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/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<




Trillian McMillian
Trillian McMillian
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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






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.
Find Federal Officials
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Contact The Media
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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.)

Quasar
Hyperbole
Amenable
Taciturn
Ennui
Prophetic
Tawdry
Hubris
Ethereal
Syzygy
Umbrageous
Twerp
Sluice
Omnipotent
Sanctuary
Malevolent
Maelstrom
Luddite
Subterfuge
Akimbo
Hoosegow
Dodecahedron
Visceral
Soupçon
Truculent
Vitriol
Mercurial
Kerfuffle
Sangfroid




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue

Slanglish

It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"


















 
Mail Trillian here





Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.



Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.





Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"







Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.


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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

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

 
Thursday, August 28, 2003  
Queen of the Arachnids has Left the Building

She’s gone. To the relief of many on my floor. Except me. Today, she is conspicuous by her absence.

And I have found myself actually worried about her. I know. It’s a spider. But I really hate to think she met with an untimely and perhaps violent demise because I couldn’t figure out a way to safely transport her outside.

And the morning primp fest in the ladies restroom has resumed.

Zaphod is really digging himself into a deep hole. There are harassment laws, Zaphod, and you’re this close to breaking several of them. I’ve given you written warning, and consider this a public warning.

Sorry to use this forum for that, but this guy is really pushing the limits. I blocked his email addresses, but got another obscene and vulgar call last night. I know there’s a way to block a phone number, may have to resort to it.

HWNMNBS was right when he said people take kindness for weakness. Absolutely right. I am at times far too nice for my own good. Being polite to some people is an open invitation to impose and abuse far beyond the field of regular play. Zaphod is a prime example of one of these people. He just doesn’t get it and cannot take no for an answer. Because he cannot see beyond his own narcissistic view of the Universe.

People like this need to be sent off to a treacherous island and left to their own devices. Let them hash out some Lord of the Flies situation while the rest of us get on with our lives in polite society.

That’s what really annoys me - not my current personal Zaphod - but that there are so many just like him out there. It’s depressing to me.

And yes, as a matter of fact, I would rather put myself up on a shelf than spend so much as a minute with the likes of you Zaphod.

11:26 AM

Wednesday, August 27, 2003  
If Your Boss is and Idiot, Read This

Just one more public service we here at Life(?) of Trillian are happy to provide.

For the record, in case you hadn't figured it out yet, Trillian's boss is an idiot. Nincompoop, actually.

Which is why Trillian so desperately wants to work for Richard Branson. Sure, he's off ballooning around the world a lot of the time. Sure, he's got obvious male compensation issues. But given the people I've worked for, and stories I've heard from friends and relations over the years, I've narrowed down the pool of people I could honestly work for and be, well, happy. Or at least satisfied. Or at least not wanting to kill myself rather than go into the office and deal with my boss for 8+ hours a day. And Dick is the guy who comes out on the top of my list.

There are factors beyond The Man himself. But I figure if I'm going to be part of the Virgin team, I may as well spend my days with The Man himself. We have a lot to offer each other. And what with the whole train, um, challenge, he's probably looking for some fresh faces and blood, creative new ideas. And that's where I step in.

So much for my little vacation to Fantasy Island.

There is an enormous spider in our office this morning. We're talking Queen of the Arachnids. Nuclear experiment gone very wrong. Straight out of a Godzilla movie. And she's chosen a rather unfortunate resting spot right over the door of the ladies restroom. So none of the women on my floor will go within 20 feet of the restroom and are traipsing off to the inferior restroom on our floor, or to other floors to spider-free bathrooms.

I myself have stood up for spider rights. The woman who first spotted the spider shrieked out in horror, and since I was closest to the scene I hobbled over (on crutches) to come to her rescue. Had I known it was just a spider causing the alarm I wouldn't have bothered. I have to admit, at first view, Queen of the Arachnids is a bit daunting. But, you know, she can't help it. Maybe she's just big boned. Or retaining water or flies or whatever it is girl spiders retain. I'm not saying I am prospider (or any other bug) in the office, but, I don't believe in killing them. They'd prefer to be outdoors but their life circumstances bring them indoors. I'm of the school that removes the creatures, alive, to a more suitable habitat. This is what I do at home. Not always the most pleasant task, I openly admit, and frequently quite comically carried out, but, as creatures sharing this planet, it's the least I can do. But on crutches and 18 floors up, it's impossible for me to be the one to give her an elevator ride to freedom. It would only end in disaster. I'd have to trap her in something, something that wouldn't asphyxiate her and that I can carry on crutches without squishing.

For the moment she's safe, no one will go near her (except the few bravest among us) to gawk. The manliest man on our floor (not saying much, there are eight men on my floor, four are gay, three are utter wusses and the other is hardly stud material) has surveyed the situation and, like me, feels it's wrong to kill another living being. Particularly this creature who, once you get past her spideryness, is really very amazing and pretty darned cool. I'm sitting here hoping she makes her own great escape, goes back to wherever she came from and keeps herself hidden away safe from any would be bug killers.

The good thing about this is that the morning makeup-hair-perfume-clothing rituals in our ladies restroom have been cancelled this morning. Honestly, from 8 AM - 10:30 AM that place is like the model prep area of a Versace fashion show. I understand once in a while circumstances beyond control dictate that you assemble yourself at work. Or re-assemble yourself as is typically my case. But the notion that hair drying, curling and styling, complete, and I mean COMPLETE makeup application and perfume spritzing and clothing application, can and should be carried out daily after arriving at work is a concept I cannot condone. Frankly, I really do not want to go into the restroom to use it for it's conceived function, only to run smack into a row of colleagues standing in front of the mirrors, in various states of dress (or undress), the air thick with powders and perfumes and hairsprays, hair dryers further blasting the stuff around.

I know some of this is to be expected on a floor of 45 women and eight men. I realize on any given day one of us is going to have a bad hair day or cosmetic issues or a dry cleaning crisis. But there are a cast of regulars in there every morning and I just have to wonder: Do their jobs allow them this kind of free time every morning? And if so, is it because I'm the chump actually working during this time and thus providing them with free time to primp to their heart's content?

But today, Queen of the Arachnids has spared me this. I can pee in peace, no risk of sighting a colleague in her underwear, stockings draped over the stalls, and air that doesn't actually bring on an asthma attack. And for that I am indebted to the spider.

Long live the Queen.

11:31 AM

Tuesday, August 26, 2003  
I Need That (Secret Agent) Man!!!

Time is running out people! I need (the alleged) Secret Agent Man doll/action figure. NOW! Don't make me go all Veruca Salt on you. Help me find that doll, dammit.

Unless we lived in some weird alternate toy universe (very possible) and my brother had the only one in existence (not probable), someone out there, somewhere, knows something about that doll and they're not talking.

12:55 PM

Monday, August 25, 2003  
IHAVENTHADSEXINTHISCENTURY.COM

The front runner in the polls for domain name that should be active but is not:
ihaventhadsexinthiscentury.com

Thank you to all who have written to congratulate me on identifying the perfect dating website domain. I know. I think it's pretty good, too. Which is why I can't believe someone hasn't jumped on it. (No pun intended as I typed that, but now that I have, the pun stands.)

As some of you have suggested, I guess I could buy the domain...

But frankly it's been my little idea to pitch to the big network people, probably FOX. A reality dating show. I know, an idea way past it's sell by date. But hey, if Simon Cowell can do it, surely I can. Speaking of past its sell by date. I've heard Cupid is tanking. Quickly and badly. Had he consulted me I would have, for a fair price, let him in on my little reality dating show idea. Forget skanky girls from Metro Detroit (I can say that because I am a former skanky girl from Metro Detroit - takes one to spot one.) cutting up men with weakly scripted put downs and moronic antics of would be money/fame grubbers...er, I mean suitors. I openly confess I've not actually seen the show. Trillian herself does not watch dating shows. Particularly those featuring Skanks of Metro Detroit. Which many of them do. I digress. I've not seen the show. Sexy hands notwithstanding, I cannot force myself to watch the show. Even in my invalid state I have some standards. Therefore I am in no position to pass comment. But I will anyway.

Simon and Crew overshot the pretty young successful (?) woman looking for love angle. You're not giving us anything we can't see daily on Elimidate. Formulas only work in algebra and John Irving novels! Surely someone told Simon that?! Or should have...see? I need to be the "bounce the idea off" person. Someone should pay me for my insight and intuition. Richard, oh Richard Branson, yooo hooo are you reading this? Better snatch me up quick before Simon Cowell gets hold of my brain.

Seems like Richard would like in on this. Maybe my rock star day meant something. Maybe it's my destiny day. Maybe this is the idea that will endear me to Richard and pave my way to Chief Richard Branson Underling. Otherwise, Simon Cowell (and the rest of you network bigwigs) write me. I've got the goods. The idea that will sell. The new twist. The show that will finally put the real into reality tv. The show that will capture that elusive but highly sought demograph: 32 - 45 year olds. I promise. This show will deliver.

Meanwhile, if any of you out there have a clue how to launch an internet dating site, please let me know. I know it requires a relational database, and a mega server. Both of which I am currently lacking. I mean, I know how to set up, use and maintain a relational database but how the heck do I post one which will allow users around the globe to login and access? I'm thinking it can't be that difficult. Little help here?

I will do my darndest to get ihaventhadsexinthiscentury.com up and running.

And please, sympathetic as I am, do not write to ask me for: a) Sex, b) advice on having sex in this century, or c) where to find someone else who hasn't had sex in this century.

2:05 PM

 
A Study in Contrasts.

Trillian left her Galaxy! Yes! Immobilizer and all, Trillian actually left her apartment for the weekend! And, all in all, it wasn't so awful. No stairs to traverse, pretty much just sprawled out in the back seat of Arthur and Boneman's rental car, not unlike being home in bed. The road beckoned, as did the only opportunity in even the vaguest corner of our Universe to see Shag art live in person. It was completely worth the trip. The fine folks at the Ox-Op gallery in Minneapolis put on a fine show. If you're ever near that corner of the Universe, make a point to stop in. Grumpy's has some good eats, too. Fear not the stuffed, fried olives. Forget everything you ever knew about stuffed, battered and fried food. These things are yummmmmmmy.

We traveled through Wisconsin, where Arthur stopped at every cheese emporium we passed. Our favorite was The Mousehouse. The fine folks there are helpful and friendly, glad to have our business, respectful and gosh darn it, just really nice folks.

And you know what? Overall, people are nicer North of the Illinois border. They really are! Without exception, everywhere I went people offered to help the poor woman on crutches. Everyone was full of sympathy, empathy and concern. Even the Uber Cool Gallery Crowd and the bar guys at Grumpy's. The woman at the Mousehouse all but sobbed when I told her what happened. (She asked, I don't volunteer the information unless prodded. By the way.) And don't get me wrong, I don't expect or even want the sympathy, but people should offer it. I would. Decent, normal human beings would. It's what you're supposed to do. And now I've learned these people do exist. They just don't live in Chicago or ride the Route 666 bus. (which was its utter nightmarish self this morning) The thing is, by the end of last evening, I was getting beyond embarrassed over all the attention and sympathy my plight brought me over the weekend. I know, I sound like I don't know what I want, that I'm confused. I'm not. Truly. I'm just saying, people should offer the help, the compassion and the sympathy, and when they don't, it's conspicuous by its absence. I personally don't necessarily want the attention, but I don't want people to be rude and inconsiderate. Which, until this past weekend, has been de rigueur.

So after two days in Sparkling Clean and Lily White Little Norway, the return to my neck of the stars was a bit abrupt.

I was hoping to return to a call or email from HWNMNBS, but alas, not to be. (However there were a few unknowns on my caller id...maybe? Just maybe he called and didn't leave a message??? Oh grow up Trillian). But no, speaking of growing up, I had the delight of an obscene message.

It was a bit freaky because I know it was Zaphod. Trying to mask his voice, no less. As in 11 year old prank freaky. He started out with a whispery, semi reminiscent of Blair Witch Project scary voice over, "oooh baby I want your body so badly, I'm so hot for you" thing, then started yelling, yes yelling, top of his voice yelling, "fuck you up your ass you fucking bitch." Then he started the quivery whispering again, then went into the yelling thing. Repeated this yet AGAIN then hung up.

Now, I'm clearly no expert in relationships, but, I know a few fundamentals. If you're interested in someone, particularly if your interests are of a sexual nature, leaving obscene, threatening, violent messages in which, among other things, you call your intended a bitch, is probably not the best route to her heart or pants.

This is beyond drunk in a bar calling a woman.

The message was left at 12:30 AM Saturday morning. Called three times, left one long message. If there was any doubt whatsoever as to the identity of the caller the time of the call pretty much gives it away. Also my caller id (which rarely actually id's anyone) indicates a cell phone number from his area of town. What a stupid jerk. I mean, an utter moron.

What a way to flatter a gal. If the kind message he left me is any indication of how he treated his ex, it's plain to see why she's nuts and on serious medication and in electroshock therapy. And just after my faith had been semi-restored in humankind. It was such a disappointment to return home hear those dear words so soon after my little trip North. Yes, those sweet nothings really added to my restored faith in mankind. Thank you for that, Zaphod.

No one has said those sort of things to me since, gosh, seventh grade. What a fine trip down I-don't-have-the-vocabulary-to-express-my feelings-beyond-common-vulgarity lane.

What a gentleman. Really a shame I wasn't home to hear it live. That would have been very comforting. I would have invited him right over for a booty call.

At least I'm sure that's what he was thinking.

I wasn't going to respond to him whatsoever, I know the psychology of this sort of thing, he's looking for a response, any response, and he'll settle for anger if that's all he can get. (Isn't that a very strange aspect of human nature? Why? Very odd. Of course it's the very thing that separates the obsessed stalkers from the broody poets.) But, the thing is, since I wasn't home and he didn't wake me, I wasn't really all that angry, barely annoyed, in fact. Pretty much par for Zaphod's course, I think. I certainly wasn't surprised. I didn't think I'd heard the last of him, and I am sure he'll continue to harass me. So after sleeping on it, I decided to send him an email to serve as a written warning of harassment.

I'm sure he'll deny it, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt it was him. And I will file harassment charges if he so much as calls to "say hello."

And making this all the more poignant is the fact that there were two more attacks in my neighborhood this morning. One at 3 AM and another at 4:30 AM. I heard the 4:30 AM aftermath - it was two blocks from my apartment and quite violent, two ambulances and tons of cop cars came blaring in, sirens full volume. It's all over the news, my hood is crawling with camera crews. The 4:30 AM woman is in really bad shape. They don't know if the same attacker is responsible for both attacks, but they feel certain the 4:30 AM attack was by the same guy who has been loose all summer - gauging by the violence, location and "style" of the attack. The 3AM girl attack was a bit further from my place, five blocks west and three blocks south, close enough to major gang turf for it to fall suspect to gang related. If that turns out to be the case, they won't "count" it in the official tally of rape and attacks. In fact, they won't consider it a rape or attack. Yeah, I know. A woman/girl is beaten and sexually violated, does it really matter if it was a gang initiation or turf issue? She's still attacked and raped, regardless of her involvement with the gangs.

So all in all, a very pleasant return to the city for me. Not!!!(aren't you glad that bit of vernacular has come and gone? I am too, but somehow it seemed appropriate there.)

To my friends and travelers in the UK: Today's square of my calendar says, "Bank Holiday, UK - EXCEPT SCOTLAND" Yes, the "except Scotland" is in bold italic. As if to say, No, Scotland, you have to go to work today, so don't even think about taking today off because someone in the UK has got to work today, and it's Scotland. So get out of bed and get into the office.

Someone just walked by my office and told me I look like a rock star today. Hmmm. This has happened before. Must be the eye makeup. The fact that I am actually wearing some. For the first time in ages. And that I let my hair air dry so it's probably all kinky an spiky and bed-head looking. The new lip gloss might be a factor, too. Wait til I get my next dose of blond highlights (the real thing, Phase Three: The Final Blonding of Trillian) (the lifting, by the way, seems to have stabilized at a light auburn, which, I think, is my natural color. Might have to leave some of this shade in under the blond highlights.)

If I am in fact looking rock star-ish today, I hope this is the day Richard Branson appears to take me away and give me a job.

Still looking for the alleged Secret Agent Man doll, by the way!!! Help!!!

10:32 AM

Thursday, August 21, 2003  
Unbelievable But True!

Every now and then a project at work sidetracks me to something very interesting. In my search to procure an appropriate domain name for a new site my department is going to launch, I found that contrary to popular belief (mine), not all the good domain names have been taken. So in the spirit of public service, my need to give back to the Universe, I present a list of really good website names currently available.

lawyersarepeopletoo.com and .org are both available
judgesrule.com
bushpart2armageddon.com


fillingthevoid.com
whatcanyoudoforme.com
excusemeisthissitetaken.com
(the availability of which utterly shocked me. I really want to buy that one...)

itsmyparentsfault.com
imnotfatimbigboned.com and imretainingwater.com


thiswonthurt.com
youmightfeelaslighttinglysensation.com


blinkandyoullmissit.com (the future internet home of my hometown...)

...and you thought all the good porn site names were taken
...think again!
jell-oshots.com (jelloshots.net, however is taken)
hotbabesinhottubs.com
warmtinglysensation.com
wanttoseemysketches.com
imaprofessionalphotographer.com
ohyesthatsthespot.com


dating sites:
myparentslikeme.com
theresnothingseriouslywrongwithme.com
ihaventhadsexinthiscentury.com
breathingandemployed.com
ihatemenbutimnotalesbian.com
ihaveafewcats.com
justshutupandmarryme.com
findingloveonevirusatatime.com
itsjustarash.com
stalkersanonymous.com
lieswealltell.com


employment sites:
hiremeimgood.com (which could double as an escort/porn site)
iwenttocollegeandalligotwasthisstupidtshirt.com
lifeinacubefarm
allineedisonebreak.com
ideservearaise.com
signheretosellyoursoul.com
(which could also be used for other purposes, see below)
richardbransonpleasehireme.com

The one I cannot believe wasn't snatched up in all the American Idol frenzy and may have to purchase myself:
saywhatyouwantsimoncowellhasreallysexyhands.com I know. I couldn't believe it's still available, either.

whosworsesimoncowellorjohnnywright.com (Sexyhands notwithstanding, someone must be held accountable for boy bands and pre-fab grrrlz, and this site could be the battle ground. The winner gets his own website called:
signheretosellyoursoul.com)

nsyncchangedmylife.com (seriously, no one's grabbed this! I know, another shocker!)

livewithtommyandpamelalee.com (okay, so it would be a small site with just a few downloads, but still...someone should use it)

Surprisingly, there are a number of 4ever sites still up for grabs:
baycityrollers4ever.com
blueswede4ever.com
kennyg4ever.com
kiss4ever.com

leifgarrett4ever.com

5:15 PM

Wednesday, August 20, 2003  
Midol Cures Bone Fractures!

Okay, so I'm not cured. BUT, I do feel pretty darned good, at least as good at with my prescribed ankle fracture medication.

I left my prescription at home today. Forgot it.

And of course didn't realize this until a few hours ago when I reached into my bag for the drugs of life to soothe the throbbing in my ankle. And found nothing even remotely resembling a pain reliever. Of course it was at that precise moment I got a visual of my prescription sitting on the shelf in the bathroom, right where I am sure I left it this morning.

The commercial will go something like this:

So I asked a colleague if she had anything for pain - Tylenol, Alleve, morphine...the best she could come up with was, you guessed it, Midol.

Desperation leads us to many ill suited fates. But necessity is the mother of invention.

So I tried it.

And an hour later, I am happy to report, it's helping!

So if you are ever stuck without your pain medication for a fracture, you can improvise with Midol.

As a follow-up to yesterday's question to the Universe: (the alleged) Secret Agent Man doll was approximately 12 inches tall, about the size of a Barbie, came with loads of undercover operative gear and allegedly bore a strong resemblance to Patrick Magoohan (aka Secret Agent Man, Danger Man, The Prisoner, among others). It would have been available in the mid to late '60's. It may or may not have been an officially licensed product. I must find that doll. Please help. Even if you have only a faint recollection of a similar doll, please let me know. Any shred of information may help piece together the (man of) mystery toy.

1:21 PM

Tuesday, August 19, 2003  
Desperately seeking a toy from long ago.

My brother had a "doll" in the early 60's that was a spy. My brother insists this "doll" was an action figure of Secret Agent Man. As in Patrick Magoohan.

I question the actual identity of the "doll" because I find it difficult to believe back then there were many licensed action figures of television characters. And Patrick Magoohan hardly seems a likely suspect for early licensed merchandise. I am younger than my brother and therefore cannot confirm or deny his claim. Which is what I am seeking to find here. Anyone with any information on a spy or secret agent action figure produced somewhere between 1960 - 1970 please email Trillian. This "doll" came with loads of accessories, the coolest of which was a gun that actually shot plastic bullets. Hey, these were the days before choking hazard guidelines, political correctness and rampant litigation.

My purpose is two-fold. 1) I want prove once and for all there never was a replica of Patrick Magoohan available for purchase, and 2) I need to procure one of these dolls, whatever its roots, a gift for my brother. An offering of either proof that the doll he had was in fact not Patrick Magoohan or that it was. In either case it will be a much appreciated gift and will silence a running argument once and for all and give my brother the closure he needs.

"Secret Agent Man" met an untimely demise in our house. My father, being of the old school that does not condone boys playing with anything remotely resembling a doll, seized his golden opportunity to take down Secret Agent Man one fateful evening.

That night has come to be known as:

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

My brother was enamored with this doll. My father was not. Seemed a little too much like a Barbie in his eyes. And boys do not play with dolls, particularly Barbies. Johnny West and the rest of the West clan were permitted in the house, but not with my father's full respect or blessing. Must have been their rugged cowboyness that kept them in the house. Once (the alleged) Secret Agent Man came to live with us the Wests were relegated to toy box status a la Woody in Toy Story. Hey, he's a cowboy, too. Hmmm. Interesting. I wonder if there's some psychology to this. Cowboy toys are the first to be cast aside...better look into this. Could be valuable information.

I digress.

The weekday rule of order in our house was that all toys were to be put away, hands and faces washed and all children sitting at the dinner table poised for my father's arrival from work and the onset of dinner by 5:15 PM. But on this evening, my brother had been engaged in a particularly involved secret mission and somehow escaped my mother's strict clean-up policy. It was a secret mission, after all, apparently even my mother didn't know about it.

What happened next is still a matter of dispute and family lore. There are, however, a few basic facts.

A stakeout was taking place in the hall. My brother, special op, and Secret Agent Man. In walked my father, home from a long day at the office. Unfortunately, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. At the precise moment of (the alleged) Secret Agent Man's ill fated ambush, my father walked in the front door, and Bang! He was caught in the crossfire. A miniature plastic bullet to the shin.

There sat my brother. Too numb to speak or move. Holding (the alleged) Secret Agent Man. Nowhere to run and no one to blame.

My father now became a counter agent. "That's it, no son of mine plays with (explative of some sort) dolls!" (this quote, apart from the actual explative, has been verified by all present at the time.)

According to my brother's account, my father then swooped down, grabbed (the alleged) Secret Agent Man from my brother's trembling hand, walked to the garage, and returned empty handed. My brother's late night reconaissance seek and recover mission to the garage revealed nothing. (the alleged) Secret Agent Man was never seen again.

And now, 30 years later, my brother is still seeking closure.

And proof that it was indeed Patrick Magoohan. The real Secret Agent/Danger Man. In a small, plastic replication. With gun that shot plastic bullets.

Anyone with any information regarding a doll/action figure of this nature please contact Trillian.

2:22 PM

 
Spare Me the Email

I know, I know, self pity is a trap and useless waste of emotion. I understand that. I was merely venting frustration.

I know there are people in much worse circumstances than mine.

I know there are people for whom my temporary situation is a permanent way of life.

I know how lucky I am to enjoy good health. I know I am lucky to have a world class medical facility at my disposal. I know I am lucky that my recovery and future health is bright.

And I am, as ever, thankful and humbled with this knowledge.

I know all of this so please, save your time, no need to send me email pointing out these facts.

10:51 AM

Monday, August 18, 2003  
I'm Starting to Think Maybe I Don't Like Mondays

Pardon my moan. Trillian is not having a good day. And has to vent her self pity.

I saw the orthopedic surgeon first thing this morning.

Really looking forward to getting out of The Immobilizer and into the sport model.

But, I came away disappointed and discouraged.

No sport model.

Slow, less than normal recovery.

Though there is some progress.

The outer fracture is healing nicely, no problem there. The interior fracture is behind normal process. Though there is enough improvement that he doesn't feel I'll need surgery. It's just taking its own sweet time to heal, and I have to face the possibility that this is going to be an even longer process than anticipated.

However, there are new concerns. The most immediate is tissue damage.

I was half way joking about not moving my toes again.

Now it seems that is, in actuality, the main concern.

And later this week, another consultation after those reports are in, and, if suspicions are correct, I will be under the knife on the bottom of my foot.

If the MRI shows no major tissue damage, it's carry on as I have been.

If there is no tissue damage, once the swelling decreases I can get the sport model.

If there is tissue damage the sport model is not an option, and with or without surgery I will be stuck in The Immobilizer indefinitely.

Guess it's good Furry Creature has made peace with it.

Wish I could do the same.

3:41 PM

Friday, August 15, 2003  
Trillian's Parents Are Powerless.

Or they were until recently. They were victims of blackout. They are now in what is called a "fragile" zone, meaning, they have power but are apparently teetering mere amps away from losing it, so only essential electricity is to be used. And they are supposed to boil their water. On either an electric stove or microwave, both of which are banned uses of electricity right now.

Gotta love bureaucracy, even, and especially, at the local political level.

Their mayor is running around as if he's actually important (I'm talking the mayor of a small town, population 4,297 (and growing!)), like he's Rudi Guiliani on Sept. 11. I mean, it's easy to laugh at it, this is the stuff of television parody, after all. But, for my parents who have to deal with him it's not quite laughable yet. Apparently he's sending out little secret vice squads to patrol the neighborhoods, reporting any electricity or water infractions to "the proper authorities." So far the squad appears to be not so secret, as they are in the local police patrol cars. Because, they are, in fact, the local police.

So the mayor tells the town how lucky they are to have power, but let's not forget our countrymen who are still without, going so far as to say "in these times" (these times???) using a hair dryer or microwave or stove is un-American. That it's their patriotic duty to swelter without air conditioning on the hottest day of the year. But in the same breath passing along the water boil order, warning that without boiling water, nasty health problems will arise. Meanwhile, he's sent out the local police, all the patrols, (okay, we think that's five cars) using gas that is quickly becoming a hotter commodity than electricity, to drive around spotting and reporting air conditioning, clothes dryer and all other non-essential electricity infractions.

My father, never one to be threatened by small town politics or bureaucracy, has had enough with the hypocrisy and stupidity and is flagrantly running their central air conditioning at arctic levels. Just to spite the podunk mayor and his idiot band of Barney Fifes. My mother, while thinking this was a bit extreme, and trying to be the voice of reason, and a good patriot, kept turning the air to at least a reasonable temperature. And refrained from her daily vacuuming and laundry rituals. Which I'm sure is killing her. That woman is obsessed with vacuuming and keeping up with laundry. They're two people. Two senior citizens. What are they doing to get the carpet dirty enough to require daily vacuuming - throughout the entire house? How much laundry can they go through on a daily basis? Apparently enough that my mother has to "keep up with it" every day.

But she got on board with my dad's whole "damn the local government campaign" when the water boil order came down from much bigger, smarter, real people over in the county seat. There is a real and serious health threat from their water. Microbes, apparently. Nasty little microbes. That die when boiled, thus rendering the water once again potable.

Patriotic duty be damned, my mom needs her afternoon cup of tea. And my dad needs his fourth pot of coffee. They didn't go through 18 hours without power - coffee, tea and ingenious meals on a Coleman stove and my dad's gas grill, using all their bottled water for the emergency at hand - only to be told, once power was restored, the water is worse than Mexico's and they were not allowed to boil it potable on their stove or in their microwave.

So they are wearing layers of winter clothes on the hottest day of the year, using the stove and microwave. When my dad sees a patrol car coming, he stands on the front porch, a la Gen. Patton. With his cup of coffee steaming in the air. And American flag fluttering from the eave just above him. Cat at his feet. Screen door letting all the air conditioning out into the atmosphere.

Which is such a funny visual that I can't concentrate on anything since my mother relayed the news.

"Tell me to turn off my central air conditioning will you! Ha! Deprive my wife of her cup of afternoon tea, will you! Ha! Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no one - for I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley!"

(That was Patton, right? I mean, the meanest motherfucker part. Though I'm sure Patton would be in full agreement with my father on the local hypocrisy issues.)

And mind you, this is the very same man who red-faced, vein popping yelled at my brother for standing in front of the refrigerator-freezer with both doors open. Which was, apparently, according to my father, a colossal waste of electricity and until we lived in our own houses and paid our own electric bills there would be no standing in front of the open refrigerator. Or, in Winter, allowing any door into the house to open wider or longer than necessary to enter or exit the premises. On one infamous occasion measurements were taken to prove the point that my brother needed only to open the door 18 inches to comfortably enter or exit the house. "What are you trying to do? Heat the whole greater Eastern Michigan outdoors? I'm not Rockefeller, there's an energy crisis on you know." Ah yes. Seems like just yesterday. But I don't think I'll remind my father of those days right now. Seems prudent to keep my mouth shut and let him make his point about the idiocy of their local mayor.

If I ever, ever wax nostalgic about life in a small town, remind me of this.

3:24 PM

Thursday, August 14, 2003  
PRODUCT ENDORSEMENT ALERT!

I don't want to turn this into some shameless retail Link-O-Rama, but, well. It's my Blog and I'll position product if I want to. And I really, really, really believe in giving designers and artists as much promotion as possible.

Michael Spirito is breathing really fresh new air into the accessories market. Check out his site, trust me, you won't be sorry. There is something here for everyone.

Check out Michael Spirito's Exhibitionist line here.

If I don't have this I will simply die. (To be said in your absolute best Veruca Salt hissy fit tantrum voice. Come on, summon your inner Veruca. You know you have one. There's a little Veruca in all of us.)

12:48 PM

Wednesday, August 13, 2003  
We're All Doomed. But There May in Fact Actually be a God!

I know I promised more scintillating and weird Simon Cowell/Tom Petty news today. And I'll get to it eventually. But if I don't get this out of my system and posted to the Universe I will simultaneously combust.

People, as a species, are doomed. We have passed the point of evolution and are now de-evolving. I know this is not a new theory. But I've got proof.

The people with whom I work.

As a whole, people are idiots. That is a given. However, the group with whom I am currently forced to spend my days with are selfish, mind numbingly stupid, lazy, rude and inconsiderate. And today is a good day. Half of them aren't even in the office today.

Based on this focus group, I cannot even hypothesize how we managed to evolve beyond mono celled zygotes. Which when I think about it, makes a case for a God of some sort. Clearly we had to have some help, prodding, for mitosis to occur. Because left to our own devices, our species would not mitote on their own. "What? Split? Me? I don't think so. Why should I go through mitosis if you're not going to pay me more? And I'm not coming in a minute earlier than my flextime will allow. I don't have to. Besides, what's in it for me? that's what I want to know. I'm not going to be around to see the results of all this evolution ballyhoo, why should I split?"

So my new found theory is that there simply must be a God otherwise we'd still be a bunch of zygotes murking around the primordial ooze.

Oh sure, there are always a few enthusiastic individuals. A few eccentrics. A few energetic selfless beings. But hardly enough to drag us through generation after generation of evolution. Not based on what I'm seeing lately. Nope. As a species we lack the motivation, compassion and intelligence to actually perform basic evolutionary functions. Therefore there must be a God or supreme being or really good biologist moving things along.

Yes, I'm back on the medication today.

Note to a few readers, yes, he is a charlatan and more evil than even Dr. Smith. Anyone who doesn't believe that can point their browsers here. And the truth shall set you free. But I didn't even know this guy existed until I broke my ankle and stayed home for a few days with a television without a remote. At first I thought it was the medication and the concussion. Then I realized I was really seeing and hearing this coming from my television. Scary stuff. Further proof of de-evolution.

1:20 PM

 
Confessions of a(n) (Semi)Invalid

I am addicted to Ten Pin Championship Bowling on Yahoo Games. (Look for Gutter Dog if you want to bowl a few frames with me.)

I have had Ben and Jerry for dinner on more than one occasion since breaking my ankle. Pity does breed bad eating habits.

I have actually read articles in Elle and Vogue.

Rear Window is truly poignant. Jimmy Stewart really nailed the perspective of the invalid. I know this because I've now watched it four times in as many weeks.

Grace Kelly was Beautiful. With a capital Beaut.

While well intended, the get well cards most people either choose or have available to them are seriously lacking in humor or enlightenment.

But a few of them are real keepers. Thanks for going the extra mile, Franky.

I have seen Beyond. Once.

E-bay is a fun and easy way to tame the shopping beast.

I have worn a sneaker all day in the office.

I have visited embarrassing chat rooms.

I have gone a day without showering and washing my hair.

I now realize I don't not want to spend my old age years alone.

Self pity does not serve any useful purpose.

9:02 AM

Tuesday, August 12, 2003  
Oh! My aching arch!

My arch, heel, ankle bone...hurt. The doctor's theory has come true. The arch of my foot may in fact be killing me. When I saw the orthopedic surgeon a few weeks ago, he warned I may have this problem. Lucky me, it's all coming true.

You see, the inside fracture and chips are very close to my arch. My apparently exceptionally, unusually long and high arch. As the doctor made note of several times. The doctor warned this may cause a lot of pain in my arch. Because of my apparently freakishly high arch. He went into a lengthy discussion about arches, normal v. my very high, and the repercussions pro and con of said freakishly high arch. Could cause trouble. He even called in a colleague to show off the x-ray of my arch. "Doug, have you ever seen an arch like this? It's got to be one of the highest I've ever seen. I'm concerned about how the fracture is going to affect it."

Doctor II, we'll call him Doug because that is apparently his name, examining the x-ray: "Gosh Phil, that is a high arch, let's have a look." So they examined my broken foot then my non broken foot, and gaped in awe of the narrowness of my foot and height of my arch. And these were not young doctors. They were both in at least their late 50's.

It was like, "Never in all my years of practice have I seen anything like this!"

Way to make the patient feel good about herself. Well, I know they didn't think they were being rude or upsetting me, but I couldn't help but feel like, "Once again, I can't just have a normal body and a normal problem..."

You know you're in trouble when the doctor calls in a colleague to show off some part of your body. It's never, ever a good sign.

Remember the old Steve Martin bit where he would stand there saying, "What the Hell is that? What the Hell is that thing?"

That's exactly the stance my doctor and Doug the Doctor had. Chin in hand, hmmmm. Never seen anything quite like that...what treatment options are you considering? Going to be difficult with that arch...

So here I am, two weeks later, fulfilling the prophecy.

MY ARCH HURTS!!!!!!!

Sure, I know, I have a broken ankle. It's going to hurt. It isn't going to feel better just because I want it to. This is a process, not an event. Blah blah blah. But it hurts bad today and I want it to stop.

I picked the wrong day to cut back on the medication. So I am going to take it.

If anyone out there has broken their ankle and suffered arch pain during recovery, PLEASE LET ME KNOW! I need to know how long I can expect this to continue.

More on the Simon Cowell - Tom Petty conspiracy tomorrow, I promise. I can barely think beyond my pain today.

7:13 PM

Monday, August 11, 2003  
Blame the Pope

To all my friends (and readers?) in the UK:

I feel the pain of the heat you are enduring. When I've been stuck in similar situations I try to keep in mind that The Temperature of the Universe is 3K. Which is -270.15° C. (-454.27° F). So really, things could be worse.

And the rain? Well, blame the Pope. Over the weekend I read he was asking the world to pray for rain in Europe.


6:20 PM

 
Tom Petty and Simon Cowell update!

A reader (yes! I have one!) sent me this interesting link listing (ratting out?) people who did not graduate from high school.

Interesting to note Tom Petty, Simon Cowell and Richard Branson dropped out of school. Find the fun list of dropouts here. I also love the mystery point the site makes about the US armed forces not using the term dropout, but instead calls them "non high school graduates." Apparently we truly do have a kinder, gentler military. At least I think that's the point being made.

What I really love is the GED list. Robert Downey, Jr. can't stick out re-hab, but he can tough out his GED. Which speaks volumes for the group in the first list who apparently have not bothered or needed a GED or military equivalent. Is it just me or is the list of GED recipients scarier than the dropout list? (hey, I'm not in the military, I don't have to be kinder or gentler)

I'm taking this as proof positive that Simon and Tom are in cahoots on this urban myth/internet hoax thing. They keep appearing together on searches, but notice they are never seen together in public...

11:23 AM

 
Danger, Cranky Woman behind Keyboard

Ankle was feeling a bit better over the weekend, however, seems worse this morning. The bus will do that to you. The entire family (parents, three children, grandparents, the whole crew) as human barricade to handicapped seats was in full force this morning.

Actually what I am noticing now is, as long as I am horizontal with proper elevation, I don't have pain. But as soon as I step on it or even sit regularly for more than an hour or so, it starts to hurt again. I was hoping for more progress than this by now, but, I can look back and say that I am improving, however slight, I am better than I was two weeks ago, and certainly better than I was four weeks ago.

Here's a weird thing: As I awoke this morning I stretched my arms - half asleep - and that hurt my ankle. Sort of confused me and made for an uncomfortable start to the day.

STRANGE dreams last night, have got to get off this medicine. Woke up at one point mad, yes, angry, then I recollected a vague notion of a dream I was having about, of all people, HWNMNBS II. I don't remember any details other than he was somehow involved with work and I was really mad about some turn of events in the office and he had a really weird haircut that made him look like a really old miserable git.

Very tired today. Very tired all the time these days. Just one night of solid sleep. Five uninterrupted hours, even. Would make an enormous difference.

Zaphod. He's at the bottom of all this hostility. Who calls a woman at 11:45 PM on a Saturday night for anything other than a booty call? And then blab blab blab for hours, try to get a word in edgewise with that guy, I dare you, when he knows darned well that I'm not feeling well. I literally fell asleep twice while he was talking, only to wake up and realize he was still talking and had no idea I had been asleep on the other end of the phone. Sure, you're saying, "hey, wait a minute, he's only trying to cheer you up, at least he called." But you know what? We're not kids, and where was he at a normal, decent hour of the day when I wasn't actually trying to get some sleep? If he was really well intended, he'd bring food and a movie to the poor crippled girl on Saturday afternoon or evening. Or help said crippled girl do her laundry or clean Furry Creature's box. But no. Because he's selfish, arrogant, oversexed Zaphod who for some reason has chosen to pick on me, now. Hit me when I'm down. And here's a question to the universe: What kind of man has elicit thoughts about a woman with a broken leg? And, further, what kind of man in that subgroup tells the woman with a broken leg his elicit thoughts? Zaphod. That's who. A raging, selfish perv who thinks he's anything but, who thinks he's enlightened and modern and above and beyond reproach. When in actuality he's a chain smoking, rude, Neanderthal pervert. That's what's really making me angry. I think maybe I transposed my anger at the Zaphod situation to HWNMNBS II. Sorry Simon.

Am also starting a new eating regime this week. I haven't been awful, but, because I'm getting no exercise whatsoever, I am gaining weight at an alarming rate. So kind of cranky about that, too. I'd really like a muffin this morning. My healthy little slim cup yogurt just isn't doing the trick.

So all in all, not a great start to the work week.

Hellooo? Richard? Richard Branson? Over here!

8:41 AM

Saturday, August 09, 2003  
And the truth shall set you free...
Once and for all, people, embrace the truth. It's out there. Right here:
www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Stage/4890

Yep. Dead. Gone.

Deal with it.

I've heard this conspiracy theory before, but that site offers the resolute proof!

And the really funny part of this is that site was unearthed in a search for Simon Cowell.

Really.

Don't ask.

So I'm developing a conspiracy theory of my own: Simon Cowell killed Tom Petty. Or, Simon Cowell is Tom Petty. Or, Simon Cowell and Tom Petty are secretly in cahoots creating internet conspiracy sites. The music, tours and American Idol things are mere covers for their internet hijinx. And of course the music, tours and AI things generate a lot of revenue. Mere bake sales to fund their endeavors.

See how these things get started?! It's fun!

If you're tuning in, boys, let me in on the action. Since the jig is up with me, I've found you out (and if you're reading this that must be the case) then send me an email. Let's talk. I've got ideas to fill pages and pages of Google searches. Please, let me help. Now is the perfect time. I've got a lot spare time on my hands for the next few weeks/months, I'm on very strong hallucinogenic drugs, and there's a case to be made for my actual marketing knowledge. And of course that cynicism o' mine.

You wouldn't want Richard Branson to beat you to this rapier witted marketing mastermind, now would you?

Clearly I've been up to nothing good today. My left foot is cramping my style.

Not that I am opposed to spending a day lounging around (leg above hip per doctor's orders) reading (The Eyre Affair (Fforde) - fabulous, this is my second time through and enjoying it all the more...) and surfing.

But that's how I spend all my time apart from work these days.

And it might be nice to be out actually doing something. But then I think of all that's involved and I am immediately reformed and happy to be stuck in bed, on the couch and occasionally online.

A trip to Costco with Arthur Dent last night proved more than I could handle. Yes. Okay, I admit, I like Costco. No, I don't like buying in bulk, and typically do not. However, the liquor aisles are loads of fun, and it is fun to make obvious and not so obvious jokes about the ginormous sized and quantitied items offered. For instance, condoms. At Costco. The mind boggles at the obvious jokes and innuendoes that presents. Either in jumbo size or economy sized package, the options for comment are endless. I know, I'm being sophomoric again. Too much time online with Zaphod. And, I think this medication is affecting more than just my ankle. Wink wink nudge nudge. Anyway, the trip, though intended to be quick, was more than I could deal with. Too many people swimming in the shallow end of the gene pool. Too much cement floor. Overwhelming distance from liquor aisle to veggie burger case to check out. (why in the name of babel fish do they insist on placing veggie burgers next to beef, turkey and salmon burgers? Why? It flies in the face of reason!) So home again, worn out, tired and spent the rest of Friday night and all of Saturday recovering. Still not up to full speed.

Richard Branson really needs to rescue me from this. The time is now.

Or maybe Simon and Tom.

The past few weeks have been insightful, as the above link will attest, I have found renewed pleasure and a lot of laughs at the strange and exotic websites misguided search links can take you.

HWNMNBS did not call today. Nor did I call him. I am still reliving the moments of yesterday over and over. I'm still on that euphoric high and intend to stay up here as long as I can.

So spare me the advice to the lovelorn.

7:51 PM

Friday, August 08, 2003  
THIS JUST IN!!!

HE JUST CALLED ME!!!!!!!

He as in HWNMNBS. THAT he.

The world is suddenly beautiful and all is wonderful.

Shut up.

Let me have my moment.

None of what was actually said matters right now. I got to hear his voice again, we even laughed, and for now, today, nothing, NOTHING at all matters except that I got to hear his voice. He called me!

Maybe my fortune cookie was right! Maybe everything will now come my way. I did tempt the fates by saying bring it on...I'll take the good with the bad as long as the good includes HWNMNBS.

Oh happy, glorious day!!!

Can a job offer from Richard Branson be far behind?!

12:58 PM

 
Everything will now come your way.

So said my fortune cookie last night. The thing with fortune cookies is, what appears at first to be a good tiding, could actually be sinister. Note that it's an all encompassing, one size fits all fortune. Everything, literally, everything will now come my way. It does not say, "Everything good will now come your way." Nor does it say, "Everything bad will now come your way." No, apparently EVERYTHING will now be coming my way.

I say, bring it on. I'm ready. And waiting.

In bed.

I know. Trillian should grow up. But I admit that sophomoric humor still cracks me up. And truly, I find it a delightful grammatical marvel that without fail it works grammatically every time. And funnily. Even I, Trillian, am allowed a Zaphod moment or two, am I not?

8:46 AM

Thursday, August 07, 2003  
Please Enlighten Me.

I'm begging you. Anyone out there. Please. Help.

As you may have read (on previous posts to this blog) I am currently temporarily (I presume) disabled. I am on crutches. Immobilizer (insert echo chamber deep announcer voice here) up to my knee because my injuries are too severe and too swollen to safely fit in a "regular" sleek cast.

So I'm not making any unnecessary sojourns. It's work and home for me for the coming weeks.

Unfortunately, life does not allow for us to completely drop out just because we happen to be disabled. I have put off going to the bank for two and a half weeks (thank the Universe for direct deposit). Had to make the two block journey from my office to the bank and back again. Gave myself plenty of time. There I was, crossing one of the busiest intersections in one of the busiest cities in the world, and right there, smack in the middle of crossing the street, two tourist women said, "Excuse me? Excuse me, can you tell us which way is North? We're trying to get to Bloomies."

Now, I was really just trying to get across the street quickly, we were not all going the same direction, and they were, in fact, on the right course North to Bloomies. (yes, they really called it Bloomies, as if they were trying to be natives or cute of who knows what other than the middle aged soccer moms from Boise they really are). Thing is, I realized, they were asking me. Me. Out of the literally hundreds of people they could have chosen to ask directions, they chose the woman struggling to cross the street on crutches.

As a matter of reaction I pointed North and told them to proceed on their current course four more blocks.

Smiles and thank you's, leaving me to soldier on across the intersection.

The thing is, if I were asking directions in the middle of an intersection with hundreds of people in a large metropolis, it would never, ever cross my mind to ask a person on crutches.

My question to the Universe, and that means you, is: Would you ask a person on crutches in the middle of an intersection for directions?

Responses would be appreciated in my ongoing effort to understand if I am just way too polite and unassuming, or if, in fact, society in general is weird and rude.

1:50 PM

 
I never did get the hang of Thursdays.

Today's commute was particularly awful. The first bus to arrive was packed, the stop was crowded. A 40-ish man, a Zaphod of sorts, all but knocked me down, out of his way to get on the bus. Yes. He really did serve me an intended prohibitive right arm, swat-pushing me aside. I nearly, and I am not exaggerating, I nearly fell down the stairs to the subway. Fortunately for me I am getting very good and stabilizing myself with my crutches and I regained my balance quickly and spared myself the fall down the stairs. Then I toddled to the side, further out of the way, and let the throng swarm and get on the bus rather than be trampled and risk further injury. It was so crowded that I opted to wait for the next bus. Which too, was packed, and another throng had accumulated at the stop. I actually got on the bus, only by forcing my way into the crowd. Got on the bus. All the handicapped seats were full. All the seats were full. The middle aged women in the handicapped seats glared at me. The young girls in the handicapped seats pretended to not notice me. The family huddled closer together, forming a human barricade should I decide to oust them from their seats.

I edged further to the back of the bus, trying to get a place somewhat out of the way. (ha! out of the way! on a bus! on crutches!) These things are relative. A man who looked to be 101 years old offered me his single seat. The guy, though not on crutches, was in far, far worse shape than I, hunched over, shaking slightly, glasses an inch thick, and there was no way I was going to accept his offer. I told him I was fine, threw a dirty look at the able bodied folks in the handicapped seats, and made him sit back down again. He was clearly very uncomfortable with this arrangement. He being of the old school, the retrosexual school, where gentlemen stand while women sit. Or, that anyone stands to let the disabled or elderly sit. You know, the polite society, courteous behavior school. And I am certain none of the young, able bodied folks up front offered him their easier to access seat rather than make him shuffle to the back where he found what was probably the last seat on the bus.

Route 666.

Sociological studies.


I am developing a list of bus rider types. Bus riders are very, very different people than train riders. That's a given. However, among bus riders, I am learning there are several sub-sets of people. Distinct categories.

We've met The Lothario. (see Aug. 6 Blog)

Let me introduce you to The Negotiator. The first time I saw a Negotiator in action I dismissed it as a one off. But now, four Negotiator experiences later, I realize this is a regular occurrence. Bus fare is $1.50. Transfers .30¢. The Negotiators get on the bus and ask/tell the driver they only have, say $1.25. Or .80¢. Or an expired transfer. So far, I've yet to see a driver expel a Negotiator from the bus. The thing is, I think Negotiators know this. What's the driver going to do? Stop the bus, get up and throw the Negotiator off the bus? Of course not. The drivers are under pressure and obligation to keep the bus moving, they're not supposed to leave their seats except in emergencies. They've got a packed bus full of people (scary people in the case of Route 666). The driver is not going to take the time to argue with the Negotiator or throw them off. So on a regular basis, all over the city, Negotiators are getting away with reduced fares.

Now meet the One Stop Wonder.

This passenger, seemingly able bodied, is, I believe, the antagonist of the bus riding society. One Stop Wonders get on the bus, pay full fare, then immediately request the next stop. They ride literally one block. For a $1.50. I can see no point to this except to irritate other passengers. Slow down the commute. Why else would anyone pay $1.50 to ride one block on a bus? Had this occurred once I wouldn't have noticed, but it's such a regular occurring phenomena that I can't help but notice and be irritated by it.

My Richard Branson idea is sounding better with each passing bus ride. I bet he personally drives his disabled employees to and from work. Well. Or at least makes arrangements for their safe, comfortable transportation to and from work. Or maybe he doesn't allow them to work at all until they are healed.

Ankle. Pain. Bad. Hate this.

Must work.

8:58 AM

Wednesday, August 06, 2003  
When you think it cannot get any worse

...always doubt yourself.

So, I'm on the second of my buses this morning. Route 66 which I have dubbed route 666 because of the cram packed load of nefarious passengers it carries.

Someone finally got off which opened up a seat for me (yes, there is priority senior and disabled seating, but fat chance a senior or disabled person will ever be able to use it, even though there are signs and instructions and HUGE wheelchair symbols on, above and around the seats at the front of the bus) I stumbled and got seated, literally had to race for it with a thug teenager, I won by a butt cheek, just got settled when, over my shoulder in a very broken Polish accent I hear, "I too am crippled." I hazarded a glance over my shoulder, thinking someone else needed the seat more than I did. BIG mistake. A scruffy 55 - 60 year old Polish immigrant (we've got a ton of them here, they are singularly alike and identifiable) then said, clutching his chest, "My heart, it is broken." At which point I rolled my eyes at the women sitting next to me (who clearly didn't have a clue what he said). The guy persisted, "Fair lady, let me help you. I can be of great service." I deigned a slight smile at the guy and said, "No, I'm okay, thanks anyway." He then clutched his chest harder in mock attack and said, "Oh my heart, my heart, it is broken." Which, interestingly, made barely a stir on the packed bus. Goes to show, a person could be having a heart attack and no one would do anything. Well, yeah, probably most everyone knew what was going on, but still...

Fortunately he got off a few stops later.

I HATE the bus. I HATE the commute. I HATE that I can't walk. I HATE that I'm disabled. I HATE that I am going through this on my own. I HATE that HWNMNBS isn't here to help me and take care of me. I HATE that he's not with me period. I HATE it.

There. Got that out of my system for the day.

The good thing is, I suspect there is some cosmic alignment between HWNMNBS II and myself. Last night for the first time in weeks I was awake and coherent enough to turn on the 9:00 news (I live in an in-between time zone which has residual effects on television programming). But I got there a bit early, I mean, I was up and I'm not making extemporaneous movements these days. (Those who have visited chez Trillion know that my television is very old and does not have a remote control) I find I am even more prompt that usual because it's just easier to conserve movements. So there I was a few minutes early for the news and weather. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? HWNMNBS II!!!! I mean, it's got to be some sort of sign. I haven't turned on my television in weeks. And certainly would never allow American Juniors to sully my living room. (That's another Blog, but holy bad idea and exploitation of a genre. Yikes is all I can muster. For those who are lucky enough to have been spared this nightmare, suffice to say it's even worse than what you've imagined. Really. I only saw the last few minutes of it, but it was more than enough. Frightening. Except for the clip with HWNMNBS II, and that was a bit painful as well, were it not for the fact that he's as easy on the eyes as ever). The odds that I would actually turn on the television at the exact moment HWNMNBS II makes a guest appearance are so great (I think) that it can only mean something. Not sure what, but it's got to be some sort of fateful destiny thing. I've never been attracted to himbos, but I do find HWNMNBS II somehow compelling. Ahh. Well. Nice break from the in-action. Short lived as it was.

Back to reality.

I can't leave my job for a few months - until this leg is healed. Can't even entertain the notion. They've got me by the insurance card. I got a statement from the hospital. $7,200 for PART of the emergency room services. PART of it. This was just a preliminary statement. That does not appear to include the CAT scans and radiologist services. I don't think it includes the many X-Rays they took of my ankle and neck. (not sure about that, there are some mystery charges I don't understand) That does not include what I've paid for prescriptions. That does not include any of the follow-up surgeon visit or services. Does not include The Immobilizer. Does not include anything except the room I was in at the hospital, one of the three doctors I saw that not (and I don't even remember how many interns), a bag of ice, the temporary cast, technician services for the cast application and crutches. Seriously, from what I can tell, that's all I got for $7,200. The rest of the services, as the statement so proudly boasts, will be included in a subsequent statement from a different billing department.

And yeah, my room in the emergency room was nice, but hardly a suite at the Four Seasons or the Ritz (which both offer premier suites for $5,000/night - a deal in comparison to the Northwestern University ER) So until all the insurance issues are resolved (paid for by someone other than me) I am stuck in my current job. Which, to those of you who are new to this blog or just tuning in, I am desperate to leave, and, have a couple, one in particular, hopeful irons in fires. So this is very, very bad news and a major professional setback. I might be wrong about this, will do some checking, but I think I need to stay here at least until all the doctor visits, exams, potential surgeries are behind me. (I know, I know, I'm not even supposed to say the word, but let's get real. It's very possible I am going to require surgery and I need to make provisions for that now, even if it's only a "just in case" measure.)

I've been hit with a brainstorm.

As some of you who are very close to me know...I've had this goal, a true stretch goal in biz speak, for a few years. For my next job, I want to work with Richard Branson. And no, I don't mean slinging cd's at the Mega Store. I mean literally working with him, by his side, so to speak. I don't admire many business people, but, I like him. And it's not his renegade bad boy thing, either. My impression is that he's very shrewd but not an asshole, which is a very, very rare combination and so people don't know how to label him. (People like labels. It makes them feel safe, confident and superior) Then add in the whole daredevil renegade, wedding gown donning (hey, give him a break. As they say, the British are the first to put on a dress) thing and he's got that reputation. But I like the guy. I think we'd make a great professional team. I truly think he needs me. It's just that he doesn't realize it because he hasn't had the opportunity to work with me.

ANYWAY, I've been trying to play out the psychology and timing of my introduction to him. I figure I might be able to finagle one chance to impress him enough to consider my proposal. So it has to be perfect. Hence the fact that I am not actually working with Richard Branson (Dick, as he would be known to me) at the moment. It occurred to me this could be the angle I've been waiting for. Play on his altruism.

Make a plea from my sickbed: A little girl in Chicago was brutally attacked, broke her ankle, got a concussion, and whiplash, is bed-bound apart from making noble efforts to get to her job. Such is her dedication and professional spirit. There is one thing that would really brighten this poor girl's life: A job with Virgin. In London. With Dick. Won't you please help this poor handicapped girl fulfill her ambitions and dreams?

Okay, so I'm not so little and barely a girl, and so it wasn't an attack so much as a shove, and it wasn't particularly brutal. But it wasn't polite, either. And I did have a concussion and whiplash and still have two broken bones. And I am bed-bound apart from some sick dedication to get to work. Oh wait, it's a sick dedication to retain what few vacation days I have left. Which, hey, could be another angle!...This poor girl is repressed by the American vacation/sick leave system whereby she is made to use her personal vacation days for her sick leave. After surrendering seven of them to this tragedy, she is forced to go back to work or lose what little pay she earns in her woefully underpaid position at a premier and leading legal institution. But such is her dedication and professionalism (and need to pay her ever increasing rent) that she soldiers on, guided only by her responsibility as a team player and invoking the spirit of Dick, she takes two buses through very seedy parts of town, fighting off advances from dirty old men and further attacks by young gang thugs. A visit and subsequent job offer from Dick would lift this girl to levels of ecstasy she's yet to realize. You, Dick, have the power to make a difference in her life.

It could be an altruistic endeavor on his part. No, I'm not exactly terminally ill, but he's not exactly Princess Diana, either. And I just know we could be a really good team, I have so much to offer him (as an employee get your mind out of the gutter). I just know if I could have the opportunity to work for him for a few weeks he'd never let me go.

And we could share laughs and inside jokes about HWNMNBS II. I'm certain Richard Branson has major issues with HWNMNBS II. He's got to. He must. He should. He better. I mean, I have major issues with HWNMNBS II. If I weren't a breathing, semi-healthy, firmly hetero woman over 25 with a very healthy libido I'd HATE the guy. And not because he's supposed to be the guy we love to hate. As you all know by now, my deep seeded hatred of pop music and culture, instant gratification that lasts no longer than an instant, nothing of any redeeming or long term value... oh sorry, that's another blog. I'm just saying, if he weren't so darned compelling, if our stars weren't in some strange cosmic alignment, if he didn't have such sexy hands, I'd be at the least dismissive and the most vehemently against him and all he represents. Okay. I am against all he represents. But he personally represents it with those hands and I am taken down, defenseless at times. Weak? You bet. Which is another reason I need Dick. Dick can rescue me from this strange compulsion. Yes. I need Dick. The time is now.

9:13 AM

 
When you think it cannot get any worse

...always doubt yourself.

So, I'm on the second of my buses this morning. Route 66 which I have dubbed route 666 because of the cram packed load of nefarious passengers it carries.

Someone finally got off which opened up a seat for me (yes, there is priority senior and disabled seating, but fat chance a senior or disabled person will ever be able to use it, even though there are signs and instructions and HUGE wheelchair symbols on, above and around the seats at the front of the bus) ANYWAY, I stumbled and got seated, literally had to race for it with a thug teenager, I won by a butt cheek, just got settled when, over my shoulder in a very broken Polish accent I hear, "I too am crippled." I hazarded a glance over my shoulder, thinking someone else needed the seat more than I did. BIG mistake. A scruffy 55 - 60 year old Polish immigrant (we've got a ton of them here, they are singularly alike and identifiable) then said, clutching his chest, "My heart, it is broken." At which point I rolled my eyes at the women sitting next to me (who clearly didn't have a clue what he said). The guy persisted, "Fair lady, let me help you. I can be of great service." I deigned a slight smile at the guy and said, "No, I'm okay, thanks anyway." He then clutched his chest harder in mock attack and said, "Oh my heart, my heart, it is broken." Which, interestingly, made barely a stir on the packed bus. Goes to show, a person could be having a heart attack and no one would do anything. Well, yeah, probably most everyone knew what was going on, but still...

Fortunately he got off a few stops later.

I HATE the bus. I HATE the commute. I HATE that I can't walk. I HATE that I'm disabled. I HATE that I am going through this on my own. I HATE that HWNMNBS isn't here to help me and take care of me. I HATE that he's not with me period. I HATE it.

There. Got that out of my system for the day.

The good thing is, I suspect there is some cosmic alignment between HWNMNBS II and myself. Last night for the first time in weeks I was awake and coherent enough to turn on the 9:00 news (I live in an in-between time zone which has residual effects on television programming). But I got there a bit early, I mean, I was up and I'm not making extemporaneous movements these days. (Those who have visited chez Trillion know that my television is very old and does not have a remote control) I find I am even more prompt that usual because it's just easier to conserve movements. So there I was a few minutes early for the news and weather. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? HWNMNBS II!!!! I mean, it's got to be some sort of sign. I haven't turned on my television in weeks. And certainly would never allow American Juniors to sully my living room. (That's another Blog, but holy bad idea and exploitation of a genre. Yikes is all I can muster. For those who are lucky enough to have been spared this nightmare, suffice to say it's even worse than what you've imagined. Really. I only saw the last few minutes of it, but it was more than enough. Frightening. Except for the clip with HWNMNBS II, and that was a bit painful as well, were it not for the fact that he's as easy on the eyes as ever). The odds that I would actually turn on the television at the exact moment HWNMNBS II makes a guest appearance are so great (I think) that it can only mean something. Not sure what, but it's got to be some sort of fateful destiny thing. I've never been attracted to himbos, but I do find HWNMNBS II somehow compelling. Ahh. Well. Nice break from the in-action. Short lived as it was.

Back to reality.

I can't leave my job for a few months - until this leg is healed. Can't even entertain the notion. They've got me by the insurance card. I got a statement from the hospital. $7,200 for PART of the emergency room services. PART of it. This was just a preliminary statement. That does not appear to include the CAT scans and radiologist services. I don't think it includes the many X-Rays they took of my ankle and neck. (not sure about that, there are some mystery charges I don't understand) That does not include what I've paid for prescriptions. That does not include any of the follow-up surgeon visit or services. Does not include The Immobilizer. Does not include anything except the room I was in at the hospital, one of the three doctors I saw that not (and I don't even remember how many interns), a bag of ice, the temporary cast, technician services for the cast application and crutches. Seriously, from what I can tell, that's all I got for $7,200. The rest of the services, as the statement so proudly boasts, will be included in a subsequent statement from a different billing department.

And yeah, my room in the emergency room was nice, but hardly a suite at the Four Seasons or the Ritz (which both offer premier suites for $5,000/night - a deal in comparison to the Northwestern University ER) So until all the insurance issues are resolved (paid for by someone other than me) I am stuck in my current job. Which, to those of you who are new to this blog or just tuning in, I am desperate to leave, and, have a couple, one in particular, hopeful irons in fires. So this is very, very bad news and a major professional setback. I might be wrong about this, will do some checking, but I think I need to stay here at least until all the doctor visits, exams, potential surgeries are behind me. (I know, I know, I'm not even supposed to say the word, but let's get real. It's very possible I am going to require surgery and I need to make provisions for that now, even if it's only a "just in case" measure.)

I've been hit with a brainstorm.

As some of you who are very close to me know...I've had this goal, a true stretch goal in biz speak, for a few years. For my next job, I want to work with Richard Branson. And no, I don't mean slinging cd's at the Mega Store. I mean literally working with him, by his side, so to speak. I don't admire many business people, but, I like him. And it's not his renegade bad boy thing, either. My impression is that he's very shrewd but not an asshole, which is a very, very rare combination and so people don't know how to label him. (People like labels. It makes them feel safe, confident and superior) Then add in the whole daredevil renegade, wedding gown donning (hey, give him a break. As they say, the British are the first to put on a dress) thing and he's got that reputation. But I like the guy. I think we'd make a great professional team. I truly think he needs me. It's just that he doesn't realize it because he hasn't had the opportunity to work with me.

ANYWAY, I've been trying to play out the psychology and timing of my introduction to him. I figure I might be able to finagle one chance to impress him enough to consider my proposal. So it has to be perfect. Hence the fact that I am not actually working with Richard Branson (Dick, as he would be known to me) at the moment. It occurred to me this could be the angle I've been waiting for. Play on his altruism.

Make a plea from my sickbed: A little girl in Chicago was brutally attacked, broke her ankle, got a concussion, and whiplash, is bed-bound apart from making noble efforts to get to her job. Such is her dedication and professional spirit. There is one thing that would really brighten this poor girl's life: A job with Virgin. In London. With Dick. Won't you please help this poor handicapped girl fulfill her ambitions and dreams?

Okay, so I'm not so little and barely a girl, and so it wasn't an attack so much as a shove, and it wasn't particularly brutal. But it wasn't polite, either. And I did have a concussion and whiplash and still have two broken bones. And I am bed-bound apart from some sick dedication to get to work. Oh wait, it's a sick dedication to retain what few vacation days I have left. Which, hey, could be another angle!...This poor girl is repressed by the American vacation/sick leave system whereby she is made to use her personal vacation days for her sick leave. After surrendering seven of them to this tragedy, she is forced to go back to work or lose what little pay she earns in her woefully underpaid position at a premier and leading legal institution. But such is her dedication and professionalism (and need to pay her ever increasing rent) that she soldiers on, guided only by her responsibility as a team player and invoking the spirit of Dick, she takes two buses through very seedy parts of town, fighting off advances from dirty old men and further attacks by young gang thugs. A visit and subsequent job offer from Dick would lift this girl to levels of ecstasy she's yet to realize. You, Dick, have the power to make a difference in her life.

Can you just see Richard Branson trudging up four flights of stairs to the hovel I call home? Sitting on my bed, with Furry Creature...bearing gifts of a Virgin cell phone, CD's and T-shirts, offering me a job?!

Sounds like a comedy sketch. But you know, really, it could be an altruistic endeavor on his part. No, I'm not exactly terminally ill, but he's not exactly Princess Diana, either. And I just know we could be a really good team, I have so much to offer him (as an employee). I just know if I could have the opportunity to work for him for a few weeks he'd never let me go.

And we could share laughs and inside jokes about HWNMNBS II. I just certain Richard Branson has major issues with HWNMNBS II. He's got to. He must. He should. He better. I mean, I have major issues with HWNMNBS II. If I weren't a breathing, semi-healthy, firmly hetero woman over 25 with a very healthy libido I'd HATE the guy. And not because he's supposed to be the guy we love to hate. As you all know by now, my deep seeded hatred of pop music and culture, instant gratification that lasts no longer than an instant, nothing of any redeeming or long term value... oh sorry, that's another blog. I'm just saying, if he weren't so darned compelling, if our stars weren't in some strange cosmic alignment, if he didn't have such sexy hands, I'd be at the least dismissive and the most vehemently against him and all he represents. Okay. I am against all he represents. But he personally represents it with those hands and I am taken down, defenseless at times. Weak? You bet. Which is another reason I need Dick. Dick can rescue me from this strange compulsion. Yes. I need Dick. The time is now.

9:13 AM

Tuesday, August 05, 2003  
Village of the Damned

Monday, July 21. 5:00 PM. Washington Blueline Station.

Going home from work. Rush hour. Crowded station. Descending stairs to platform.

Felt two hands push my shoulder blades. Next thing I knew I was falling. I tried to catch myself on the railing, but didn't quite make it. I vaguely remember someone brushing my side, felt a tug at my bag, but refused to believe I was being mugged. At 5:00 PM on a cram packed subway staircase.

Yet it appears that is exactly what happened. I took the woman in front of me down with me. Fortunately she wasn't hurt badly. The assailant tried to take her bag, as well, after he failed to get mine. He apparently hadn't counted on me falling so badly rendering it very difficult for him to get my bag.

"I don't remember much after that"...funny, that's always what people say. Right after: "It all happened so fast"...Sad to say, it's true. You think you'll be different. You think you're prepared. You think you're smart. You think you're able bodied. You think you'll at least get a good look at the assailant. Then it happens and you realize you're just like everyone else who gets assailed.

The aftermath is what moves in slow motion.

The next thing I remember...

The woman I took down with me was in front of me. I was sprawled up the stair case. I had a vague feeling of pain in the back of my head. Dizzy. Disoriented. What am I doing on the filthy subway stairs? Wait. My legs hurt. Why are people stepping on me? I've got to get up and out of here. I'm in the way. People are mad at me, trying to get around me. The woman in front of me is yelling at them. They're mad at her, too. My head really hurts now. Dizzier. Feel nauseous. Why can't I move my legs? Wait a minute, why isn't someone helping us? Someone pushed me. Ill. I feel really ill. Dizzy. Shooting stars on the ceiling. Sparks. Would be pretty and rather enjoyable if I weren't going to be sick. Must stand up. Someone trod on my arm. Sorry I'm in your way. My bag? Yes, that looks like my bag. Wait. Why does the guy in the short sleeve dress shirt and tie have my bag? Why are he and the woman pulling on my arms? Oh. Helping me up. I see. Okay. Right. Sure. With you in a minute. When I can actually feel my leg. Oh yes, there's the problem. That appendage behind my neck isn't my hand after all. It's my left ankle and foot. Ah. That could be the problem. Yes. That's definitely going to be a problem. Funny, it doesn't hurt. My thighs hurt, but I don't actually feel anything from my knee down. Interesting. Ill. Going to be really ill. Now. Up. Get up!

Oh dear. Sick. Really sick. Head pounding. Dizzier. Things spinning. I can now see my foot, I see it down there where it usually is, but I don't feel a thing. Except my head. And thighs. Whoa. There it is. PAIN. Lot's of pain. Extreme pain. Sick. Dizzy. Hey, how'd I get down to the platform? Head throbbing. Home. Must. Get. Home.

Short sleeve dress shirt man is back. Saying something about CTA guys not helping. Told him to use his cell phone to call an ambulance. Woman I took down is angry. Dizzy. Sick again. Really sick. People yelling at me. Hey, I know it's gross! You think I make a habit of puking on subway platforms? You think this is fun for me? And by the way I can't feel a thing in my left leg and my right inner thigh has possibly been set on fire. Woman asking me where I want to go. Home. Duh. Home. What train? Which stop? Huh? Oh. Outbound. Damen. Yes. Outbound Blueline. Damen. Train door. Sit. Let her sit, she's hurt. Air vent. Oh glorious air vent. Face in the air vent. Oh blessed air conditioning. Thank you CTA.

Damen. Stop. Off the train. Head. Hurts. Keep it together. Almost home. Nearly there. How am I walking? I can't feel my leg. Just down a few flights of stairs. Let them all pass. Keep out of their way. Railing. I can do this. Concentrate. There. Did it. Cross the street. All these hip and trendy cool people at the Pontiac. I wonder if they can tell there's something wrong with me? Not that I care what they think. Just wonder if they can tell. Hmmm. Must be regaining consciousness. Need HWNMNBS. Need him badly. Maybe he'll surprise me and turn up now, at the very moment I need him most.

Two weeks later I still don't remember and cannot believe that I got on the train, down the stairs and up four flights to my apartment. But I know I did because that's when the memories really begin. I called my doctor's office thinking I might still catch her there. Nope, just missed her. But the nurse paged her and she called me within 10 minutes. She told me, as one would expect, to get to the emergency room immediately.

THIS I remember. I finally got the courage to look at my leg/ankle. I thought I was prepared. Another lesson I've now learned: Nothing prepares you for seeing your bones protruding at odd angles from your body.

Ill. Very ill. Pain. Increasing by the second. That's another interesting psychological phenomena. Once I actually looked at it, it started to hurt. Prior to that it was just numb with a general pain. Once I looked at it, it really started throbbing and jabbing at me.

So down and out to get a cab to the emergency room. Funny aside: I told the drive I needed to get to the Northwestern emergency room, he looked back at me, and apparently my demeanor was not as calm and collected as I thought. Because, he got me there in minutes. During rush hour. The usual $12 cab fare was $6. Maybe he gave me the concussion/whiplash/broken leg special, but I very vividly remember scenery whizzing by in a blur.

Then again, I was concussed...

But I guess I'm lucky to be alive. The emergency waiting room has a way of bringing one to humble humility. I am not exaggerating, that place is the Village of the Damned. That's all I kept thinking over and over. A woman having a miscarriage, a guy having a heart attack, a teenaged boy brain dead from a spinal cord injury, a little girl having an asthma attack, a guy with a rash on his leg (yeah, I know, who goes to the emergency room for a rash? but they took him before me, really annoyed the socks off me). And a bunch of other people with no discernable malady who chose to be in the emergency waiting room looking morose. And this is a private hospital. I can only shudder to think what the public hospital emergency rooms must be like. Once I actually got out of the waiting room, three and a half hours later, the exam rooms etc were wonderful and the staff was fantastic. I had an actual room in the emergency room. Real walls. Not flimsy curtains. A telephone at my disposal. A really comfy bed. I mean, this is like the emergency rooms on soap operas.

I was whizzed in for X-rays and CAT scans, and pampered in-between. Doctors, nurses, interns...all checking in on me, catering to me, truly making up for the three and a half hours prior in the Village of the Damned. With one exception (that couldn't be helped). No drugs. Not so much as a Motrin. Because of the assumed and then diagnosed concussion, I could have nothing except water. Nothing. So there I was, ankle bones protruding, huge bump on head, neck in spasms, and no drugs. Not even a bullet to bite.

Yadda yadda yadda

There are two fractures, one "splinter compound," one clean. A mild concussion. Whiplash. Lots of bruises and scrapes. Hadn't noticed my knee bleeding until the nurse brought it to my attention. Due to the extreme swelling, they could only make temporary treatments. They put a plaster splint wrapped with Ace bandages as a temporary cast, gave me crutches, prescriptions not to be taken until after 5:00 PM, and sent me out into the dawn to face the new day. By the time I got a cab home, the sun was coming up. Got home, slept off and on for two days, then ventured out only to see the orthopedic doctor Thursday morning.

The situation was re-assessed. The outer break is very clean and should heal well and quickly. The inner break, well, that's another uglier story. That we're not going to talk about until two weeks when new X-rays will be taken and the progress in healing can be evaluated. So I'm not allowing myself to think about it until then. The orthopedic surgeon sent me to yet another place (across the street) to be fitted and given a temporary "immobilizer." Which I learned is a clunky, huge, heavy brace that attaches itself to you by way of Velcro. Depending on my mood, it's either my new best friend or, my left foot. I still have to use crutches. It offers tremendous support, but I am getting really sick of it. I cannot wait to get my sport model (as promised) when I go back for re-evaluation. Hate crutches. Hate them.

I've made a tidy little nest of my bed, stacks of pillows, books, magazines, water, air conditioner, Furry Creature. And frankly, it's not sooo awful apart from the pain. Friends have been terrific about bringing me food and keeping me company when I was off work. So, bless you all for being there for me in my time of real need.

As for the concussion, I had a bit of a headache for a few days, but nothing as bad as I thought it might be. A little dizzy, but probably from being exhausted more than anything.

The whiplash, well, I'm no stranger to neck and shoulder pain, so really, this isn't as bad as I thought it might be. Now that I'm back at work I notice it "twinging" in the afternoons, but that's the extent of it at this point.

Took a week and a half off from work. Don't remember too much about it other than lounging in bed, writhing in pain, watching the clock for the okay to take the next pill. Read the new Harry Potter. (not at all compelling, had I not been forced into bed and half stoned I doubt I would have bothered to get through it)

Plus the prescription I have is VERY strong. I am utterly stoned while on it. Which may not be a bad thing. It's like living in an episode of the Simpson's. Everything is candy coated colors and voices sound just slightly the wrong speed. I thought this sort of drug dulled the senses. It seems to be making mine and ultra vivid scene. Again I say, not entirely a bad thing.

This was two weeks ago. I've had a few adventures since that I will share in the coming days.

8:14 PM

 
Hello! I know, it's been ages. You thought Trillian was dead. A common misconception.

No, Trillian has been on a ride wilder than Mr. Toad's.

No, HWNMNBS is not back. Though there was one conversation and a few, I mean very few, emails.

Sadly.

Wish I could report that due to our getting back together and spending every waking (and sleeping) moment together I've been unable to keep up with the Blog.

No, instead, huge project finally got finished. The culmination of months of work and effort. Ended not with a bang but a whimper, which was fine. No big deal. Glad it's over.

Since then it's been one thing after another. Oh, and work.

But now, due to forced time off my feet, I have nothing but time on my hands and, poor you, lots on my mind.

First: Why I am off my feet. Broken ankle. Whiplash. The concussion seems to be better. At least the headache has ceased and I'm not dizzy and nauseus every time I stand.

Second: How I got in this condition. Pushed down the subway stairs in an attempted mugging. During rush hour. Hoards of people saw the whole thing. No one did one thing to help me. Really. Not that I expect anyone to go out of their way, but in hindsite I do find it socialogically interesting and worth note that no one, not one person, helped a woman fallen and unconscious on the subway stairs.

Thid: I am back to work but on shortened hours.

What better time to fire up the old blog spot?!

So here sits Trillian in front of the computer blogging her brains out.

Please, if you're out there and want to chat or comment, please, please go ahead. I'm begging you. I am bored out of my mind, medicated and literally physically unable to do anything productive about either situation and would enjoy company and conversation.

Frame of reference: Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. Except I'm female and as yet, no male Grace Kelly counterpart has appeared.

So, welcome back from Trillian.

3:22 PM

 
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