aid. She helps Tara adjust herself and helps her to the ladies room.
Where the two will spend the next hour while Tara is sick. And sick again. The restaurant manager makes three visits to the ladies room. First out of seeming genuine concern for the sick woman, but then out of real concern for the other guests at the restaurant. Tara is far too drunk and sick to leave the stall. Every time she tries to stand she either falls or is sick. Tara's colleague is afraid to leave her for even a minute. She supplies cold towels and glasses of water to Tara in hopes of sobering her up enough to get her in a cab home. The fourth time the manager appears, he tells the colleague that he will call a cab or an ambulance, but the two must leave.
"A cab it is." colleague answers.
"Okay Tara, did you hear that? We've got to go. They're making us leave. You've got to pull yourself together enough to get in a cab and home."
"I can do this. I can do this. I'm okay. Really. I'm okay. I'm fine." And then Tara proceeds to be sick again. "At least now it's dry heaves. If I'm sick on the way home it won't matter."
"Now there's some logic." Let's roll.
Colleague and Tara leave, Tara leaning on Colleague.
The two cause quite a scene in the toney and upscale restaurant. Tara, with her disheveled hair, makeup and clothes, a shade of green (that Geoff would hate) pallor and unable to walk in her 4 inch heels, looks like a poster meant to scare kids from running away from home. Colleague looks like the long suffering nerdy friend bailing Tara out of yet another debacle. Colleague is fully sober, having consumed only one glass of wine. She's exhausted and this is the last thing she wanted to be doing tonight. She and Tara, are in fact, not close. Things have been a bit better since the boob job, but still, they're hardly best friends.
The cab ride home, normally a 15 minute trip, takes 45 minutes due to the four stops required so that Tara could be sick out the cab door. Tara insists all the windows be rolled down completely, so colleague and cab driver are freezing.
Once at Tara's building, Colleague takes Tara up to her apartment and drops her into bed. "You okay Tara? Are you through being sick? Is it okay for me to leave you? Is there someone I can call for you?"
"Naw, I'm fine. Sleep. I need sleep."
"Okay, I'm going to go then. Okay? You going to be okay on your own?"
"yumph. shmike's ganna be here soon."
Assuming she meant a boyfriend, Colleague leaves, gets a cab and goes home. But can't sleep, she's exhausted, but worried about Tara. Thoughts of Janis Joplin and Nancy Spungen fill her head.
The next day, several of the key players from last night do not arrive at their normal time. Email about last night's party have already been widely circulated throughout the rest of the company.
Who wins? Who loses? Anyone who has to attend an office party.
It's happy hour again
I think I might be happy if I wasn't out with them
And they're happy it's a lovely place to be
Happy that the fire is real the barman is a she
Where the haircuts smile
And the meaning of style
Is a night out with the boss
Where you win or you lose
And its them who choose
And if you don't win then you've lost
What a good place to be
Don't believe it
'Cause they speak a different language
And it's never really happened to me
{It's happy hour again}
Don't believe it
'Cause they speak a different language
And it's never really happened to me
{It's happy hour again}
It's another night out with the boss
Following in footsteps overgrown with moss
And they tell me that women grow on trees
And if you catch them right they will land upon their knees
Where they open all their wallets
And they close all their minds
And they love to buy you all a drink
And then we ask all the questions
And you take all your clothes off
And go back to the kitchen sink 10:34 AM
Tuesday, December 16, 2003 Check Me Out! I'm Pressing Weight! Weight training. Yes me, of the injured ankle/neck/wrist/you name it...I am officially weight training.
It's been since July that I lifted more than a 5 pound smart-bell.
And even that didn't go so well. Before "Kimmie" had a chance to coach me my doctor said no way, don't upset the whiplash.
So I didn't. And in fairness to me, I haven't really felt like "working out" - even resistance exercises. I miss my little arm and neck weight sessions though. Always a relaxing way for me to end the day.
"Kimmie" says I'm ready. And if "Kimmie" says so, than it must be true.
Last night I did three sets of 20 bicep curls and free weight flies. With 8 pound weights. Ooooh. Ahhhh. I know. You're all soooo impressed.
Well listen to this:
3 sets of 20 leg presses: 40 pounds (both legs). Then three sets of 20 leg presses: 20 pounds (injured leg by itself).
A standing ovation? For me? Why, oh, well, I did work very hard (flustered at the admiration) thank you.
I'm taking a bow now.
I might not be able to get up again, but I'm taking a bow.
Actually, I'm not that sore. My ankle is in agony and has re-swelled from the exertion, but my neck and shoulders feel fabulous. My pecs, on the other hand...ouch! Wow. I didn't know they'd gotten so out of shape.
This was a big deal for me. A huge deal. Weight training was nothing but crazy talk when I first began physical therapy. That I have re-habbed enough to graduate to weight train signifies the jumping of a huge hurdle. It represents an enormous amount of work, effort and pain on my part. And even though I may have overdone it on the leg press, the first sets felt really fantastic.
And the bigger deal is that my sessions with "Kimmie" are going to be greatly changed. It's more and more about me pushing myself with "Kimmie" coaching from the sidelines, and less and less about "Kimmie" twisting, prodding, bending, massaging and otherwise interactively torturing me.
This is a good thing.
There are days I just can't get in my "Kimmie" place and she annoys the crap out of me. That our interaction will be less per session is good. I find myself feeling ever less compelled to restrain my sarcastic tongue when she pulls that baby voice or otherwise talks to me as if I'm four years old. I don't hate her, and I certainly don't want to hurt her feelings. It's a simple case of her personality and mine not being born to mingle together. We're not just ruled by different planets, we're not even in the same solar system. I understand this, but I strongly suspect she does not.
So, as difficult, excruciating, and tiresome as it is, I am thrilled to start this new phase of physical therapy.
I'm a long way from buff, but I'm one session closer.
Holiday Office Party Madness
Now I must take care some very important urgent business. Our office holiday party committee (yeah, really, an entire committee) has told us to write two things about ourselves no one in the office knows on a card to be anonymously submitted in a box. They have "some fun things planned for this year's party." Oh, I just bet they do. This will no doubt be a bonding activity. As if the karaoke weren't enough. Haven't we suffered enough this year?
I've had two weeks to come up with something, and so far I'm drawing a blank. I've worked here long enough most people know the basic innocuous-ities about me, which leaves the rest of my out of work life that I don't talk about at work. On purpose.
Gee, what two heavily guarded secrets should I choose to tell my colleagues?
"I hate all of you and view my time in the office only slightly above eternal damnation. In fact sometimes I think it is eternal damnation."
"I have three job interviews in the next week and if there's a God this will be my last holiday party with you."
"I gave a drunken lap dance to a complete stranger while on crutches"
"This is my blog address:..."
"My boss is a complete incompetent nincompoop. Oh wait, you all know that already."
A better idea, and one I would wholeheartedly endorse, would be for us to write two things about someone else in the office other folks may not know.
"Alcoholic who refuses to get help and is unable to perform her job four days of the week."
"Once said he was at a meeting in Houston but was actually at a spa in Phoenix. For five days. Then expensed the entire trip."
"Steals toilet paper from the ladies room."
"Slept with volunteer committee chair not once but at least three times."
"Earns a higher salary than anyone in the department even though he's the least qualified."
"Lied about degree to get this job."
"Has porn stored on office hard drive."
Yes. Those are all actual secrets I know about co-workers. What better place to expose The Truth about each other than at the office holiday party? If not then, when?! What better time to come clean? What better time to strike the fear of God in everyone in the form of blackmail?
Ah. The holidays. That wonderful time of the year.
8:07 AM
Monday, December 15, 2003 Update: I have left my office a few times today. My updated hair color has been witnessed. So far: Three positive comments, one negative and several either didn't notice or couldn't say anything nice so said nothing at all.
My friend emailed me photos from Saturday night. In them, my hair looks alternately very light or about the same as ever. I suspect reality lies somewhere in between.
No one is being unusually chatty or nice to me in the office, so no change there. Apparently, if lighter haired people are more approachable, it only extends to strangers. 3:18 PM
Blonding of Trillian, Part II
It took several phone calls, all over town, but I did it. I located the aforementioned hair stylist. She's been at three salons since last I saw her. Fortunately, someone at each salon knew the name of another salon she had been working, and, voila, finally, goose chase over, I found her and got a Saturday appointment. Nothing shy of a miracle.
She can run, but she can't hide.
She seemed pleased to see me again - she didn't cancel or call in sick or quit when she saw me on her schedule.
She said she'd been wondering how my ankle was doing and figured it was because of my limited mobility she hadn't seen me. Wanted to say: You mean it never once occurred to you that moving to three salons in two months might discourage clients from finding you? Instead said: Yeah, my ankle. Physical therapy's taking a lot of my time. But here I am, back in your chair and ready for action.
She might be a bit ditsy in some regards, but she's the first stylist who hasn't left town (and me) altogether and she is pretty darned handy with the scissors and dye. We were just getting established with each other, just beginning to build a foundation on which to lay a future together when she moved. Three times.
Since the last attempt, I have been going over what might have gone wrong, and thinking that I shouldn't let one bad experience, that was completely fixable, dissuade me from all future hair coloring endeavors.
Without further adieu: Trillian now has what she hopes are very fetching honey blondish highlights and a much lighter shade of hair all over.
I thought I was ready for this.
But for all you brunettes out there, let me tell you, hear my words: Nothing in life prepares you for that first look in the mirror with lighter hair. Nothing. Even if you've had lots of shades or have even worn a blond wig (yes. I have.) it's not the same. Your hair. Your hair, coming out of your follicles, is lighter.
So far everyone has noticed, but to varying degrees of response. The thing is...see, the thing is...the thing is...well, gasp...It might be true. I don't know about the fun part, so far I haven't had more or less fun than normal. But, well, the thing is, people talk to me more.
I had an early morning appointment, then took the train to work. Two guys on the train crowded with shoppers got up and insisted I take their seat. Not horrendously unusual, since I've been back on the train in my aircast, people, men and women, for the most part have been thoughtful about offering me a seat. The difference was, both of these guys then engaged me conversation. Not flirting, just talking. And not about my ankle. Just conversation - weather, crowded train, holidays, just conversation. Very unusual. People don't typically just start talking to me. Unless they are asking directions. Everyone always chooses me, even out of huge crowds, to ask directions. As if I have Rand McNaly tattooed on my forehead. Weird. It's very possible it's my purpose in life: Telling people where to go. I do have a keen sense of direction, but come on, it's not as if that sort of thing is obvious by looking at a complete stranger.
I digress.
People don't engage me conversation, small talk. I don't even get many 'mornings or Hi, how are yous. Clerks don't talk to me apart from the bare minimum required. Friends notice this about me, too. They tell me I have what can be a rather intimidating, "don't mess with me" look. Plus, most will add: You're tall. Basically, they say, I don't look approachable. Tall brunettes, apparently, are intimidating. I argue, though, why then, do people come out of the woodwork to inconvenience me by stopping me and asking directions? "Because you look intimidating in a smart way." Frankie tells me. "Stupid people instinctively know to stay away." Funny, I say, because I sure do encounter a lot of stupid people. But she might be onto something.
Benjy met Frankie and I at the very same time. I thought he was checking out Frankie (a natural near white/yellow blonde, by the way), Frankie said hello to him, they started talking, and the rest is history. After they'd been together a while, Benjy told Frankie that it was really me he had noticed and was interested in, but was too shy to approach me, so when Frankie said hello, he was happy to be near me, then realized how much he fancied Frankie anyway. Frankie's made of strong stuff, and she got the man, so we all laugh and joke about this. But it's my case in point: Lighter hair = more approachable.
This has long been my working theory. (having mostly blondes as friends, as fate would have it) I've noticed most of my fair haired friends and relatives, male and female, are the ones approached when we're together, not me. No, I don't have issues. I have long been very happy as a brunette.
Now I'm putting it to a test. Will even a subtle lightening make a difference?
I'm already finding out.
I got off the train and went to my office. The Saturday security guard and I are buddies - we both work a lot of weekends. "Hi Trill, you're in late for a Satur...whoa! Check you out! Girlfriend, look at you! I like! I like! Very nice!"
"Thanks. I'm not used to it yet, I just had it done."
"Keep doing it!" he replied.
Okay, that's one guy. He's rather enthusiastic (and bored silly) under normal circumstances, fancies himself a bit of a ladies man and is always full of compliments. He's the sort of guy who notices things like highlights, a new blouse, manicures.
I worked. I toiled. I changed into my party clothes for a work function. I put on make-up. Uh oh. Make-up. Yikes. Might I need to re-evaluate my palette? Well, for tonight, the old palette's going to have to suffice. Besides, my skin hasn't changed, my eyes are the same - and my hair's not that much lighter.
I left the office. The night guard was now on duty.
"Woooo eeeeee! Miss McMillian, you are look-ing fi-ine too-night!" (whistles) "You got it goin' on!"
"Thanks. Not too much? Not too overdone?"
"You kiddin' me? Girl, it all came together for you tonight. This is your night to shine." (apparently he is auditioning to replace Paula Abdul on American Idol.)
Off to a holiday party - a work related event. Vendor shindig. Several friends will be in attendance.
I arrived about a half hour after the party began and scanned the coat check line for anyone I might know. No one. But the two guys in line in front of me started talking to me. Just talking (I suspect they were gay, so no, I don't think it was flirting). Then the couple behind me joined in the conversation, laughing at a comment I made.
Not terribly unusual - holiday cheer and all that - but still, this is not normal for me.
The coat check girl was nice to me. Actually nice. Not in a perfunctory way, but in a pleasant, "let's chat and hold up the rest of the line, okay?" way. I was trying to get away from her and get out of the way, but she just kept talking to me.
The rep hosting the party saw me and swooped over to me. "Trillian, look at you!" (kiss kiss) "It's so great to see you up and around again!" Scott is a good guy. We go way back. Sure, he's a sales guy, but he's not like a sales guy. He's normal. He's nice. He's sincere. He's honest. He's a good guy. "So what are we drinking tonight? Hey, in this light your hair looks like a different color."
"Scott," I conspiratorially confide, "I had honey blonde highlights put in today. It really is a different color. Tell me honestly (knowing he would) is it too much? Wrong for me? I haven't had time to spend much time in the mirror today, so I'm not completely sure exactly what I look like."
"Trill. Whatever it is, it's great. It's not as if you're not a sultry brunette anymore - you're just a somehow different sultry brunette. Believe me, no one is ever going to mistake you for a dumb blonde. I'll have to see it in regular light to give you a real critique, but honest, it looks fantastic. To the bar, mademoiselle?" Offers me his arm and off we go to the bar station.
On the way, someone comes up to him. (he is one of the hosts, after all, everyone is here because of him or his company) "Scott, how are you? And who is your lovely date tonight?"
Introductions all around. I am often in these situations. Odd man out sort of things, left making polite excuses for departure. This time, however, the other colleague includes me in the conversation. The three of us talk. This is unusual for me. The three of us go to the bar. Scott gives me a glass of wine. There. Now I have something to do until my friends arrive. After all, I can't expect Scott to entertain me all night. This is a big party, and it's business for him.
I make my way to an empty cocktail table.
Then it happens.
People. Men. Women. Younger. Older. People. Approach me. Talk to me. And not just, "Setting my drink here, okay?" talk. Real small talk and conversation.
This is highly unusual. I'm now suspicious. Something's definitely going on. Can it really be the hair? Really? Scott's right, it's not that much lighter, and the lighting in the room can only be termed as "mood" so everyone is cast in a dim glow.
I begin to count the number of people who instigate conversation with me.
6. 10. 18.
I'm starting to freak out, I'm not good at small talk, AND, my voice is already getting hoarse. This has never, ever happened to me.
Scott swings by while I am talking to two women who work at a rival company. We're exchanging war stories. He puts his hand to my elbow and asks if any of us would like another drink. Oh yes please. And water, too. A waiter serving champagne hears this and offers, "If you'll take my last two glasses of champagne, I can get you a glass of water." Deal.
21. 25. 27.
"Trillian, there you are! We've been looking all over for you. (pause, big eyes) What have you done to your hair! (loud and arms out in a presentation expression) My God look at you!" Meet: Catty Bitch Friend. Catty Bitch Friend and I go back a bit, too. We've been co-workers, rivals and semi-friends. When the tale of my mugging made the rounds, Catty Bitch Friend was one of the first to call to offer to bring movies, magazines and food. She wanted the "scoop." We talk and email, mainly work stuff, but this party and one other are the extent of our actual face to face socializing. Since the Incident I've seen her more than I have, um, ever. There's a story with Catty Bitch Friend I will save for another blog. Or two. She's with married friends I hang out with a lot. Wife Friend knew I was getting my hair "done" and was expecting it. "Looks great, Trillian. Don't go another shade lighter, though. It's absolutely perfect as is." Good old Wife Friend. Husband Friend is asking about the possibility of a lap dance tonight (yeah, he was there that night) when another couple walks up and just starts talking, mainly to me. Maybe they overheard the lap dance query. But since it's a couple, that doesn't seem like the sort of thing to compel conversation. Nope, they're just talking. Turns out they know a friend of Catty Bitch Friend's soon to be ex husband.
The night progresses similarly. The entire evening, people talk to me. I had a few drinks and lost count.
I get a really nice cab driver. Speaks perfect English, and, turns the meter off several blocks before my door.
I awoke early and went for a paper. Sunday morning. Early Sunday morning. The Saddam news had barely broken. It didn't make the Sunday papers. Had I not been online I wouldn't have known. So the few people out are probably completely unaware. On my way to the 7-11, I notice the back window of every car on my street has a big heart drawn into the newly fallen snow. Someone has drawn a heart, an anonymous message of love, in every window of snow. At least 50 cars. I like this. I pause in reflection. I love this sort of thing, this time of day, this weather. I am pulled out of my reverie by a guy walking his dog. "Isn't that great?! Everyone's going to think they have a secret admirer."
"Did you do it?" I asked him.
"No, I just noticed you looking at it and then noticed it."
We stand there looking at the row of hearted cars. Another guy walks up with two dogs. The three dogs sniff each other. The three humans stand there in silence slightly smiling. Second guy breaks the silence and makes small talk to me about the snow, the weather, the holidays. The three of us talk about the dogs.
They go to the dog park, I go on my way. Up on the main street, a guy scraping snow off his car pauses and waves at me and yells across the street, "Good morning to YOU!" Me? Me personally?
Hi, I wave and smile.
Something's going on. Something is definitely going on. Everyone's talking to me, and not about my ankle. (which is a relief, but, still, odd, because the only conversation from strangers I've had lately is the obvious, "What'd you do to your ankle?" conversation. Now, still aircasted, no one seems to notice or care (great!) but everyone's going out of their way to talk to me. Can it really be the honey blonde highlights? Really?
7-11. The guy who never utters a word to me, the guy I see at least three times a week, the guy I assumed couldn't speak English, says "good morning - oh, you have changed your hair. nice. nice." Then he sort of leered at me. I think I liked it better when he didn't talk to me. The Muzak is still uncomfortable even when he talks. I pay for my paper and get the heck out of there.
On the way home, two girls pull their car up to me and ask directions.
A woman rolling her granny cart to the laundry says hello.
I go home, glue myself to the computer for photos of Saddam. (Saddam Capture Could Boost Holiday Sales. Huh?! Have you been saving your money, afraid to go shopping because Saddam was at large? Are you so relieved he's potentially been caught that you will go out and spend money you weren't otherwise planning on spending?)
But I'm nagged by all the conversations. I'm desperate to continue trying out the lighter hair=approachability factor, so I decide to give it the ultimate test: The Grocery. I generally avoid the grocery as much as possible.
On the way there, I receive two more good mornings. A couple waiting at the bus stop notice me, look up and smile at me. Whoa. Very weird.
The Grocery. I'm braced for the worst. It's bad under the best of circumstances. Weekends? A nightmare.
A guy pulls out a trolley. I'm waiting my turn to pull one. He wheels the trolley to me as a gift. "Ladies first!"
Ummm. Okay. "Thanks!"
Off to the vitamin/health/Slimfast aisle. Woman looking for vitamins says, "Do you know the difference between these two vitamin C tablets?"
Wanted to say, "Do I look like that freaky Dr. Weil guy?" but she was nice and instead said, "No, not really, but I take this one." (Motioning to my brand)
"Oh, thanks, I didn't notice those. Exactly what I'm looking for."
I think she wanted more conversation, but I grabbed my Slimfast and rolled away. Scary back aisle. Always congested. Always a pain. Always a place I dread. This is worse than any obstacle course "Kimmie" could contrive. It was its usual horrendous dreadful congested state.
But.
A stock boy moved his boxes out of my way (My way, not the other woman rolling along, me), when I thanked him he said the pleasure was all his. A kid moved his mother's trolley out of my way without being asked. A guy looking at eggs looked up and smiled at me and I think he blushed when I smiled back.
I roll on. I duck down the laundry aisle so as to avoid The Valley of Death, otherwise known as the meat counter. In doing so I nearly roll over a woman trying to reach the econosize detergent. Oops. I'm so sorry.
"No, it's okay, really." She smiles.
I help her get the detergent in her trolley.
She "have a nice day"s me.
What the...?
Pet aisle. Choosing food for Furry Creature is a time consuming task. He's rather particular. I'm selecting his favorites when a couple stops next to me. "Picky eater at home?" the man asks me.
"Very. You too?"
"You don't know the half of it," the woman says. We laugh. We compare cat stories. He pulls out his wallet and shows me photos of their cats. Had I lingered any longer, I think they would have invited me to have coffee with them after shopping.
I'm freaking out. It's true. It's all true. All these years, I had no idea. Just a few shades lighter, some subtle highlights...and what a difference. Can it really be my new hair color? Really? I hope not. But...what other explanation? Nothing like this has ever happened to me. Ever. Strangers are talking to me. People are being...being...nice to me.
This is huge. This is a big sociological breakthrough.
The produce and organic section. The true test. I make it through with two women moving out of my way, one stock girl smiling and saying hello, and a guy smile/nodding me.
I get home and call a blonde friend who's been pushing me to have "serious highlights" for years. I told her I did it and about the subsequent approachability.
"You mean other than people asking you directions?!"
"Yep."
"Weird."
"Yes! I'm not sure I'm up to this. My voice is hoarse and a little sore from all this talking."
Afternoon rolls around. I call my local Thai place and put in a pick-up order.
"No dewivewy today Miss McMillian? Feeling bettah now?"
"Yeah, getting there, I need to start walking more. See you in 20." I tell Po, the Thai guy (gai?).
On the way to the Thai place I get several smiles and two "g' afternoons."
Lani, Po's wife, greets me with, "Miss Twiwian, what you do to you hair? I didden not know you at fiwst! I wike! I wike!"
Po appears with my food. He's smiling. He sets down the food, crosses his arms over his chest and says, "Vewy, vewy nice. Men be vewy happy wif fis."
Again, I'm a little nervous. I know Po and Lani well enough to know they are not in any way seedy, but the way Po is eyeing me and the way he said "men will be happy with this" made me more than a little uncomfortable. Especially in front of Lani. This is one of the guys who delivered my food when I was bed/couch bound or on crutches. He's been in my apartment. He's seen Furry Creature. He's seen my bedroom. (weird apartment layout, unavoidable) Our conversations have always been very pleasant but very professional - not one hint of "heh heh heh." But that comment had an unspoken "heh heh heh" that made me uncomfortable. You know that feeling when you know a compliment is more than what it seems? That was the feeling. I paid and got the heck out of there.
I might not be able to handle this new hair. I avoided all eye contact and criss crossed the streets to avoid people, got home, bolted the door and spent the next 1/2 hour in the bathroom looking at my hair.
Is it really that different? It's not extreme. It's different, but it's not extreme. It's definitely still brunette. With blonde highlights. But I'm clearly still a brunette.
I have a brunette personality. What was I thinking?! Blonde? I don't have a blonde personality! Calm down. Adapt. This is all new, you'll get used to it, I tell myself. And maybe all this niceness and approachability has nothing to do with my hair at all.
Work. Work will be the true test. I wore a hat into work and didn't take it off until I got into my office.
Swut. It just occurred to me. People might night I'm trying to make a feeble attempt to compete with Boob Job.
I thought I thought this through. I thought I was prepared. I thought I was ready. Clearly, I am not.
I'm a mysterious, sultry, sometimes broody brunette. That's who I am. I am not a perky, outgoing, "pick me, pick me!" blonde.
