Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Sorry about the un-linked links...this is a very emotional day for me, okay? They're all better now. Go to Beaulieu and have a blast. Tell 'em Trillian sent you.
2:07 PM
Blond Twins and Cars.
Is it sweeps week for educational TV?
Geek girls, how are you doing this morning? Sleep well?
Show three of the new season of the Roadshow. Innocently, seemingly boringly, show three of Cleveland. Just when I was lamenting on how few twin appearances there've been this season, WHAM! BLAM! Not one, not two, but three! special vignettes of the brothers Keno.
And they say PBS doesn't have enough gratuitous sex.
Blond Twins. How much more gratuitous can it get?
The opening sequence with the examination of the high boy was a nice treat. Nice start to the evening. Raised a glass in toast to the butt shot while bending over to pull out the bottom drawer. Looks like Leigh got a new suit. Very nice.
Then the rubbing furniture innuendo.
Oh my.
He said rub.
On PBS.
Is it the wine or is it getting hot in here?
"We like to rub furniture."
Well, come on over to my place, I've got a chest full of drawers you can put your hands on...
Sorry. Couldn't help it.
Didn't expect to see them after that.
The woman with the Roy Rogers poster better march herself back to the garage where she haggled the price of $50 and give the original owner $1,200. Split the value fair and square. It's the right thing to do. Especially since the show is aired on national television and she just bought the thing, there's a very high likelihood the owner who didn't know what they had will see this episode of the Roadshow and feel really awful for letting it go for $50. I know, that's the all part of the game. The "fun" of it. But in this case, the woman admitted she just bought it a few days prior and haggled the asking price down $25, at that.
And, the Kent State agreement? $15,000? Huh? The victims' families barely got that much in compensation. Historical document, I suppose, but $15,000?
Hey! Cars! In Cleveland! Cool! (Guide Aside: If you're ever in Cleveland (don't laugh - it could happen) check out the Crawford Auto and Air Museum, it really is very cool. Trillian can personally vouch for it's worthiness as a stop in the Universe.*)
Did Dan Elias get a perm?
Okay, back to the floor.
So, you've got a Thomas Moran painting hanging around, you think it might be worth "something." Do you not do a little online investigating to find out about the artist? Apparently not. Sure, some people are not into art. Some people don't care about art. Some people don't follow "lesser" known artists. But please. And I don't care what the appraiser said, early as it may be, it's going to clean up to be quite a looker.
Sorry. Had to get that off my chest.
So. Now. Hang onto your high boys, girls. Because it's time for...
Keno-O-Rama!
The twins! Corvettes! Casual wear! Jovial banter! Car talk! Something for everyone!
Oh. My. Leslie has apparently been working out. Oh. My. Pecks. Biceps. Very obvious through his polo shirt and khakis. Nevermind they're pulled up to Robert Palmer/Simon Cowell proportions, he's, oh my, he's BUFF!!!! Leslie Keno is buff! And Leigh's not looking too bad, himself. Oh sure, I've always loved the boys, nice and trim in their well cut suits. Always knowledgeable but never condescending or smug. Easy smiles. Intelligent. And nice. Really nice guys. And. Twins. Blond twins. Who love antiques. And don't appear to be gay.
But Leslie's been working out and he's buff.
I have to take some time to assess and evaluate my feelings about this. Right after I scoop my chin off the floor.
And here they were in their own special segment. About Corvettes. Breathe Trillian, breathe. Pay attention. Listen to what they're saying. This is educational television. You like them for what you can learn from them. Get your mind off those newly charted biceps and concentrate on the Corvettes. Wait. I already know all of this. I already know everything about Corvettes. I don't need to listen to what they're actually saying. I can drift off into whatever reverie I want.
Then a bunch of antiques I didn't care about - except, what about that woman trying to pass off that teapot as a Mayflower relic?! I don't mean to be a condescending snob, but was it not blatantly obvious the thing was a) of a more contemporary style (well, at least more contemporary than 1620) and b) that it's a transfer pattern? And a poorly done one, at that?
THEN, MORE KENO BROTHERS!!!!
Driving! A Corvette! Jovial banter! Really cheesy fun with editing. Leigh's driving! No Leslie! No Leigh! Really having fun with the twin thing. Dorks. They're really dorks. God I love them.
Another prime example of what Americans can do to the British. Sure, England has the original ideas, but it takes good old Yankee ingenuity, marketing, exploitation and t and a to make it a phenomenon. All in the Family. Family Feud. American Idol. and now, finally, after 7 seasons, the Antiques Roadshow. Yep. Only in America, home of the free and the brave. (gotta admit I still really love the UK Roadshow...)
Hey, that Susan Frackelton bowl was a beauty, eh? Really lovely. I have a vague recollection of being pulled out of a really nice twins in car fantasy by a really gorgeous piece of pottery. (you'd think my attention span for twins in cars fantasies would be a bit longer...but it was some bowl...)
Okay. Check my local listings and be sure to tape the show when it's aired again this week. Twins. Blond Twins. Dorky Twins. Adorable Twins. Furniture. Cars. Casual wear. Pecks. Biceps. Oh my.
*Must see stops for car lovers on your travels through the Universe are the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn (outside of Detroit) AN ABSOLUTE MUST SEE, plan to spend at least an entire day; while in Michigan, if you have time, head up to Flint to the Alfred P. Sloane Museum; Auburn-Cord Museum in Auburn, Indiana; and in England, Haynes Museum, Somerset; Beaulieu, New Forest - something for everyone here, cars, stately home, gardens, a really grand day out for the whole family. For the motorcycle enthusiasts, be sure to make a stop at Craven Collection of Classic Bikes. A bit out of the way, but worth the trip. There are also a couple on the Isle of Man - Manx Museum and Murray's Motorcylce Museum. Yes, that's really it's name. And a bunch in Scotland. If anyone really wants info on car museums in Scotland, email Trillian and she'll give you some suggestions.
Good thing I have this to get me through the day, because, today is HWNMNBS's birthday.
I shouldn't care.
(I do.)
I shouldn't even remember.
(I do.)
I shouldn't have sent him a birthday card.
(I did.)
I shouldn't be wondering if he got it...
(I am.)
..and what response it provoked.
(Anger? Joy? Pathos? Fear?)
I shouldn't be thinking, "Call him just to wish him happy birthday."
(I probably will.)
Because we all know there's a lot more to it than that.
(So what?)
I shouldn't be playing these stupid games with myself at my age.
(I'm pathetic.)
But I hope he's having a happy birthday.
(I do.)
The first one without me in 6 years.
(Sad to admit.)
Will this have some tragic, yet life altering effect on his psyche? Will it cause him to take stock of his life and realize what a horrible mistake he's made and give himself the best birthday present he could ask for, Trillian?
(I doubt it.)
Will us being split up and apart on his birthday have a deeper effect and impact on me than it will him?
(Of course.)
Will I ever forget or not care about his birthday?
(Probably not.)
8:40 AM
Monday, September 29, 2003
Let's give a big 'ol Universe welcome to:
Kilgore Trout
Trillian's Guide says: A very worthy outpost in the Universe. Stop in if you're in the neighborhood. Natives are friendly, insightful, witty and intelligent. Nightlife is questionable: Unusual interest in Hamms* beer and the natives appear to be celibate, which concerns us here at the Guide. This friendly little outpost may become extinct. So visit now while you still have the chance. Secret password: Aardvark.
*Guide intoxicology note: Hamms is a beer so vile, so revolted in the Universe that our beer drinking reviewers feel this native fascination with Hamms may have a direct correlation to the celibacy dilemma facing the inhabitants at Chaotic Not Random. Trillian says, "Can it really be any worse than Old Style? And besides, they have that cute little bear trademark...and wasn't there a jingle?" To which the beer drinking reviewers told Trillian to shut up, forget about marketing for a minute, drink her bloody Old Style and leave the beer connoisseurship to them. Trillian happily obliged to all but drinking her bloody Old Style. Which she is putting off as long as possible.
9:17 AM
120 Channels of Cable, and No Remote
I spent the weekend with my parents. Yes, I am still disabled and on crutches and yes, the 5+ hour trip each way was daunting. But sometimes you just want your mom. And any inconvenience or adjustment becomes insignificant. You travel any distance through any condition just to be with your parents - it's like reaching Mecca. You know waiting at the end of the journey is unconditional acceptance and love that will make it all worth while.
And it wasn't' that awful. I have to give kudos to the Amtrak people, they were surprisingly very nice and helpful in re my mobility issues.
My mother is the sort of mother who is honestly not happy unless she is fussing over one of her children (including my father). Which is nice... But over the years this has bothered me from time to time because I don't need fussing over and frankly, I'd like her to just sit down and relax. But she can't and won't, at least, not as long as there is a child or grandchild who needs fussing over. I've learned that to her, "taking care of us" is relaxing to her.
So when I arrived at their house, I was led to the family room couch where my mother had prepared a very comfortable sick bed for me. Pillows for my ankle, pillows for my head, blankets, the coffee table rearranged for my convenience, festooned with magazines, books, and every treat imaginable within arms reach.
My father's contribution in all of this were ramps he had fashioned out of wood (Why do dads have miscellaneous wood hanging around?) so that I could more easily traverse the few steps from the garage to the family room and from the deck to the yard. Nevermind that I've been managing four flights of stairs from and to my apartment every day, as long as I was at their house, under their care, I would not climb one stair. Which caused a bit of a problem when I needed/wanted to go upstairs, which my mother insisted I did not need to do. She hadn't considered that at least once over the course of the weekend I might actually want to shower or bathe.
My father's other contribution was the re-angling of the television so that I would have optimum viewing comfort.
Let me say this before I go any further: I adore my father. Love him. Wouldn't change a thing about him. He is a prince among men and you couldn't ask to be born to a better father and kinder person.
However, he has developed the male remote control obsession.
He re-arranged the television so that I could view it comfortably from the couch, helped me get situated in my weekend nest, turned on the television to The History Channel, and left me. Without the remote control.
I like The History Channel. BUT, there's a limit to how much History Channel, in fact, how much television, I can stomach. I waited for my mother to tend to an errand - I didn't want her to be at my beck and call over the remote and more to the point, I didn't want to drag her into what is obviously an ongoing issue of my father's dominance over the family room television. Then I hobbled over to his chair and side table to retrieve the remote.
Couldn't find it. My father HID the remote control.
He later meekly claimed "it must of fallen" behind his chair, but my mother and I know better. Even though he wasn't even in the house, he felt some Neanderthalic need to maintain dominance over the remote control.
Who leaves a person with broken leg on a couch with the television on, 120 channels of cable, hides the remote and leaves???!!!
Answer? A man.
I am able to laugh at this because I don't care about television and ended up turning it off. And because my father has never proved himself to be anything but a kind, generous, giving, considerate human being.
What this proves is that even the most wonderful man, father of the year, kind, generous to a fault, becomes a Paleolithic boob when it comes to the remote control.
To all the women out there who are citing "The Remote Control Issue" as a reason to break-up with (even divorce or kill) otherwise perfectly acceptable men: Stop it. Accept it and get over it.
If my dear father is powerless under its spell, I dare say there is no man who can resist its lure.
Tonight Trillian shall drink beer. Not just any beer, Old Style. Because so certain was I that the Cubs would mess something up somewhere this season, that I promised to drink an Old Style if they actually ended in first place.
And the Universe said Ha! Let's make Trillian drink beer. Really awful beer.
I cannot even begin to imagine the scene in Wrigleyville last night. Kind of sorry I missed it.
Greetings from the land of mullets ("not just a haircut, a way of life"), The Nuge and the worst baseball team in the country ever.
I had to get away for a few days, Friday's little incident angered me more than I initially realized.
And sometimes you just want your mom.
It's weird blogging from my dad's pc.
It makes me feel kind of dirty.
So I'm not going to do it anymore.
I will be keeping my word, I will be ceremoniously drinking an Old Style upon my return home.
Procure and put one in the fridge Arthur, I'll be back soon to make good on my promise.
And to further ensure the Cubs will go all the way and that I will do something I never in my life thought I would do, I am right now formally promising to drink not one bottle, but an entire case of Old Style if the Cubs win the Series this year. So Northsiders, get ready, the Universe loves nothing better than to mock Trillian, it will not be able to resist the temptation of making Trillian drink a case of Old Style. Sammy? Kerry? This one's for you.
Friday, September 26, 2003 Humanity: 4,285 Trillian: 0. Danish anyone?
Who the Hell mugs a crippled person? Who?
Two kids no more than 17 years old, that's who.
Not that I expect common thugs to follow any sort of code of ethics.
But to attempt to steal the backpack off a woman on crutches? By pulling her crutches away and pushing her down?
Sadly, on second, third and fourth thought I expect no less.
I'm no criminal, but seems kind of stupid to try to steal an entire backpack that is securely strapped to a person.
And at the bus stop on a main street - not a ton of people around in the early morning commute hours, but incidentals walking dogs, making Starbucks runs and walking to the train/bus stops. Lots of traffic driving by...someone is bound to notice a woman with a cast up to her knee, dressed in business clothes sprawled out on the sidewalk crutches spewed beside her with two kids trying to pry her backpack from her.
Just doesn't seem like the obvious choice of prey to me.
Stupid, of course, really, really stupid. Obviously they're desperate.
This time around, though, someone DID see, and actually helped me. Two women jogging with their really big dog came to my rescue, the kids of course fled as fast as their $150 Nike's would carry them.
One of the Jogging with Really Big Dog Women called 9-1-1.
But knowing the joke that is the (greater metropolitan area) Police Department, I knew better than to expect any immediate or even timely response.
The Jogging with Really Big Dog Women were aghast when I told them about the over an hour response time to the beating and car breaking in I witnessed a few weeks ago.
We waited. And waited. And waited.
One of the Jogging with Really Big Dog Women called her brother who also lives in the neighborhood. Two back and forth calls and 20 minutes later, he showed up with coffee and danish. Seriously. I mean, nice, really nice of him, really, really nice. Don't get me wrong. Very thoughtful. And I was/am filled with gratitude and renewed faith that there are some decent people on this planet. But now, a few hours later, I have to question, who the Hell brings coffee and danish to the scene of an attack?
I was attacked! Assailed! For the second time in three months! I want Starsky and Hutch, not Queer Eye.
One hour and 25 minutes after the first call to 9-1-1, two squad cars showed up.
Again, not exactly Starsky and Hutch, but nice guys. Good ol' Sout-Side Boys. Guys to whom I personally would not give any lip or crap. Which was good enough for me under the circumstances. Not as if I had any choice in selecting my cops anyway.
They asked us the details of the perps - though they didn't call them perps, they had more colorful, choice terms. Which, perhaps wrongly, endeared me to these guys. No pretense here, no political correctness. Called them exactly as they are. (after the cops left, danish baring Queer Eye brother was shocked! that the cops were so open with their derogatory comments)
They wanted to call for medical back-up, but I insisted I didn't need it. I didn't.
Then a really weird, loud screetchy noise came from one of the squad car's radio. Sout-Side Cop #2 pulled out the little walkie talkie on a cord thing (just like on TV! but wait, haven't communication electronics progressed beyond cords and walkie talkie dispatch thingies?) and began a very strangely coded conversation. All in Sout-Sidenese, too boot. So none of us non-cop folks had a clue what was going on.
Next thing we knew, another squad car peeled up with the equivalent of a showy and smug shush-stop on skies.
WITH THE TWO KIDS IN THE BACK SEAT!!!!
THE PERPS WERE APPREHENDED!!!!
And now we learned The Rest of the Story.
After being thwarted and terrorized by the Really Big Dog (and maybe my donkey kicks) the kids sprinted down an alley and into the loving arms of my block's Citizens Action Patrol captain who happened to be taking out his trash. And happened to have his cell phone with him while taking out his trash. (yuppies. sometimes you gotta love 'em.) And knew something was seriously not right, and called his emergency dispatch code to the Citizen's Action Patrol unit in our neighborhood. And took off after the kids, AND, was able to tackle one down. Meanwhile, two other Citizen's Action Patrol guys showed up. None of these guys knew what had happened, but knew the kids were guilty of something, and detained the kid the guy had knocked down.
Fortunately, the call from Jogging with Really Big Dog Women had already been placed and a squad dispatched. Because the Citizen's Action Patrol apparently has more clout (because the cops know the entire purpose of the Citizen's Action Patrol is to do the job the cops don't but should be doing they respond quickly to calls from Citizen's Action Patrol - trying to prove how quickly they respond. (sic.)) the squad dispatched to my crime scene instead went to Citizen's Action Patrol apprehension crew. I could take serious issue with this, but since it all turned out okay I'm not going to launch into a "see? the police in this city are crap, they don't give a damn about local citizens and good tax payers who are victims of crime" right now. Though it would be valid point.
The squad who was with the Citizen's Action Patrol boys then got another call saying two blocks away another attempted mugging had occurred, by a kid matching the description of the second of my attackers. So they cuffed perp #1, threw him in the back of the car, and went to the scene of attack #2. Where, the kid had fallen and, love the irony here, got his ankle caught in a fence while trying to jump it to hide in a construction area. They apprehended and cuffed him, apparently the two thug friends were happy to be reunited, and took them to the scene of attack #2 where the woman he tried to mug gave a positive identification and witness statement. Then they brought them to the scene of MY crime for positive I.D. and further statements from myself and the Jogging with Really Big Dog Women.
I love this part...they opened the back door of the squad car so we could see them and identify them, and as soon as they did, Really Big Dog who had been lolling around on his back, wanting tummy rubs from all of us, begging Danish from his uncle, sniffing the cops and getting ear scratches from them and generally being a big old softy, sprang into fang bearing, scary growling, eyes squinty attack mode. And scared the kids badly. I think one of them wet himself. The cops cracked up, I mean, they LOVED THIS, and agreed they couldn't ask for a more positive identification.
AND, when Jogging with Really Big Dog Women tried to restrain him, the cops said, and I don't think all that jokingly, "Let 'im at 'em." Jogging with Really Big Dog Women and doggy uncle were a bit surprised by the cops' rather vicious and cavalier attitude toward the perps, (I wasn't. Remember, I'm nonplussed) and finally got Really Big Dog restrained. But not calmed. He was straining on his lead and growling with an occasional bark until the squad car pulled away.
I was/am fine, a few scrapes to my hands when I hit the pavement, sore knuckles from giving my best hooks, a couple of broken nails (got some really good scratches in on one of them) and a little tenderness in my broken ankle from trying to kick the kids with my cast (I do think I got one very nicely placed blow in on one of them, he was knocked back against a wall. My sincere hope is that it was enough of a blow that I have rendered him sterile. I know. Fat chance. But it's my attack and I'll delude myself if I want to...)
People in my office, who already question my state of mental being, are shocked and amazed that I'm at work. It never once occurred to me to not come into work. I didn't think twice about it, get the police stuff sorted out, clean myself up a bit and go to work. But when I called in saying I'd be late because I'd been attacked while waiting for the bus, our administrator, who is the only one in the office who would notice or care I wasn't there yet today, launched into a huge fit of "oh my God are you okay you're not really coming into work today are you out of your mind you must be horrified I wouldn't leave my apartment for days do you have someone with you, you shouldn't be alone what is this world coming to oh my god oh my god I can't believe anyone would attack a woman on crutches oh my god..." And of course she loved being able to spread this new bit of gossip about Trillian all over the office, and of course when I showed up I was greeted with "What are you doing here's?" and "Are you sure you're okay?" Which on the surface are well intentioned, even kind, queries. But of course they showed their true intentions when they followed up with, "So, who were they? Did they try to rape you? Did they get any money from you? Was it the same person who mugged you in July? Do you think they'll come back to find you?"
Most people don't really care, but want to hear any sordid details. And ask by way of very personal and strange questions that never occur to them might be painful or embarrassing for me. Well. For a normal person.
Thursday, September 25, 2003 Put on Eric Carman and Pour a Strong One
So I did it. I called New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin.
He of last Friday night.
He of the Lap Dance of the Cripple.
He of the alleged crippled chick fetish.
He of the woman who answers his cell phone.
And because I'm such a, such a, what? Such a Trillian, I guess, I said, "oops, sorry, wrong number," hung up, and DIALED AGAIN.
Of course the same woman answered.
And because I'm such a, such a, what? Such a Trillian, I guess, I said, "Oh, hi, me again, I'm calling for New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin."
Over the din of what was clearly a bar, I got the distinct, cold, flat response of a woman who is really pissed off because she answered her date's/boyfriend's/husband's/guy she's sleeping with's cell phone and another woman is calling her date/boyfriend/husband/guy she's sleeping with.
I know that distinct, cold, flat response tone of voice because I have pulled that distinct, cold, flat tone of voice in my own voice.
"He's away from the table. Can I tell him who called?" Flatter. Colder. Growing hostile.
"Uh. No, that's okay. I'll catch him at work tomorrow."
Why, oh why did I try to save face for this guy? Why?? I mean, I barely know him, he claims to have a fetish for crippled women, I waited almost a week to call him anyway, clearly he's not someone figuring prominently in my fantasy life, so why am I protecting him from himself? Why bail him out, save his face (and ass) by making it sound like I was calling about a work related topic? Why? Why was that my first and knee jerk reaction?
Why didn't I say what I was really thinking, "Yes, please tell New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin that Trillian, the crippled lap dancer from the bar last Friday night called and is hoping for a repeat this weekend, only this time let's really get a freak on. M-Kay? Got all that? Trillian. Crippled. Lap Dance. Bar. Weekend. Freak-on. Kay?! Thanks, you're the best! Cheers!"
It's possible, remotely possible, the woman was a colleague or some other non date/girlfriend/wife/sleeping with person, but from her tone I really, really doubt it. Women know that tone. That subtle blend of edge, annoyance, jealousy, bitch and lioness protecting her cubs that only surfaces when our status with a date/boyfriend/husband/guy we're sleeping with is threatened by another woman.
Women reading this know EXACTLY the tone to which I am referring. I can see nods of agreement and hear the knowing "emmm hmmm, yep"s all the way across the Universe and onto my screen.
Men reading this: Take notes.
We know. We always find out, and we always know.
Another Zaphod. My Universe is brimming to capacity with them.
Not that I was really interested. No spark in the eye. No sucker me in every time smile. No side splitting laughter. I know that doesn't happen to many people, I was lucky, really, really lucky to have it once, I cannot possibly expect to have it with anyone else. But...
It would be nice to have a boyfriend, or dare I tempt the fates of my Universe, a husband. Or at least someone who gets even a small bit of my admittedly odd personality, accepts me as is, has sex with me and makes the rest of life bearable. Or at least tolerable. Or at least better than it is now.
I pinned no hopes on New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin, none. The call was placed in a going-through-the-motions attempt to "get back out there" when I really don't want to anyway. Half hearted and half assed.
The point to be reckoned here is why I spared him torture from his date/girlfreind/wife/chick he's sleeping with by trying to pass my call off as "just a work thing."
Sort of not like me. Given this exact situation pre-HWNMNBS, I would have really had a blast with it, said exactly (or worse) what I was thinking. I know this to be true because I did it on a several occasions. (Yeah, I've met a lot of jerks in my dating career. Too many. Learned to deal with them, beat them at their own stupid games, very early on in life. I know. Connect a few dots Trill, might be why you're still single and attracting the worst the Universe has to offer in the way of men...)
But since HWNMNBS, where no games were involved, ever, I don't have the patience or tolerance for this crap, and, it appears, I've also lost my ability to play anything except roll over, die and get trampled upon.
And this is exactly what I mean about an insignificant catalyst. It's not that New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin meant anything to me, that he, himself, has the ability to hurt me. (he emphatically does not)
It's that these little vignettes in my life hurtle me right back to the: I Was So Happy with HWNMNBS and I Miss Him So Much I Can't Stand It moments. And the more of those I have, the less likely I am to ever be anything other than Miss Havisham. I am mere vignettes away from stopping my clocks at 8:40. (Though thankfully, my wedding dress is (I think) shoved safely in the back of a closet at my parent's house, where it shall remain to protect me from completely becoming Miss Havisham.)
Man. This is a bad scene. Major buzz kill here tonight at Life of Trillian.
Tonight: A Very Special Life of Trillian. Trill's down. Got the "Met Another Jerk, Miss My Man" Blues.
Sorry. This really belongs on an "I Am Miss Havisham" blog.
Let's see...art...music...books...movies...genius marketing plans...hmmmmm...Oh! Check out Virgin's new line of electronics, Pulse . Really, really great stuff. Dick's hit on something big here. The down-market, erm, "affordable" market of the moment trend of creating and selling a line of affordable to the masses merchandise at Target is really taking off (Mossimo, Peter Graves, Todd Oldham, Isaac Mizrahi). Dick, though not innovating it, certainly jumped on early enough with the cell phones and now the Pulse line. Looks really promising.
If Richard Branson doesn't hire me soon I am going to die. I don't mean Veruca Salt fit die, I mean literally die of unused potential that only Dick can recognize, utilize, exploit and pay me what it's really worth (a lot).
Actually, if you're well compensated I don't think you can be exploited, too.
Even if there's an argument against that argument, frankly, if Dick's the one exploiting me I don't care. Exploit me, Dick! Use me! I'm yours! If being used and exploited by Dick is wrong, I don't want to be right.
The opportunity to absorb the aura that is Dick, watch and learn, and then put Virgin and Richard Branson on my resumé would be well worth any exploitation that may result from me offering up my creative genius, resourcefulness, quick rapier wit, innovation and general all around Trillianity to him.
And, it would be mutual exploitation. The two exploitations would cancel each other out and therefore no exploitation on either side would actually occur. See? Everyone wins! Me, Dick, Virgin, the public, the Universe...it's all good.
And, I am just positive HWNMNBS will come crawling back begging mercy and forgiveness the very minute Dick hires me.
It will have all been a huge misunderstanding. HWNMNBS will have been on the journey to the depths of his soul, having sought out and found the meaning of his life. Which is in fact, after all, to be with me. His absence during this journey will have forced me to journey to some pretty deep places, too. It will turn out we both needed this time apart to grow more as individuals and consequently as a couple. Without HWNMNBS leaving me, I would have apathetically toiled at a mediocre job, used mere specks of my creative genius, happy just to be with HWNMNBS. His leaving me left me with only my job to concentrate on, therefore made me examine, question and grow to loathe my underutilized, underpaid job and consequently yearn for so much more: Dick.
(Relative) sanity, happiness and financial well being restored, all will be well in the Universe.
Tonight's episode of Fantasy Island brought to you by Target. Come see the new Virgin Pulse line of consumer electronics at Target. We're hip. We're trendy. We're cheap.
9:16 PM
Thursday's Things I know for Sure:
There are 28 million single women over the age of 35 in the United States alone.
And 18 million single men over the age of 35.
Men are born with the Stooge Factor. It's in their DNA and linked to the Y chromosome.
Seeing a grown man blush is very endearing.
Your mom's right, you do need brighter lipstick and some blush.
The first sweater of Fall is the best sweater of the year.
Korina Longin is the new butt of evil.
If Freddy Mercury had lived, gotten old and bald, he would look like the new, thinner Dr. Phil.
Duran Duran have not lived long enough or achieved enough to win a lifetime achievement award for anything.
Everyone on the planet has a favorite song.
Amazon is bundling the Pop Up Kama Sutra with Alice in Wonderland.
B) Please can I have the television rights to the sale? Please? Pretty please?
I can see it all so clearly. The (poorly) hand painted sign on posterboard announcing "Garage Sale 2 day" in front of Elton's place.
All the residents of Stellar Street, I mean, Holland Park, showing up to go through his stuff and haggle prices. Can you just see Madonna, kid falling off her hip, arguing over the value of a corset with Elton?
Please, please, please let me have the television rights. I really, really, really want to do this.
12:39 PM
Wednesday: Real Reality. Putting the Real in Reality TV.
The problem with reality TV, as regular readers will know, is that it's not real. Let me repeat for the slower members of the Universe. It's. Not. Real. Great marketing gimmick, but It's. Not. Real.
And hence Real Reality Wednesdays here at Life(?) of Trillian.
As a public service to readers, producers, Richard Branson, Simon Cowell and the entire Fox Reality Enterprise, and anyone else wanting to hire Trillian and pay her lots of money for her great ideas, we're putting the real into reality TV.
This week's installment:
Extremely Local Pub
Go to any local pub/bar anywhere in the world (small towns would play better (sic.)). Nothing glamorous or trendy, no place where Marc Jacobs, Michael Kors or Donetella regularly hang out. Or where anyone even knows who they are. Get the picture? Just an extremely local bar. Start rolling cameras around 7 PM on a Friday night. Early enough to catch people coming in after a long day/week at work.
Then just sit back and watch the madcap hilarity ensue.
At closing time, viewers at home call in and vote for their favorite drunk.
There will be regional mid-season (ratings sweep week) re-caps/behind-before the scene interviews/where are they now segments, and a season finale where the weekly winners will be flown to, oh, I don't know, Escanaba, put in a bar and left to their own devices.
The point some critics will make is: Why watch it on TV when you could go down to your own local and live it?
BUT THAT'S THE UTTER BEAUTY OF IT! (Trillian excels in Genius in Simplicity plans, in case you haven't noticed)
No one will look at the women and men and think - "wow, she's a bitch but she's really hot, I can't wait for the Jell-O shots to kick in and she gets freaky in a hot tub," or "wow, he's really stupid but mmmm, nice pecks, I hope he gets in a hot tub in the next half hour." NONE of these people have any aspirations or ulterior motives beyond going out for drinks after work. None of these people will be hoping to get noticed by a casting director and put on "A Very Special Boston Public" or Women of __________ Calendar. They're just people. People who need liquor. (the luckiest people in the world) Real people. People to whom real people can relate.
Those watching at home will think, "Hey, isn't that Bob from accounting drunk and singing I'm Coming Out? Whoa! Is that Trillian from creative services giving a lap dance? No it can't be, she has a broken...oh God. It's her. Honey? Come in here, you've got to see this! You know that woman I told you about from work? The spider loving Stooge hating vegetarian? She's on TV! You gotta see this! Where's that blank tape...oh sod it, I'll record over the season finale of Cupid..."
Who wouldn't tune in to see their colleagues, friends and neighbors drunk at a bar on hidden camera?
It's like going out after work only you don't have to go out after work. You can play along at home. And spare yourself the shame and embarrassment of actually making a fool of yourself on in public or on television. You can laugh and sympathize with the participants at the same time.
Little insider secret here: That, my friends, is the core of successful television. Humor and empathy. Make it believable, too, and you've got the best reality television show ever made.
Very regular people doing very regular things pretty much all of us have done at least once in our lives. Like innocently going out for drinks after work and ending up 12 hours later drunk and with a vague realization that you've just done something really stupid/funny/mean/?. Sometimes making fools of themselves, sometimes stumbling upon deep insight, sometimes seeing the world through beer goggles, sometimes making a love connection (usually failing) or breaking up a relationship. (that would be good for the Very Special Extremely Local Pub - "Tonight, Trillian and Cute New Guy with Cleft in Chin discuss their relationship since the lap dance. Did Trillian call him? Does he really have a fetish for handicapped women? Tune into a Very Special Extremely Local Pub tonight and find out.")
And the opportunities for shameless product placement are endless. Cha Ching! Advertisers will be lining up to throw money at the network who airs this show.
Pretty good idea, huh? I'd absolutely watch. It's got elements of all the classics: Candid Camera, Cheers, any office sit com, Love Connection, COPS...and home viewing audience participation!
It's got it all! Secrecy, voyuerism, humor, love, sex, law AND it's interactive!
It could have judges, at a corner table (getting drunk, too) or off camera, like golf announcers. All hushy voiced, "ooh, he's going to have to be careful how he plays this one, he knows he's only got one shot to make it..."
"Jane doesn't realize the coworker to whom she is complaining about work is actually sleeping with their boss. Let's listen in..."
"Bob's spectacular karaoke performance may turn out to be a pivotal personal moment - I always thought he was gay, didn't you Ron?" "Yes, John, I've heard the rumors, but thought he might just be a metrosexual, but after tonight's, um, performance I think those gay rumors have been substantiated."
"Trillian has been triple dog dared, let's watch....and what a show! We haven't seen drunken lap dancing like this since, since, well, frankly we've never seen lap dancing like this!"
"Alan's really determined to drive home tonight. What dexterity! He got the key in the ignition after only five tries! Wooooo! Look at him go! That's at least a 15 foot trail of rubber he left on the pavement! Wait...now...wait for it, wait for it...YES! Here comes Mike the local cop! Sirens really blaring tonight, Mike's really giving it his all. Yes, yes, he's got Alan pulled over. Will he pass his breathalyzer test?"
Remember the old Monty Python game show skit where they showed incriminating hidden camera shoots (a middle aged man "having lunch" with his secretary) with a timer running, the subjects of the shoots were allowed to call in and pay off the announcer to stop rolling the footage? (I love that skit - genius, pure comedic genius if you haven't seen it, look for it) That could be an angle to tap into with Extremely Local Pub, as well.
There could be a Barney-o-Meter, rate the participant's foolish drunken behavior on a scale of Barney's (from The Simpsons). One Barney being just slightly buzzed, pleasantly relaxed but not funny or stupid, to five Barney's being lap dancing with broken leg drunk.
Judges could be: Matthew McConaughey (if things got dull, he could provide live entertainment in the form of naked bongo drumming), Robert Downey, Jr. (in his Wonder Woman costume - he'd make a great Simon, eh? I just realized that...), and Paula Poundstone (Poundstone...Abdul...whatever).
Celebrity guest judges could include Bobby Brown/Whitney Houston, Charlie Sheen, Woody Harrelson, whichever Backstreet Boy just entered re-hab...
As an aside to all this drunken behavior, can someone please explain to me how it's possible for a guy who's not only been in rehab, but was taken there by Charlie Sheen, to get a gun license? I mean, if Charlie Sheen thinks you have a problem, it's got to be pretty serious. Okay, so it's Georgia, I know, there's a different, um, perspective down there. But still. Charlie Sheen took this guy to re-hab. Charlie Sheen. And now he wants a gun license. I know, I know, The Rule of I refuse to Comment or Get Involved with the Stupid Publicity Gimmicks Used by B and C and D List Celebrities, (or any "celebrity" unless they involve very good marketing technique) But. Guns and substance abuse (no matter how recreational) should never, ever mix. You'd think Jen would have learned something from her Selena role...
7:37 AM
Trillian's Guide to the Universe Entry: The natives seem very friendly, appears to be some nightlife and pets are welcome, but small children should be accompanied by a supervising adult. 9:50 AM
I just want to get on the buses and get to work. That's all. Just get to work in one relative piece. And it would be nice if I could be left alone throughout that process. Apparently that's asking way too much of the Universe.
I'm on crutches. And a huge ugly cast up to my knee. It is blazingly evident to anyone who is not sight impaired that I am disabled.
And over the past few months I have learned and accepted that society in general is in a rude, inconsiderate, horrible state of being.
But there are a few people in those ranks so vile, so horrible, that I feel a need to honor them.
Today's winner is:
The 20-something Latina in scrubs who works at a hospital and rides the same two buses I do every morning and afternoon. 4 out of 5 days our paths cross on both buses either to or from work.
A side note here...my research indicates hospital workers rank highest in apathy for humankind when they are not actually "on the clock." Seriously. I know they are healthcare professionals because they're wearing scrubs and lab coats and nurse uniforms. So far not one, not ONE healthcare professional (and there are a lot of them on the 666 bus because it goes to a major medical facility/hospital) has offered me their seat or help. Not ONE in ten weeks. NOT ONE. I'm observing and keeping records. I know. Not one in the whole lot who ride the bus to work. And, worse, they have the nerve to look me in the eye, challenging looks, like, "You want my seat? Too bad. You can't have it." (other non-healthcare professional rude members of society won't look at me - they pretend to not see me in an attempt to assuage their guilt for not giving the crippled woman their seat. And I suppose there are a few who might be afraid broken legs are contagious and even acknowledging me would be to risk infection.)
Anyway. 20-something Latina and I are on a similar schedule. And every time the bus approaches she will run, and I mean literally run, to get on the bus ahead of me, no matter if it's just the two of us (as is often the case at our afternoon transfer) or in a queue of 10 -15 people (as is often the case in our morning transfer). She's pushy and rude in general, I've noticed, but seems to be more so to me. I have seen her let other people get in front of her in the queue to board, so I think it's something personal against me. (Not that I'm hurt by her rebuff, doubt she and I have much in common, no love or friendship lost there.)
I will say this again: I do not expect or even want people to go out of their way for me. I don't even expect or want help. However, on a crowded bus with designated handicapped seating, and signs in three languages stating: "Senior and disabled seating. Please give up these seats to someone who needs it." Oh, and there's the big white DISABLED and wheelchair painted on the seats just in case a person didn't notice or can't read one of the three languages.
I would assume someone, particularly a healthcare professional, would leave one designated disabled seat open for the woman on crutches. And frankly, I need it. And I think it's obvious to anyone with the gift of sight that I need it. But this girl has repeatedly plopped herself in the last seat available, always a disabled seat, and then given me a smug look of satisfaction as I board the bus (behind her because she's raced to get ahead of me and take the last seat). I guess credit should be given that she has the nerve to look me in the eye after this blatant broach of etiquette.
This morning we reached a pinnacle of sorts. We had words. There was a huge crowd waiting for the 666 bus. One finally arrived, crowded to the point that I didn't even attempt to move toward the queue, opting to wait for the next bus rather than try to finagle myself and crutches onto the mob of people on the bus.
Fortunately, a second bus was seen on the near horizon. Latina girl spotted it, too. And hung back from the queue. A few others noticed us, checked up the street and hung back, as well.
Sure enough, the second bus arrived, and everyone who waited ran, I mean RAN to clamor onto the bus. As if it were a race for their lives. healthcare professional Latina chick brushed beside me (intentionally, I'm sure) and as ever, got ahead of me and of course, took the last available seat, a disabled seat, and cast her usual satisfied look my way as I boarded the bus (last - everyone else pushed ahead of me, which is another strange phenomenon I'm keeping records on). So I stood there and looked right back at her. She said something in Spanish. I just raised my eyebrows and said, "I speak English - you know, since I'm in America and everything..." (the bus driver laughed at this, as did the woman trapped next to Latina chick)
Sensing her losing stature, she said, "Oh. Did you want this seat?" But it's important to note there was not one hint of emotion in her voice, AND, she made no attempt or gesture to move. Her stuff was firmly placed around her, as was her butt in the seat. She wasn't going anywhere, it was a gesture in word that she had no intention of following through with in gesture.
Knowing this, I said, very loudly, dripping in sarcasm, "No, really, you get nice and comfortable. I'd much rather stand." And of course, she took it verbatim and hunkered down in her seat. And finally, a guy who witnessed all of this, also sitting in a disabled seat, stood up and said, disgruntled, "Here, take my seat." and huffed off to a seat in the back of the bus.
Why the huff? I have no idea. He was young, able bodied and sitting in a disabled seat. Sure, the Latina chick should have never taken the last seat or a disabled seat, knowing full well that in the queue behind her is a woman on crutches. But given the fact that she made it very clear to everyone in the front of the bus that she is an inconsiderate bitch, the guy, also in a disabled seat should have surrendered his seat. Happily. Smugly to the Latina chick.
But that's in the world where people have manners and consideration for other people.
I don't live in that world.
Healthcare professional Latina chick then, as she exited at her stop at the hospital, had even more nerve to cast me a parting snide look.
I can hardly wait to see her tonight or tomorrow morning. Which I'm sure I will.
Such a pleasant way to start my day.
I cannot get out of The Immobilizer, off crutches and off the buses soon enough.
9:34 AM
Monday, September 22, 2003
Remember the episode of Yogi Bear where Yogi tries to not hibernate so he can experience Christmas? (I think there was an Anne Margaret song in it) Yogi puts logs in his eyes to keep them from closing, but his lids are so heavy with sleep the logs snap. Or was that Fred Flintstone? Maybe both. Probably both. Hannah Barbara used the same gimmicks in all their cartoons. (to wit: Anne Margrock - singing to Pebbles, maybe even the same song.)
Whichever, that was me in my meeting this morning.
This coming down off caffeine and sugar/sleep deprivation thing is really awful.
I've known it all along. I knew better. I knew I'd suffer. But I was thirsty. It was the only thing available. I had to choose the lesser of two evils...
You innocently have a Diet Pepsi at 7 PM, and at 1:30 AM you're wide awake, unable to concentrate on a book, cleaning the bathroom, trying on dresses from the nether regions of your closet, writing Aunt Mary that long overdue letter (but not finishing it), watching "Goodbye Galileo" the Galileo End of Mission Webcast (www.nasa.gov), looking for that earring that's been missing for a few weeks, making a list of your all time favorite songs, all the while trying to get the cat to wake up and play.
Along with all my other questionable qualities, I am also caffeine free.
Have been since I got off Tab (yeah, remember that crap? I'm still afraid of what malady will manifest from the Tab Years).
Oh, there've been dalliances, occasional cups of tea, the odd few sips of Pepsi here and there, but not on a daily (or even weekly or monthly), need to have basis.
But yesterday afternoon, I was thirsty - we're talking Sahara in a mouth here - and the only liquid available to me was Pepsi or Diet Pepsi.
I didn't even drink half the bottle.
Got home, tried to de-tox with water and lots of it.
Thought I did a pretty good job of it...until I went to bed.
And laid there wide awake.
At midnight I finally gave in and gave up and got up to do something since I was wide awake.
"Sure," I told myself, "you need to make yourself go to sleep. You've got to finish that report, attend a Very Important Meeting, and be the driving creative force behind the organization tomorrow. Get past this caffeine reaction and get some sleep. You're going to suffer tomorrow if you don't."
And yet, sleep would not come.
The last time I remember looking at the clock it was 1:52.
6 AM, of course, I was just nicely drifting into REM sleep when Furry Creature, seeking full retribution for my earlier interruptions to his sleep, came bounding in, full throttle, toy mouse in mouth, ready to play.
I gave a lame attempt at throw and fetch, but knew I had to get up anyway. Report. Meeting. Driving Creative Force.
Coming down off a caffeine buzz is weird and annoying and I don't like it.
Sleeping it off would have been the preferred method of overcoming this biological anomaly. But because of the Report, Meeting, and Driving Creative Force, the clear option seems to be more caffeine for re-aligning the delicate balance of my internal microbes that are clearly out of whack. But I won't do it. I will resist. I am stronger than caffeine addiction.
Caffeine is bad. Nutrisweet is worse.
I honestly feel worse this morning, after ingesting 10 ounces of Diet Pepsi, than I did Saturday morning after ingesting God only knows how much tequila and Curaçao (otherwise known as blue margaritas).
Not that I am endorsing ingesting God only knows how much tequila and blue Curaçao.
Water. And lots of it.
Report. Meeting. Driving Creative Force.
Yes sir. Right after I peel my cheek off my desk.
9:15 AM
Sunday, September 21, 2003 So, a woman, a black, two Jews and a cripple walk into a bar...
When your life imitates a James Watt remark and you make a joke about it and people actually get it, it's kind of funny. But also kind of scary.
If you get that last sentence and the title, you're old enough to read this blog. Or at least old enough to have lived through the Reagan era or studied it. Or you are in fact James Watt. In any case, congratulations, you survived, and hello.
Last night a few friends (the woman, black and two Jews) corralled me down to the local for some after work libations. Since I have to spend time in Hell today researching, designing and implementing a marketing plan that will bedazzle all the senior management (Shouldn't take long. Smoke and mirrors. They're pretty easy to bedazzle. But I digress.) I resisted.
"No!" I exclaimed. "I do not want blue drinks and chips! I do not want them on my lips! I must, I must, work in the morn, so take them away, don't make me scorn!"
I had already worked late, gone home, slipped into something more comfortable and onto the couch, curled up with Furry Creature, and a glass of wine.
My Friday night plans were all for naught. One of the drawbacks of living in a hip and trendy neighborhood with lots of restaurants and bars is that people frequently pop in because, well, they are literally in the neighborhood. And need to use the bathroom. Or expect that I am just sitting around waiting for them to call from the bar two blocks away to come join them. I mean, it's nice to have friends who care and all, but sometimes you really do just want to curl up with the cat.
Digression. Sorry.
I was coerced and corralled, bewitched, bothered and bewildered, oops, no, that's my American Idol audition popping up.
Okay, I went of my own free will and got loaded with some friends down at the local and there's Hell to pay in Hell today. (No, that's going to be my American Idol audition song, an original composition. An ode to workplace violence. Not funny. I know. Poor taste. I know. But I'm suffering here. Do you hear me? SUFFERING. Cut me some slack.)
Once again, the subject of my Stooge hating, non-beer drinking, vegetarianism came up again. Why am I the topic (or butt) of all conversations lately? Maybe it's true, people do pick on the handicapped. Believe me, there is nothing funny about a broken leg.
Actually, there are a few funny things about it, but it's like Chris Rock - it's only okay and funny for the actual minority (or handicapper) to make the jokes and remarks, not society in general.
Sure there's Zaphod the Stalker, and The Guy Who Took It Out, and the Karaoke Party for a Colleague I Don't Even Like...and of course The Spider. And the 666 bus. Yeah. I guess I can see why I might be the subject of conversation lately.
Man I am digressive today.
It may be the alcohol talking. I need to get some blood in my alcohol stream.
I'll try this again.
Four of my friends took me for drinks after work last night, and to make it easy on me, the crippled chick, we roosted a block from my apartment.
One turned into two, two turned into four...and eventually my protestations became slurred "what-the-heck-pour-me-another"s and, yadda yadda yadda, I was giving a lap dance to a guy who claimed to have a fetish for crippled women.
I know. I've reached new lows. But in my defense, it was one of those "Trillian's too nice of a girl to be into fetishes, especially like that" sort of things. The gauntlet was thrown down and I had to, yes had to prove that I'm not such a nice girl after all. And I was triple dog dared. And after the whole Spider Limbo Dance earlier this week, I was feeling very free and open - I mean, once you've stripped for the Mailroom Guy in the women's bathroom at work, everything else is pretty much a walk in the park. No more fear of flying for me.
The lap dance of the cripple.
Though no Jell-O shot gettin' freaky in the hot tub kind of girl, suffice to say, Trillian's been around a few blocks. And once or maybe twice, okay three times, I gave it the old "paying my way through" college try with lap dancing for HWNMNBS. In the safety, confines and comfort of our own La Z Boy, that is. What we learned is that I am very bad at it. Which worked for us because it was hysterical, and we're both the type to get very turned on by laughter.
What I learned last night is that a broken ankle does not improve one's lap dancing abilities, and, it's a lot more difficult in a bar chair than a La Z Boy. Suffice to say I'm lucky I don't have another broken bone this morning.
It went something like this. "Okay, one more, and then I have to go home. I've got to work tomorrow," checking watch, "Ooops, today. And I have to see a man about a horse."
Off my friend and I hobbled to the ladies room.
We returned to find two men in our seats. Men whom we did not know. Cute-ish men. Tall-ish men. One man with a cleft in his chin.
New men stood up to introduce themselves. Two men (spouses/friends) in our original group were shamed into standing up for us.(Don't you love it when the gallant new guy shames old guys into manners and decorum?!) New guys introduced themselves. The husband/friend of my friend gave me a wink and "knowing" furrowed brow look. I gave him a "What?" look. One of the new guys said, "He's trying to tell you my friend here wants to get to know you."
I know. Like something from a really bad movie. Sorry. But that's my life for you. A poorly written movie. Starring Phoebe Cates. If you know who Phoebe Cates is you're old enough to keep reading.
He blushed. The new guy actually blushed. I haven't seen a guy blush in so long...especially not in a bar at nearly last call. Not that I see a lot of men in bars at last call, mind you.
He helped me sit down and situate myself and crutches, and pulled over another chair for himself. Such a gentleman! Anyway, we made pleasant conversation, between us and around the table. It was all very nice and friendly and PG. G, at times, even.
Until I said, again, that I really had to go, I had to work today. New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin stood up to help me and whispered in my ear, "I really like you. I've got a thing for handicapped women."
Had I not been plied with liquor, I would have been a lot more mad or a lot more humored. But instead, I was nonplussed. (I've decided my general attitude anymore is "nonplussed," by the way) I rolled my eyes and said, "What is it with guys and crippled chicks?" Which of course drew a lot of attention and New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin was blushing redder than ever.
Then it hit me that, weird kink notwithstanding, this is actually a nice person and I've really humiliated him. I thought this really quickly. Quickly enough that I was able to add, without too much of an obvious pause, "...that you always ask us to dance?" I know, stupid. But I was under duress, it's the only thing that came to mind.
My friend asked, "You want to dance with her?" Catching on, New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin said, "Yeah, I guess that's kind of stupid (emphasis on stupid, casting a look at me) considering she has a broken leg." Drunken laughter.
At which point, friend's husband dared me to choreograph a lap dance. At least I thought that's what he asked. He's always daring me to do some slutty thing because he loves the irony of me, the "nice" girl, being asked to do something rude and naughty by the husband of her close friend. So naturally, I thought he said, "Oh, I dare you, that would be real sexy, a lap dance with with a broken leg."
"Lap dance? Daring me for a lap dance? Can I use my crutches?" Laughter and surprise, because, apparently, I found out this morning, he actually said something like, "Oh dear, that would be weird, she can't dance with a broken leg."
But knowing this guy as I do, over several years, I assumed, and heard: dare, sexy and lap dance.
But once the joke was out there, there was no going back. The table was running with it. Trillain! Broken leg! Crutches! Lap Dance! Ha!
The dare was up to Triple Dog status, New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin was egging me on. Two other tables were getting involved. Bets were being placed...
And then...and then...and then...the opening refrain of Stupid Girl was heard, something in me moved, and I thought, "Trillian, this is it. If you're ever going to publicly perform a lap dance, the time is now. With a broken leg, to Stupid Girl on a guy you've just met who has a crippled chick fetish."
How could I not? All the conditions were exactly right, a planetary alignment of sorts. I was certainly drunk enough to consider it and sober enough to reason out whether or not I actually should or could do it...and reason said, yes, Trillian, you shall lap dance tonight. Let it be written, let it be so.
And again, it may be the alcohol induced memory loss talking, but I think I did a pretty darned good job.
I remember channeling Madonna in the Open Your Heart video. I remember slithering around and doing modified squats over New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin. I remember thinking, "Wow, I really have to get back to the gym." I remember people laughing. I remember balancing on my crutches and putting a leg around New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin's shoulder/neck. I remember people trying to put money in parts of my clothing. I remember people clapping. I remember NOT falling. I remember my big finale was sitting on New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin's lap, facing him, staring him down and proclaiming, "Not bad for a crippled chick, eh?" then whipping my broken leg in the air, spreading myself sideways across him and striking a finale dramatic pose like they do in ballroom dance competitions.
My friends were in awe and hysterics. The people in the bar were begging for more.
Three men gave me their phone numbers.
And I think I might be booked for a bachelor party next weekend.
The really scary thing in all of this is that I wasn't that drunk. (I was still easily more halfway through a clean recitation of Jabberwocky for Pete's sake!) But New Tall Blushing Man with Cleft in Chin was quite drunk, and he finally openly admitted his fetish to my friends, as well.
All of whom will weigh in heavily on this subject as soon as they sober up or pry themselves off the bathroom tiles.
This is two self proclaimed handicapped fetishists I've encountered. I should have broken my ankle years ago!
Okay, sure, one turned out to be a bona fide stalker (still stalking me, by the way, but I'm trying to be careful and not be too public about this - it's reached truly worrying proportions. I can take him easily, even with one bad leg, but the harassment is really a hassle. Guess that's why they call it harassment.)
But this guy last night seemed okay. Well. Apart from the whole handicap fetish thing. He was with friends, which I have learned is generally a good sign. Anyone who is able to develop and maintain friendships probably has at least a few things going for him.
I've got his actual name and number, I may or may not call him. Not sure about this one. He's no HWNMNBS, no spark in the eye, no sucker me in every time smile, but, weird kink (or stupid pick up line) notwithstanding, he did seem pretty nice. Cleft in chin. Going to have to give this one some thought.
The last thing I need is another Zaphod or stalker in my life.
Funny as it will sound to anyone who knows me or regularly reads this, I'm not sure I could laughingly tell our grandkids about the night I met their grandfather. And not sure I could stomach hearing him tell them his side of the story. "Well, you see kids, I have this fetish for crippled women. That's why I love your grandmaw so much - she was on crutches when I met her, cast up to her knee, yes, what a looker! That night I saw our future, I just knew this was the girl for me. And look at her now, still that girl I met, a few hip replacements and a walker..."
Yadda yadda yadda, Secretary of the Interior.
Editor's note...Sunday morning, the day after the morning after...
Ooops, tee hee...silly me...blogging all these years and I left Saturday's blog (and it's a doosey (dusey? doozey? deusie?) sitting there unpublished.
Might have been Freudian.
Might have been sheer stupidity.
Might have been the hangover and work that turned out to be a lot more difficult and time consuming than anticipated. 8:14 AM
Friday, September 19, 2003 Karaoke and the Stooge Factor: Updates
Karaoke going away office party planned: Check.
Karaoke machine thingy as gift: Check.
Karaoke disks for machine thingy: Check.
Clandestinely arranged so as not to arouse suspicion in Guest of (questionable) "Honor" (quitter): Check.
Guest of honor: Ummmm, yeah, we've got a slight problem...the guest of honor appears to be MIA.
Why, why, why...how do I get myself into these things?
Oh yeah. I was forced against my will.
The party arrangements have been made, special opening time at the karaoke bar and everything, donations received, gifts bought, and now, the guest of (questionable) "honor" has decided to quit three weeks earlier than planned.
Because her friend and colleague was on the verge of being fired and quit before it happened.
And as a protest, the guest of (questionable) "honor" is leaving early in a show of sisterhood solidarity.
So of course all the party plans have to be re-arranged. My suggestion was, under the revised circumstances, cancel the party altogether. If she's going to leave early out of spite, then we're entitled to cancel her party out of spite. Right? Right. But for some reason the higher powers are insisting that we have still have an office going away party for her.
This whole thing is straight out of Office Space.
Meanwhile, revenues are at an all time low, no bonus this year, probably no or very little pay increase, people are jumping ship at an alarming rate, those of us still here are being forced to cover the responsibilities of the quitters, giant spiders are infesting the building...and all my boss and senior manager are concerned about is this stupid karaoke going away party.
(spare me the allusions to the Titanic, they're blazingly obvious)
Okay. Just had to get that out of my system. I am long overdue a well earned hissy fit of the Veruca Salt variety.
On the Stooge Factor front, ladies, the news is distressing but interesting. Guys, united you stand.
So far only three brave souls have stepped up and admitted to not liking the Three Stooges and not caring for sports, one is also a vegetarian, and, as he at great length pointed out, gay. And wants to come to my office karaoke party. But there is hope! So far all the men who've responded said they didn't expect or even want women to like or understand the Stooges, sports or eat animals or smoke.
I've long known about the existence of the Stooge Factor, and I accept it as the fundamental difference between men and women. I really didn't expect to uncover any new findings there. But, I was hoping to gain some shred of insight as to if it is a factor in the, um, "type" of men I am attracting. So far, no concrete correlations can be made. However, one Stooge loving respondent pointed out my recent foray with the spider and the Mailroom Guy was very Stooge-like, that it brought out my hidden inner Stooge, and hence questioning the reasoning behind my fear and loathing of things Stooge: Could it be I see too much of myself in the Stooges and consequently I hold them in contempt and disdain? Fair point, but let's just get this right out in the open: The Spider and Mailroom Guy fiasco was an isolated incident of circumstance. Had my leg not been broken none of it ever would have happened. My femininity is securely intact and Stooge Factor is clearly absent.
More debate will undoubtedly ensue.
Meanwhile, it's Friday, and for most of the world that means the weekend is here, it's time to relax and forget about work for a few days.
And for some others of us, it means it's time to sort our desks into crucial and non crucial, dividing up what needs to be worked on over the weekend from that which can wait until Monday.
Barnesandnoble.com says the Pop Up Kama Sutra will be available September 24, and they ARE taking pre-orders for it.
8:18 AM
Thursday, September 18, 2003 Finally!
Sometimes my job presents me with gifts from the Universe, small presents as reward for endeavoring to achieve results no other mere mortal has yet to achieve (a balanced budget with no lies, the names of all Vice-Presidents and Secretaries of State in history...) joyous factoids and diversions too wonderful to not share with the world.
You read it here first:
A pop-up book of the Kama Sutra will be available next week. I swear it's true. ISBN # 1584793023.
Let your imagination run with that one. Probably far better in our imaginations than it will be in actuality, but put me on the waiting list for that one. This I have to see.
Just in time for the holiday gift giving season, too.
Quite possibly the one title that will outsell Simon Cowell's "advice" thing. (shudder shudder shudder)
Another rough one, I predict. I sense a long and difficult day ahead of me.
Don't tell me about self fulfilling prophecy.
This is pure intuition talking.
Thursdays are always that way for me.
Time to establish secure mental footing with...
Things I Know For Sure
Real men, crush worthy men, have clefts in their chins. (Cary Grant, Gregory Peck, Gary Cooper, Dean Martin, Roger Moore, Bryan Ferry...)
Rock Hudson casting homosexual aspersions and innuendoes in Pillow Talk is hysterically poignant.
Unless they actually are Julius Ceasar, men should never wear sandals. Ever.
Sway is a really, really sexy song.
The White House chat room is brilliant marketing move and loads of fun. (www.whitehouse.gov)
BarnesandNoble.com's Under $5 combined with free shipping is a grossly ignored public service.
Books are good.
Proactive is the single most annoying term in use in offices around the world.
Thinking outside the box is a close second.
Hmmmmm. That's really all I know for sure today. Not much. Trillian is clearly feeling rather uncertain.
9:19 AM
Wednesday, September 17, 2003 Wednesday Real Reality. Putting the Real in Reality TV One Show at a Time.
I know I’m on a weary theme lately...work. The office.
But I’d really like to see a reality show that showcases the absurd and inane that goes on at staff meetings.
Do a sort of CEO Exchange - type of thing EXCEPT the staff would get to vote for the plans presented and whether or not the existing CEO gets to stay.
I know. I’ve read Lord of the Flies. I know how this could go.
But these things are so formulaic and scripted, it's difficult to pretend they're anything other than one of the many current unreality shows on air.
Revenue is down, we didn’t meet our year end goals, so NO bonus this year, the pension plan is under examination (and elimination), we’re moving to smaller (but nicer!) office space, but we won’t feel it due to the current attrition rate...so let’s get fired up! Woo hoo! Let’s Make 2003-2004 Our Best Year Ever!!!
Now there’s some reality tv for you.
Until today I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise.
We suck, we know we suck, we stand absolutely no chance of winning this thing, yet we come to work every day because maybe someone will notice us and cast us in a bit part somewhere else. And some of us are contractually obligated to be here. We put up with idiot bosses and budget cutbacks and technology that isn’t, Cowell-esque type criticisms from our governing board, and yet, YET, our CEO has the nerve, the stupidity and the gall to try to pump us full of enthusiasm and make us come back next week/month/year for another performance.
Reality tv? Read and name all names in the email and IM’s and blogs that fly after an all staff meeting. On national television. Now THERE’s a show I’d watch. That would be reality television.
2:34 PM
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
I know I've said it before but it bears repeating...
Strawberries and Cream Slimfast tastes EXACTLY like Frankenberry cereal.
Why don't the Slimfast people use this angle to market it?
2:45 PM
Queen of the Arachnids Has Left the Bathroom.
We (well, the Mailroom Guy come maintenance engineer, did most of the actual work due to my present disabled circumstances) put the enormous (3.5" diameter) spider in the rafters of the women's bathroom. We love the irony that only thing separating the enormous spider and the women who wanted her dead is a 1/4" foam ceiling tile.
Mailroom Guy and I came up with a ruse. A plan of pure genius in it's simplicity.
He would bring a step ladder "in case she crawled up the wall". I would then escort him into the bathroom and act as female warden of the bathroom, warning all would be women that a) there was a boy in the women's room and b) said boy was "taking care of" the enormous spider who's been stalking the women on this floor. I was thusly deemed because I was the only woman "brave" enough to face the spider. (True, but the real reason, of course, was that I wanted to be sure no harm came to her.) This would give mailroom guy and I time and freedom to carry out our sinister yet humane plan. There she was, perched as she had been all afternoon, on the ledge of one of the sinks. Mailroom guy was impressed with her, too, by the way.
I mean, this girl is one heckuva spider. In her own spidery way, she's quite beautiful. For a spider. She's got Hollywood written all over her. Arachnophobia II, Charlotte's Web: The Live Action Drama, Eight Legged Freaks II, Return to the Love Canal: 30 Years Later, Godzilla V. Oootoko Supaida (Alta Vista says that's how you say Giant Spider in Japanese...speaking of Japanese and way off topic, go see Lost in Translation. Bill Murray is great. Even what could have been a scary karaoke rendition of More than This turns out okay. Except that I kept expecting him to start doing his Airport Holiday Inn Lounge Singer Act - "Star Wars, oh Star Wars..." But I laughed so hard at a couple of scenes my stomach hurt. The "touching tender moments" parts of the movies were okay, Bill carried them, but maybe just a few too many of them, sort of beating the point home. Still, very funny, very charming, and great view of Tokyo.)
Okay. Game on. We put the plan into action. After remarking on the size, shape, color, and general state of the spider, mailroom guy and I began the plan. Mailroom Guy would ascend the ladder and dislodge a ceiling tile. I would then scoot the Queen onto a piece of paper and hand it, and her to aloft mailroom guy. Mailroom Guy would then release her by way of tilting the paper and sliding the Queen deep into the cave that is the Ecosystem Above the Ceiling Tiles. Mailroom Guy would then replace the ceiling tile, quietly descend the ladder, and, here's the real beauty of the plan, a toilet would be flushed, a mock drowning/release to the sewage system. The flush would also act as a signal of all clear to the women brave enough to wait outside.
Good plan, huh? We thought so, too.
Until it went slightly wrong.
Everything was going really well. The Queen needed no coaxing onto the paper, I swear, I swear this is true, she looked up at me as if to say "Thanks!" and climbed onto the paper.
I told her to hang on with all eight, and handed the paper to Mailroom Guy. Mailroom Guy was trying to a) be Da Man, b) display sensitivity and concern for creatures in front of the crippled chick (me) and c) have as little contact as possible with the spider. Item C did not come to light until I actually hoisted the spider bearing piece of paper to him. She slid a few centimeters closer to his hand than he was comfortable with...and flinched.
Knocking her off her perch.
And onto my head.
Which, I admit, freaked me out a bit. Much as I stand up for living creature rights, I don't necessarily want a spider in my hair. And I know she'd rather not be in my hair. Well, I did something of which I am not proud...I squealed. Okay. I screamed.
Hands on face, crutches fallen at my feet, one leg hopping dance in confined space.
Mailroom guy jumped down from the ladder to come to my rescue.
Here it should be noted that even with a recent lopping of 6", Trillian has quite the cascade of hair. Probably measures more than a good two feet from top of head to mid back. (Trillian is rather tall) And worse, at least during this escapade, is that Trillian's hair is very, very thick. And, worse still, during this escapade, is that it is dark-ish, perfect place in which to lose a spider.
At this point I had calmed down, somewhat, and was leaning over the counter, gingerly, gently shaking my hair over the counter hoping Miss Spider would walk out, a la Close Encounters of the Third Kind, or if necessary, gently tumble out, onto the counter.
But she was not to be seen.
I couldn't feel her, but couldn't see her, either, nor could Mailroom Guy. Either on me or around me or in fact, anywhere in the bathroom.
Mailroom Guy, who is a sincere gentleman, didn't want to overstep boundaries by touching me, especially my head or hair. Especially in a women's bathroom. At work.
Finally he said, "Stand still!"
I froze, bent over the counter, hands half raking through my hair.
Mailroom Guy, sounding very much like a gynecologist, started announcing everything he was going to do with long pauses between words.
"I'm going to come over to you. Don't move a muscle, stay right where you are."
"Okay, now, relax. I'm going to look in your hair. I'm going to have to touch it, okay? Do you mind?"
"Nodammitjustfindthespiderandgetheroutofmyhair!"
As he stepped toward me, stretching his arms as long as he could so as to free the spider from my hair from the farthest proximity from me as possible.
"Don't move, just stay that way if you can, I'm going in, I think I see it, just stand as still as possible..."
CRASH! BANG!
Mailroom Guy tripped on one or both of my fallen crutches, and, trying to regain balance, grabbed at the ladder, which toppled over. On me. I stood up, of course a natural physical reaction, pretty much into Mailroom Guy's flailing arms. Mailroom Guy, trying to maintain decorum used one hand to steady my shoulder, while catching his further fall by grabbing a stall door.
It was at this precise moment I located the spider.
Between my blouse and back, just about bra band level. Yes. In my blouse.
Though I didn't scream again, I did emit a few odd sounds.
I knew what had to be done.
Mailroom Guy is no young kid. He has children. He's seen a woman. At least I assume as much. So I said, "Mailroom Guy, the spider is in my blouse. Turn around a minute."
I then asked him to look at the floor, turn around, and continue to watch the floor for the falling spider and prepare to scoop her up.
He did as he was told (why can't men I date be so obedient???). Paper in outstretched hand and gaze fixed on the floor, not knowing what was about to take place...
I untucked my blouse as slowly and gently as possible from front to back. All the while arching my back as far as I could, which, with a broken leg and no crutches is no easy task. This required me to wriggle, writhe and shimmy in contortions that would make those BET video girls envious. The hope was that Miss Spider, Queen of the Arachnids, would tumble out of my blouse and onto the floor. At minimal compromise to her safety and my modesty. No luck. I could feel her firmly (for a spider) on the skin above my bra. (yes, I admit, kind of gross and really creepy, but I don't blame her, it's not her fault she's a spider, I blame my own inadequacies) I flapped the back of my blouse to no avail (still arch backed, mind you).
Mailroom Guy was at a loss as to what to do other than stand there holding the paper - he had enough difficulty managing to touch my hair, going under my blouse and actual skin was out of the question for this guy.
I'm a woman of action. And little shame. Sometimes. This was one of those times. I surmised the blouse was creating a safe haven for the spider, perhaps even trapping her. So I told Mailroom Guy to either leave or fix his gaze to the floor, the blouse may have to come off. He jumped at the chance to leave this bizarre situation, then realized when the spider was freed from my person, I'd be back at square one trying to get The Queen of the Arachnids up to safety on a ladder, in ceiling tiles...with a broken leg. So, he did the "noble" thing and stayed. Gaze fixed firmly to the floor. I began unbuttoning my blouse, bottom to top, one at a time, thinking I might not need to completely unbutton. The routine went something like: Unbutton, shake blouse, arch back. "Anything?" "Nope." Unbutton next button, shake blouse, arch back further. "Anything?" "Nope." Unbutton next button, shake blouse, arch back further. "Anything?" "Nope." Unbutton next button, shake blouse, arch back further. "Anything?" "Nope." Unbutton next button, shake blouse, arch back further. "Anything?" "Nope." Unbutton next button, shake blouse, arch back further. "Anything?" "Nope."
Finally, with blouse completely unbuttoned and one sleeve removed, and a stance that would win me the Special Olympics Grand Champion Limbo title, The Queen of the Arachnids left her perch.
I didn't feel her anymore, and asked Mailroom Guy if she had fallen out. She had, and what coup! She had landed right on the paper.
Mailroom Guy scrambled up the askew ladder, placed The Queen of the Arachnids, paper and all, in the cavern of the ductwork, replaced the tile, scrambled down the ladder, folded it up, and got the heck out of there. All in a matter of seconds.
But not before remembering to flush the toilet.
Then I realized why the haste on his part (apart from the fiasco that was our botched plan had just taken place): I had not factored in the three walls of floor to ceiling mirrors.
Mailroom Guy had just unwittingly, unwantingly witnessed the weirdest strip tease performance he'll probably ever come across.
In the women's room at work while trying to save a spider's life.
Now there's a story for the grandkids.
But the Queen of the Arachnids is safe with only a slight bruise to my dignity (what's new) a minor blemish in the face of the rest of the indignities in my life, a slight compromise to my modesty and an enormous chasm swathed between me and the Mailroom Guy, who have, for seven years, been good work friends. Polite, cordial, talk about movies, share a stupid joke, work friends. All in the name of saving a spider. Was it worth it? Well yes, of course. I can live with a tarnished reputation, especially in the name of saving the spider.
The joke will of course be on me when it turns out the spider is carrying some mutant alien virus and I'll end up being the alpha patient with the bizarre strain of something with no antidote, meanwhile the spider will have hatched millions of mutant spiders who will take over the world, all because I wanted to spare the life of the innocent being. Who turns out to be not so innocent. If that's the case, sorry world.
Monday, September 15, 2003 Queen of the Arachnids Has Returned!!!! All Hail the Queen!!!
Or she's sent her sister or, actually rather scarily, there is an entire army of these oversized arachnids living in my office.
For now I am content and pleased to think there is just she, the original from two weeks ago.
I think it's the same gal because she has once again chosen the women's bathroom to roost. This time she's actually in the bathroom instead of dangling outside above the door. I enlisted the aid of a man not a) afraid to go into a women's bathroom, b) afraid of spiders, and c) not on crutches. We were going to spring her loose from her prison and set her free into the outdoors...but then we simultaneously came to the concern that she might have children waiting back at the web. Wherever that is. So new dilemma. Do we free her (to the outdoors), do we hide her, maybe above a store-room ceiling tile, or just let her be, leave her to her own devices...
I can't seem to put my hands on any arachnid rights material...
3:20 PM
So still immobilized, still on crutches, still on the buses.
I just got back from the ortho doc - 3 hours. I am so sick of waiting for: buses, doors, doctors...to feel better.
The Immobilizer will be history next week. There is no nerve damage, however the ligaments, one in particular, are in very bad shape. They're actually going to take longer to heal than the fracture.
The outside fracture is looking really good, almost back to normal. In the future it will be very difficult to tell I've even fractured it there. The inside fracture, however, is still rather slow moving, but lots of progress from four weeks ago. The lingering intense (and immense) swelling is due in most part to the ligament damage. And realistically that's 6 - 8 months of recovery.
The best news is (hopefully) next week I get to move to an air cast! Easier to maneuver in (no crutches, weighs less) and offers the option of actually putting full weight on my ankle/foot and, as I'm up to it, walk as much and as far as I want. This is in conjunction with the start of physical therapy. The nurse told me (on the sly) that after six - eight weeks of therapy if I'm feeling stronger and the swelling has gone down, I may be able to graduate to an insert type of thing, an industrial type sock with metal braces and arch padding, to put in "regular" shoes. Meaning sneakers. The darling little 4" heeled pumps I'm coveting are out of the question for several months. Pretty much anything other than sneakers or sneaker-type shoes are out of the question for several months. Suffice to say the visions of Clarkes and Easy Spirits dancing in my head are not the stuff of holiday dreams. BUT, to be out of The Immobilizer and potentially out of a cast in general by November (and snow) is really good news. While a bit daunting in terms of actual pages off the calendar, at least there is forward movement and a possible end in sight.
Also, seeing the MRI, the state of my ligaments v. "healthy" ligaments he showed me, made me realize how much damage there is beyond the actual fractures and why my ankle/foot is so swollen and in so much pain. I'm a mess down there. I felt like the kid in that school animated series where a kid goes inside a body - rides through it like a theme park ride. Along the way certain ailments afflict the body, with arrows pointing to the source of the trouble. He narrowly escapes certain danger as each ailment is treated. Anyway, that's what I felt like looking at my MRI. I could almost see the animation of the inflammation of my ligaments. And I hadn't even taken a pain pill this morning!
All in all, not a bad visit, just time consuming and a bit disappointing. I knew better than to have hopes of leaving there without The Immobilizer today, but it's still disappointing. Guess I didn't fool myself as well as I thought I had. I must have been harboring some sort of hope, deep down in there somewhere. Maybe I'm not as jaded, disillusioned and bitter as I think I am.
1:56 PM
Sunday, September 14, 2003 In the interest of public service, the I am offering the Johnny Cash links again.
Saturday, September 13, 2003 What's a vegetarian, beer hating, Three Stooge disdaining girl to do?
I submit these truths to be self evident. Apparently evident to men, as well.
That particular group of traits came to light among and under fire with a group of my friends who all agreed are to blame for the miscreant men and Zaphods I attract.
They feel unless I start eating animals, chugging beer (or at least Jell-o shots), and learn to chortle and guffaw at Larry, Moe and Curly, I can expect a lifetime of attracting the worst the male of the species has to offer.
Oh, I've tried to change. I've tried lots of beer (HATE IT), and I HAVE watched more Three Stooges than I will ever admit and see no humor in it whatsoever. And eat an animal? Sorry. Moral and physical objections absolutely prohibit me. Again, I will, in strict and formal social situations, to politely choke down whatever animal was served. And I think I have managed to maintain polite composure as befit the situations. And I suffer for it for days after on every occasion. (If you're not veg you may not realize that once the animal enzymes are out of your system, re-introducing them into your body creates the equivalent of an H-Bomb being set off in your stomach and intestines. For days. Plus the sleepless nights reconciling your guilt for having ingested something with a mother for the sake of decorum and choosing to not embarrass your parents/friends/hosts/date. But I digress.)
Do any of the aforementioned really make me so obtuse that it's evident by my appearance? Thus attracting Stalker Zaphods and men who take it out? Am I really asking for it?
I maintain a firm and resounding NO! A man would have to get to know me quite well for more than two of these things to become obvious. Drinks at a party or a walk home from a gallery would never bring them to the fore.
And even if they did, let's just say I reek of vegetarian-no beer-Stooge hater. That should, in fact, attract a higher caliber of man, right? The Zaphods and men who take it out should, by definition, be attracted first and only to Jell-O shot swilling gettin' freaky in the hot tub kind of girls. Right?
To wit: HWNMNBS doesn't like beer or the Three Stooges, and only eats salmon once or twice a month. He was attracted to me right away.
I know, where is he now. I know. I know! Okay! I know.
So here's an open invitation to the Universe.
If you are, or know, a man under the age of, hmmm, let's say 45, who doesn't care if a woman is a) vegetarian, b) doesn't drink beer and prefers that you don't, either, c) sees no humor in the Three Stooges, (or the Marx Brothers or Abbott and Costello) AND you are not a) prone to taking it out for no apparent reason, b) have never stalked a woman or made unsolicited obscene calls to woman you've just met, c) cannot list narcissism as your first and best quality, and d) are employed and breathing, let me know.
I realize I am really asking for it here, but in view of the recent enlightenments my friends have bestowed upon me, a little sacrifice in the form of online research is necessary.
Keep in mind I am not soliciting dates, just evidence to back my above mentioned hypothesis. And to prove my friends wrong, dammit.
Also, I should probably mention a few other traits of apparent concern: My loathing and contempt for organized sports (more later) and my militant hatred of smokers.
Friday, September 12, 2003 Everybody was wearing rhinestones, all those sparkle clothes and cowboy boots. I decided to wear a black shirt and pants and see if I could get by with it. I did and I've worn black clothes ever since.
Amen brother.
There are lots of words that could be said, but I think it's best left to the man himself, the very song I played about 30 times last night (don't get me started on my foreshadowing of doom, it scares me).
I Still Miss Someone
At my door the leaves are falling
A cold wild wind has come
Sweethearts walk by together
And I still miss someone
I go out on a party
And look for a little fun
But I find a darkened corner
because I still miss someone
Oh, no I never got over those blues eyes
I see them every where
I miss those arms that held me
When all the love was there
I wonder if she's sorry
For leavin' what we'd begun
There's someone for me somewhere
And I still miss someone
