Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<





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

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.

Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Find Federal Officials
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or Search by State

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Contact The Media
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Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)

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




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

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

200i: iPodyssey

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

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

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

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

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

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

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

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

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

Slanglish

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


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

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

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

Lap Dance of the Cripple

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

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

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

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

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

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

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


















 
Mail Trillian here





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

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


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

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

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

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


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



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

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




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





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







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


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

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains





























Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero

 
Tuesday, November 25, 2003  
Chore Boy (You Can Be My Slave)
I have really great friends. Really. Truly. I know what a crashing bore it can be to make these exclamations. I can see your eyes rolling, feel you reaching for the Favorites menu to see what's going on over at sixapart.com But honestly. For everyone having a bad day, for everyone fed up with the human race, for everyone who thinks there are no decent people in the world, I know how you feel. I feel that way a lot, too. But please hear these words: There are a few wonderful people in this world, on this very planet. And I am lucky enough to know some of them and call a few of them friends.

My choice in men is, well, not to be trusted. I'm infamous for my dating history. It reads like a Greek tragedy with a little Shakespearean comedy thrown in now and then. But don't let this alter your perception of my ability to know really good, kind, caring, decent, funny, intelligent people. Somehow, in spite of my horrendous luck and taste in men, I have phenomenal luck and taste in friends. (This dichotomy puzzles me, too.)

Last night Bone picked me up from physical therapy, gave me a ride home, helped me drop off two garbage bags full of donation clothing in the charity drop box AND helped me with my laundry. So that my place won't look quite so horrible when my parents arrive next week. He has parents, too. (Small world.) Sometimes they visit him. He knows what I'm going through. Arthur is conveniently out of town. Not that he owes me for helping him when he was in a similar situation a few weeks ago. Just very interesting timing on his part...

The laundry room in my building consists of two washers and two dryers. For 50 apartments. You do the math. On top of rarely being able to squeak a load in, one of the washers has no hot water. One of the dryers is so hot it shrinks even the most industrial strength synthetic fiber. I learned early on it's actually a safety hazard: My nifty and very expensive but got on a great sale ski pants suffered at the tumble of that machine. The pocket zips melted together rendering the pockets unreachable. Not that it mattered. The actual material (a poly/spandex/lycra mix) was also melted. Yes. Melted. The fabric melted. And once they cooled, they were shrunk to a size suitable for a three year old. None of this was discovered until I suffered burns on my hands from retrieving them from the dryer. Yes. They were so hot coming out of the dryer I burned my hands. Though it was fortunate they hadn't cooled, because in their hand burning hot state, I was able to retrieve them before the molten button cooled, which would have permanently affixed them to the drum of the dyer. This Really Hot Dryer is convenient, though, for a massive load of towels.

Knowing getting time on the usable machines, let alone time for several loads, is a near impossibility, and knowing my current slow rate of mobility, Bone offered to help. He took me to the LaunderBar. The place he does his laundry. While enjoying a cocktail. Spin and sip. Bleach and belch. Sort and swig. Clothes and cosmopolitans. Wash and Whiskey. Rinse and rye. Yep. That winning combination of laundry and alcohol.

I do not frequent this establishment because it's way too far for me to drag my laundry. I usually try to manage with my building's sub-par machines and scary subterranean laundry room. But these are desperate times. Many heaps of laundry have accumulated. Bone's building actually has a nice laundry facility, but he traipses to the LaunderBar every few weeks. He likes the premise. Everyone has to do laundry, everyone hates launderettes, why not make it more pleasant for everyone and provide a full service bar? It's not a pick up joint, it's a launderette. No one expects you to be dressed in your spiffiest, after all, you're doing your laundry. At least that's what he kids himself into believing. Plus, I have to agree, the facilities are nice. It's not the usual horrendously awful place most launderettes are. A couple of computer stations to cruise the net, read your blogs or check your email. Two televisions, last night they were on Comedy Central. Cool magazines. Comfy chairs. And the bar. With friendly bar staff. And not too expensive drinks.

Yes. There is fluorescent lighting. But it's tasteful and not the K-Mart type of fluorescent lighting. (I agree with this bow to practicality in terms of actually doing one's laundry.) But there are no yellow or lime green walls. No 38 year old chipped Formica folding tables. No tiled floor so dirty if a garment drops onto it on its way out of a machine it has to be thrown away. No orange cracked vinyl seating with the padding long gone. No molded plastic chairs. No families of seemingly endless numbers of children running, screeching, sneezing their way around the machines. No vending machines filled with products you've never heard of or would ever buy. No permanently broken change machine. No staticky, not quite properly tuned in crappiest radio station in town blaring over the horrible speakers. No Enquirer or Weekly World News tabs five years out of date. Laundry nirvana? Well. Not quite. It's still a launderette. But, it's about as good as it can get. And Bone's taken home more than clean laundry from there. He once met a long term girlfriend there.

No. I didn't meet anyone. Neither did he. We were on a mission. Laundry and a few drinks. There was one girl who might have been interested in Bone, but I think she was put off by his antic of sticking my pink Velcro curler in his hair. No, he doesn't have long hair. In fact, he has quite short hair. Hair so short I wouldn't have thought there would be enough to hold the curler. Which, to my eyes, made it even funnier. What was my pink Velcro curler doing at the LaunderBar? No, I didn't go with my hair in curlers. Please. I'm getting old and a bit eccentric and more apathetic every day, and I may be losing my mind. But I'm not at the going out with my hair in curlers stage yet.

Furry Creature loves to play with Velcro curlers. (they are great cat toys - and it's hilarious if one happens to stick to the cat - Furry Creature tries to play it off nonchalant, walking around as if everything's absolutely normal, "What pink/purple/green curler stuck to my back?") He frequently steals one from the bathroom, plays with it, rolls it around, carries it off somewhere, usually the laundry bin (where he likes to hide his treasures. Or thinks I'll wash them. All these years I'm not sure which) and then, as I do my laundry, I find my curlers.

So there, in my laundry, was a big, pink, Velcro curler. Bone was unfamiliar with the concept of Velcro curlers, so I demonstrated. Fascinated by the simplicity of the concept of the curler, and Furry Creature's desire to play with them, he tried it out. (Yeah, he's quite the metrosexual at times.) And it was about this time the cute little redhead came from the bar to transfer her laundry from washer to dryer.

Bone had noticed her at the bar earlier. I could tell he was taken with her. She was with a friend (female) and the two of them checked Bone out, too. And me. I'm sure they were summing up the situation, deciphering all the codes to figure out if we were a couple, siblings, cousins or friends. As the cute little redhead came into the laundry area, I saw her checking out Bone's behind (he's got a nice one) and watched her scoping-the-rest-of-the-package technique. She was impressed until she spied: The pink Velcro curler stuck on the front of his head. She was clearly singularly unimpressed. I think she's the type of girl who would think, "Nice bum. Let's check out the rest of the package...good shoes (but not so good as to be gay), great hands (no ring), shaved sometime this week, pretty eyes, pink Velcro curler stuck on his forehead...(scratch of record) No. Definitely not. I cannot see myself with a guy who would be seen in public with a pink, or any other color, Velcro curler stuck to his forehead. Next!" I'm sure she went back to her friend and relayed the whole sordid event. "He had a pink Velcro curler stuck on his head?! Ohmygod! How stupid! How embarrassing! Ewwww! What a dork!"

When we finished the laundry, Bone took me to pick up a few groceries. Something other than SlimFast and Lean Cuisine and melba toast. Something other than what can be acquired at 7-11. Something my parents will eat. And coffee. Thanks to Bone, I got the "right" kind - or at least the ground kind. I happily tossed the French Roast Beans in the trolley. Bone said, "Do you have a grinder?"

"A what?"

"A grinder. You've got whole beans. You need to grind them." I'm not a complete coffee moron, I realize coffee comes beaned or ground, but I didn't pay enough attention to the packaging to realize I'd selected beaned. The coffee people really should make the packaging between the two types more dissimilar. I'll bet plenty of seasoned coffee drinkers have been caught out the same way. But I suppose seasoned coffee drinkers would have a grinder at home. Still. Had it not been for Bone, I would have got home and realized my blunder, causing another trip to the grocery.

When we got home, he helped me drag the laundry and groceries up all my stairs, and then, and THEN, he changed my vacuum bag AND vacuumed the living room rug for me.

And now for the coup de gras: He cleaned the floor behind my bathroom sink and toilet. The place that's been nearly impossible for me to reach since I broke my ankle. They're tiny spaces, I've done my best with the duster and mop, but a proper cleaning of the areas requires getting down on hand and knees. Hands and knees is a very difficult position to assume with a broken ankle. Try it. Notice what your foot and ankle are doing. I can't do that. Yet. (I may have just hit on something here...something to do with all the crippled chick fetishists - painful or impossible for me to be on my knees...huh. I can't believe I just now thought of that. Man it's been a long time. So long I don't even think the obvious things about being on my knees. All I've thought about is how difficult it is to clean the awkward spaces in my bathroom. Man. I'm pathetic. How did this happen to me? Wonder if that means I'm a good girl now...no automatic impure thoughts when the subject of being on my knees comes up. Huh. See? Blogging is good for the soul.)

Sorry. Revelations hit when they hit, you know? So there Bone was, completely without my asking, he grabbed cleaning agents and in less than ten minutes cleaned up the places that have given me such trouble all these months. No, he wasn't still sporting the pink Velcro curler. Though it would have been funny if he were.

I know. Marry this man. I should. Were it not for the fact that we've been friends for ages I probably would. That is if he wanted to marry me. I won't get into why it would be a problem. Why it would never work. And all the complications that would evolve from a marital union between us. Let's just leave it at: Some friendships are perfect just the way they are and should never be tampered with romantically. We are both old enough, experienced enough and wise enough to know this.

So now, one more evening of last minute touches, my place will be almost parent ready. It's not perfect, it's not up to my usual standards, but, it is leaps and bounds better than it was a few days ago. I'm looking at this as part of the bigger picture of my healing process. I've put away, thrown away or otherwise cleaned away the remnants and vestiges of several months of handicapped living, self pity and apathy. It doesn't look as much like a woman with a broken leg who lives alone with her cat lives there.

If it looks like a duck, well, it's either a duck or a good decoy. Either way other ducks think it's a duck.

Sorry geek girls, believe me, I'm missing it too. I've taped the Roadshow for the past few weeks but haven't had a chance to get caught up with them. Don't ruin it for me! I hope it's been good. I'll get back into the routine soon.

Enough people have inquired/responded to the vegetarian/vegan issue that I am posting a link to a quick and easy protein calculator. I think many of you will be surprised at how little protein you should actually be consuming. Take that, Atkins devotees.

8:42 AM

 
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