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
Saturday, August 09, 2003 And the truth shall set you free... Once and for all, people, embrace the truth. It's out there. Right here:
www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Stage/4890
Yep. Dead. Gone.
Deal with it.
I've heard this conspiracy theory before, but that site offers the resolute proof!
And the really funny part of this is that site was unearthed in a search for Simon Cowell.
Really.
Don't ask.
So I'm developing a conspiracy theory of my own: Simon Cowell killed Tom Petty. Or, Simon Cowell is Tom Petty. Or, Simon Cowell and Tom Petty are secretly in cahoots creating internet conspiracy sites. The music, tours and American Idol things are mere covers for their internet hijinx. And of course the music, tours and AI things generate a lot of revenue. Mere bake sales to fund their endeavors.
See how these things get started?! It's fun!
If you're tuning in, boys, let me in on the action. Since the jig is up with me, I've found you out (and if you're reading this that must be the case) then send me an email. Let's talk. I've got ideas to fill pages and pages of Google searches. Please, let me help. Now is the perfect time. I've got a lot spare time on my hands for the next few weeks/months, I'm on very strong hallucinogenic drugs, and there's a case to be made for my actual marketing knowledge. And of course that cynicism o' mine.
You wouldn't want Richard Branson to beat you to this rapier witted marketing mastermind, now would you?
Clearly I've been up to nothing good today. My left foot is cramping my style.
Not that I am opposed to spending a day lounging around (leg above hip per doctor's orders) reading (The Eyre Affair (Fforde) - fabulous, this is my second time through and enjoying it all the more...) and surfing.
But that's how I spend all my time apart from work these days.
And it might be nice to be out actually doing something. But then I think of all that's involved and I am immediately reformed and happy to be stuck in bed, on the couch and occasionally online.
A trip to Costco with Arthur Dent last night proved more than I could handle. Yes. Okay, I admit, I like Costco. No, I don't like buying in bulk, and typically do not. However, the liquor aisles are loads of fun, and it is fun to make obvious and not so obvious jokes about the ginormous sized and quantitied items offered. For instance, condoms. At Costco. The mind boggles at the obvious jokes and innuendoes that presents. Either in jumbo size or economy sized package, the options for comment are endless. I know, I'm being sophomoric again. Too much time online with Zaphod. And, I think this medication is affecting more than just my ankle. Wink wink nudge nudge. Anyway, the trip, though intended to be quick, was more than I could deal with. Too many people swimming in the shallow end of the gene pool. Too much cement floor. Overwhelming distance from liquor aisle to veggie burger case to check out. (why in the name of babel fish do they insist on placing veggie burgers next to beef, turkey and salmon burgers? Why? It flies in the face of reason!) So home again, worn out, tired and spent the rest of Friday night and all of Saturday recovering. Still not up to full speed.
Richard Branson really needs to rescue me from this. The time is now.
Or maybe Simon and Tom.
The past few weeks have been insightful, as the above link will attest, I have found renewed pleasure and a lot of laughs at the strange and exotic websites misguided search links can take you.
HWNMNBS did not call today. Nor did I call him. I am still reliving the moments of yesterday over and over. I'm still on that euphoric high and intend to stay up here as long as I can.
The world is suddenly beautiful and all is wonderful.
Shut up.
Let me have my moment.
None of what was actually said matters right now. I got to hear his voice again, we even laughed, and for now, today, nothing, NOTHING at all matters except that I got to hear his voice. He called me!
Maybe my fortune cookie was right! Maybe everything will now come my way. I did tempt the fates by saying bring it on...I'll take the good with the bad as long as the good includes HWNMNBS.
Oh happy, glorious day!!!
Can a job offer from Richard Branson be far behind?!
12:58 PM
Everything will now come your way.
So said my fortune cookie last night. The thing with fortune cookies is, what appears at first to be a good tiding, could actually be sinister. Note that it's an all encompassing, one size fits all fortune. Everything, literally, everything will now come my way. It does not say, "Everything good will now come your way." Nor does it say, "Everything bad will now come your way." No, apparently EVERYTHING will now be coming my way.
I say, bring it on. I'm ready. And waiting.
In bed.
I know. Trillian should grow up. But I admit that sophomoric humor still cracks me up. And truly, I find it a delightful grammatical marvel that without fail it works grammatically every time. And funnily. Even I, Trillian, am allowed a Zaphod moment or two, am I not?
8:46 AM
Thursday, August 07, 2003 Please Enlighten Me.
I'm begging you. Anyone out there. Please. Help.
As you may have read (on previous posts to this blog) I am currently temporarily (I presume) disabled. I am on crutches. Immobilizer (insert echo chamber deep announcer voice here) up to my knee because my injuries are too severe and too swollen to safely fit in a "regular" sleek cast.
So I'm not making any unnecessary sojourns. It's work and home for me for the coming weeks.
Unfortunately, life does not allow for us to completely drop out just because we happen to be disabled. I have put off going to the bank for two and a half weeks (thank the Universe for direct deposit). Had to make the two block journey from my office to the bank and back again. Gave myself plenty of time. There I was, crossing one of the busiest intersections in one of the busiest cities in the world, and right there, smack in the middle of crossing the street, two tourist women said, "Excuse me? Excuse me, can you tell us which way is North? We're trying to get to Bloomies."
Now, I was really just trying to get across the street quickly, we were not all going the same direction, and they were, in fact, on the right course North to Bloomies. (yes, they really called it Bloomies, as if they were trying to be natives or cute of who knows what other than the middle aged soccer moms from Boise they really are). Thing is, I realized, they were asking me. Me. Out of the literally hundreds of people they could have chosen to ask directions, they chose the woman struggling to cross the street on crutches.
As a matter of reaction I pointed North and told them to proceed on their current course four more blocks.
Smiles and thank you's, leaving me to soldier on across the intersection.
The thing is, if I were asking directions in the middle of an intersection with hundreds of people in a large metropolis, it would never, ever cross my mind to ask a person on crutches.
My question to the Universe, and that means you, is: Would you ask a person on crutches in the middle of an intersection for directions?
Responses would be appreciated in my ongoing effort to understand if I am just way too polite and unassuming, or if, in fact, society in general is weird and rude.
1:50 PM
I never did get the hang of Thursdays.
Today's commute was particularly awful. The first bus to arrive was packed, the stop was crowded. A 40-ish man, a Zaphod of sorts, all but knocked me down, out of his way to get on the bus. Yes. He really did serve me an intended prohibitive right arm, swat-pushing me aside. I nearly, and I am not exaggerating, I nearly fell down the stairs to the subway. Fortunately for me I am getting very good and stabilizing myself with my crutches and I regained my balance quickly and spared myself the fall down the stairs. Then I toddled to the side, further out of the way, and let the throng swarm and get on the bus rather than be trampled and risk further injury. It was so crowded that I opted to wait for the next bus. Which too, was packed, and another throng had accumulated at the stop. I actually got on the bus, only by forcing my way into the crowd. Got on the bus. All the handicapped seats were full. All the seats were full. The middle aged women in the handicapped seats glared at me. The young girls in the handicapped seats pretended to not notice me. The family huddled closer together, forming a human barricade should I decide to oust them from their seats.
I edged further to the back of the bus, trying to get a place somewhat out of the way. (ha! out of the way! on a bus! on crutches!) These things are relative. A man who looked to be 101 years old offered me his single seat. The guy, though not on crutches, was in far, far worse shape than I, hunched over, shaking slightly, glasses an inch thick, and there was no way I was going to accept his offer. I told him I was fine, threw a dirty look at the able bodied folks in the handicapped seats, and made him sit back down again. He was clearly very uncomfortable with this arrangement. He being of the old school, the retrosexual school, where gentlemen stand while women sit. Or, that anyone stands to let the disabled or elderly sit. You know, the polite society, courteous behavior school. And I am certain none of the young, able bodied folks up front offered him their easier to access seat rather than make him shuffle to the back where he found what was probably the last seat on the bus.
Route 666.
Sociological studies.
I am developing a list of bus rider types. Bus riders are very, very different people than train riders. That's a given. However, among bus riders, I am learning there are several sub-sets of people. Distinct categories.
We've met The Lothario. (see Aug. 6 Blog)
Let me introduce you to The Negotiator. The first time I saw a Negotiator in action I dismissed it as a one off. But now, four Negotiator experiences later, I realize this is a regular occurrence. Bus fare is $1.50. Transfers .30¢. The Negotiators get on the bus and ask/tell the driver they only have, say $1.25. Or .80¢. Or an expired transfer. So far, I've yet to see a driver expel a Negotiator from the bus. The thing is, I think Negotiators know this. What's the driver going to do? Stop the bus, get up and throw the Negotiator off the bus? Of course not. The drivers are under pressure and obligation to keep the bus moving, they're not supposed to leave their seats except in emergencies. They've got a packed bus full of people (scary people in the case of Route 666). The driver is not going to take the time to argue with the Negotiator or throw them off. So on a regular basis, all over the city, Negotiators are getting away with reduced fares.
Now meet the One Stop Wonder.
This passenger, seemingly able bodied, is, I believe, the antagonist of the bus riding society. One Stop Wonders get on the bus, pay full fare, then immediately request the next stop. They ride literally one block. For a $1.50. I can see no point to this except to irritate other passengers. Slow down the commute. Why else would anyone pay $1.50 to ride one block on a bus? Had this occurred once I wouldn't have noticed, but it's such a regular occurring phenomena that I can't help but notice and be irritated by it.
My Richard Branson idea is sounding better with each passing bus ride. I bet he personally drives his disabled employees to and from work. Well. Or at least makes arrangements for their safe, comfortable transportation to and from work. Or maybe he doesn't allow them to work at all until they are healed.
Wednesday, August 06, 2003 When you think it cannot get any worse
...always doubt yourself.
So, I'm on the second of my buses this morning. Route 66 which I have dubbed route 666 because of the cram packed load of nefarious passengers it carries.
Someone finally got off which opened up a seat for me (yes, there is priority senior and disabled seating, but fat chance a senior or disabled person will ever be able to use it, even though there are signs and instructions and HUGE wheelchair symbols on, above and around the seats at the front of the bus) I stumbled and got seated, literally had to race for it with a thug teenager, I won by a butt cheek, just got settled when, over my shoulder in a very broken Polish accent I hear, "I too am crippled." I hazarded a glance over my shoulder, thinking someone else needed the seat more than I did. BIG mistake. A scruffy 55 - 60 year old Polish immigrant (we've got a ton of them here, they are singularly alike and identifiable) then said, clutching his chest, "My heart, it is broken." At which point I rolled my eyes at the women sitting next to me (who clearly didn't have a clue what he said). The guy persisted, "Fair lady, let me help you. I can be of great service." I deigned a slight smile at the guy and said, "No, I'm okay, thanks anyway." He then clutched his chest harder in mock attack and said, "Oh my heart, my heart, it is broken." Which, interestingly, made barely a stir on the packed bus. Goes to show, a person could be having a heart attack and no one would do anything. Well, yeah, probably most everyone knew what was going on, but still...
Fortunately he got off a few stops later.
I HATE the bus. I HATE the commute. I HATE that I can't walk. I HATE that I'm disabled. I HATE that I am going through this on my own. I HATE that HWNMNBS isn't here to help me and take care of me. I HATE that he's not with me period. I HATE it.
There. Got that out of my system for the day.
The good thing is, I suspect there is some cosmic alignment between HWNMNBS II and myself. Last night for the first time in weeks I was awake and coherent enough to turn on the 9:00 news (I live in an in-between time zone which has residual effects on television programming). But I got there a bit early, I mean, I was up and I'm not making extemporaneous movements these days. (Those who have visited chez Trillion know that my television is very old and does not have a remote control) I find I am even more prompt that usual because it's just easier to conserve movements. So there I was a few minutes early for the news and weather. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? HWNMNBS II!!!! I mean, it's got to be some sort of sign. I haven't turned on my television in weeks. And certainly would never allow American Juniors to sully my living room. (That's another Blog, but holy bad idea and exploitation of a genre. Yikes is all I can muster. For those who are lucky enough to have been spared this nightmare, suffice to say it's even worse than what you've imagined. Really. I only saw the last few minutes of it, but it was more than enough. Frightening. Except for the clip with HWNMNBS II, and that was a bit painful as well, were it not for the fact that he's as easy on the eyes as ever). The odds that I would actually turn on the television at the exact moment HWNMNBS II makes a guest appearance are so great (I think) that it can only mean something. Not sure what, but it's got to be some sort of fateful destiny thing. I've never been attracted to himbos, but I do find HWNMNBS II somehow compelling. Ahh. Well. Nice break from the in-action. Short lived as it was.
Back to reality.
I can't leave my job for a few months - until this leg is healed. Can't even entertain the notion. They've got me by the insurance card. I got a statement from the hospital. $7,200 for PART of the emergency room services. PART of it. This was just a preliminary statement. That does not appear to include the CAT scans and radiologist services. I don't think it includes the many X-Rays they took of my ankle and neck. (not sure about that, there are some mystery charges I don't understand) That does not include what I've paid for prescriptions. That does not include any of the follow-up surgeon visit or services. Does not include The Immobilizer. Does not include anything except the room I was in at the hospital, one of the three doctors I saw that not (and I don't even remember how many interns), a bag of ice, the temporary cast, technician services for the cast application and crutches. Seriously, from what I can tell, that's all I got for $7,200. The rest of the services, as the statement so proudly boasts, will be included in a subsequent statement from a different billing department.
And yeah, my room in the emergency room was nice, but hardly a suite at the Four Seasons or the Ritz (which both offer premier suites for $5,000/night - a deal in comparison to the Northwestern University ER) So until all the insurance issues are resolved (paid for by someone other than me) I am stuck in my current job. Which, to those of you who are new to this blog or just tuning in, I am desperate to leave, and, have a couple, one in particular, hopeful irons in fires. So this is very, very bad news and a major professional setback. I might be wrong about this, will do some checking, but I think I need to stay here at least until all the doctor visits, exams, potential surgeries are behind me. (I know, I know, I'm not even supposed to say the word, but let's get real. It's very possible I am going to require surgery and I need to make provisions for that now, even if it's only a "just in case" measure.)
I've been hit with a brainstorm.
As some of you who are very close to me know...I've had this goal, a true stretch goal in biz speak, for a few years. For my next job, I want to work with Richard Branson. And no, I don't mean slinging cd's at the Mega Store. I mean literally working with him, by his side, so to speak. I don't admire many business people, but, I like him. And it's not his renegade bad boy thing, either. My impression is that he's very shrewd but not an asshole, which is a very, very rare combination and so people don't know how to label him. (People like labels. It makes them feel safe, confident and superior) Then add in the whole daredevil renegade, wedding gown donning (hey, give him a break. As they say, the British are the first to put on a dress) thing and he's got that reputation. But I like the guy. I think we'd make a great professional team. I truly think he needs me. It's just that he doesn't realize it because he hasn't had the opportunity to work with me.
ANYWAY, I've been trying to play out the psychology and timing of my introduction to him. I figure I might be able to finagle one chance to impress him enough to consider my proposal. So it has to be perfect. Hence the fact that I am not actually working with Richard Branson (Dick, as he would be known to me) at the moment. It occurred to me this could be the angle I've been waiting for. Play on his altruism.
Make a plea from my sickbed: A little girl in Chicago was brutally attacked, broke her ankle, got a concussion, and whiplash, is bed-bound apart from making noble efforts to get to her job. Such is her dedication and professional spirit. There is one thing that would really brighten this poor girl's life: A job with Virgin. In London. With Dick. Won't you please help this poor handicapped girl fulfill her ambitions and dreams?
Okay, so I'm not so little and barely a girl, and so it wasn't an attack so much as a shove, and it wasn't particularly brutal. But it wasn't polite, either. And I did have a concussion and whiplash and still have two broken bones. And I am bed-bound apart from some sick dedication to get to work. Oh wait, it's a sick dedication to retain what few vacation days I have left. Which, hey, could be another angle!...This poor girl is repressed by the American vacation/sick leave system whereby she is made to use her personal vacation days for her sick leave. After surrendering seven of them to this tragedy, she is forced to go back to work or lose what little pay she earns in her woefully underpaid position at a premier and leading legal institution. But such is her dedication and professionalism (and need to pay her ever increasing rent) that she soldiers on, guided only by her responsibility as a team player and invoking the spirit of Dick, she takes two buses through very seedy parts of town, fighting off advances from dirty old men and further attacks by young gang thugs. A visit and subsequent job offer from Dick would lift this girl to levels of ecstasy she's yet to realize. You, Dick, have the power to make a difference in her life.
It could be an altruistic endeavor on his part. No, I'm not exactly terminally ill, but he's not exactly Princess Diana, either. And I just know we could be a really good team, I have so much to offer him (as an employee get your mind out of the gutter). I just know if I could have the opportunity to work for him for a few weeks he'd never let me go.
And we could share laughs and inside jokes about HWNMNBS II. I'm certain Richard Branson has major issues with HWNMNBS II. He's got to. He must. He should. He better. I mean, I have major issues with HWNMNBS II. If I weren't a breathing, semi-healthy, firmly hetero woman over 25 with a very healthy libido I'd HATE the guy. And not because he's supposed to be the guy we love to hate. As you all know by now, my deep seeded hatred of pop music and culture, instant gratification that lasts no longer than an instant, nothing of any redeeming or long term value... oh sorry, that's another blog. I'm just saying, if he weren't so darned compelling, if our stars weren't in some strange cosmic alignment, if he didn't have such sexy hands, I'd be at the least dismissive and the most vehemently against him and all he represents. Okay. I am against all he represents. But he personally represents it with those hands and I am taken down, defenseless at times. Weak? You bet. Which is another reason I need Dick. Dick can rescue me from this strange compulsion. Yes. I need Dick. The time is now.
9:13 AM
When you think it cannot get any worse
...always doubt yourself.
So, I'm on the second of my buses this morning. Route 66 which I have dubbed route 666 because of the cram packed load of nefarious passengers it carries.
Someone finally got off which opened up a seat for me (yes, there is priority senior and disabled seating, but fat chance a senior or disabled person will ever be able to use it, even though there are signs and instructions and HUGE wheelchair symbols on, above and around the seats at the front of the bus) ANYWAY, I stumbled and got seated, literally had to race for it with a thug teenager, I won by a butt cheek, just got settled when, over my shoulder in a very broken Polish accent I hear, "I too am crippled." I hazarded a glance over my shoulder, thinking someone else needed the seat more than I did. BIG mistake. A scruffy 55 - 60 year old Polish immigrant (we've got a ton of them here, they are singularly alike and identifiable) then said, clutching his chest, "My heart, it is broken." At which point I rolled my eyes at the women sitting next to me (who clearly didn't have a clue what he said). The guy persisted, "Fair lady, let me help you. I can be of great service." I deigned a slight smile at the guy and said, "No, I'm okay, thanks anyway." He then clutched his chest harder in mock attack and said, "Oh my heart, my heart, it is broken." Which, interestingly, made barely a stir on the packed bus. Goes to show, a person could be having a heart attack and no one would do anything. Well, yeah, probably most everyone knew what was going on, but still...
Fortunately he got off a few stops later.
I HATE the bus. I HATE the commute. I HATE that I can't walk. I HATE that I'm disabled. I HATE that I am going through this on my own. I HATE that HWNMNBS isn't here to help me and take care of me. I HATE that he's not with me period. I HATE it.
There. Got that out of my system for the day.
The good thing is, I suspect there is some cosmic alignment between HWNMNBS II and myself. Last night for the first time in weeks I was awake and coherent enough to turn on the 9:00 news (I live in an in-between time zone which has residual effects on television programming). But I got there a bit early, I mean, I was up and I'm not making extemporaneous movements these days. (Those who have visited chez Trillion know that my television is very old and does not have a remote control) I find I am even more prompt that usual because it's just easier to conserve movements. So there I was a few minutes early for the news and weather. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? HWNMNBS II!!!! I mean, it's got to be some sort of sign. I haven't turned on my television in weeks. And certainly would never allow American Juniors to sully my living room. (That's another Blog, but holy bad idea and exploitation of a genre. Yikes is all I can muster. For those who are lucky enough to have been spared this nightmare, suffice to say it's even worse than what you've imagined. Really. I only saw the last few minutes of it, but it was more than enough. Frightening. Except for the clip with HWNMNBS II, and that was a bit painful as well, were it not for the fact that he's as easy on the eyes as ever). The odds that I would actually turn on the television at the exact moment HWNMNBS II makes a guest appearance are so great (I think) that it can only mean something. Not sure what, but it's got to be some sort of fateful destiny thing. I've never been attracted to himbos, but I do find HWNMNBS II somehow compelling. Ahh. Well. Nice break from the in-action. Short lived as it was.
Back to reality.
I can't leave my job for a few months - until this leg is healed. Can't even entertain the notion. They've got me by the insurance card. I got a statement from the hospital. $7,200 for PART of the emergency room services. PART of it. This was just a preliminary statement. That does not appear to include the CAT scans and radiologist services. I don't think it includes the many X-Rays they took of my ankle and neck. (not sure about that, there are some mystery charges I don't understand) That does not include what I've paid for prescriptions. That does not include any of the follow-up surgeon visit or services. Does not include The Immobilizer. Does not include anything except the room I was in at the hospital, one of the three doctors I saw that not (and I don't even remember how many interns), a bag of ice, the temporary cast, technician services for the cast application and crutches. Seriously, from what I can tell, that's all I got for $7,200. The rest of the services, as the statement so proudly boasts, will be included in a subsequent statement from a different billing department.
And yeah, my room in the emergency room was nice, but hardly a suite at the Four Seasons or the Ritz (which both offer premier suites for $5,000/night - a deal in comparison to the Northwestern University ER) So until all the insurance issues are resolved (paid for by someone other than me) I am stuck in my current job. Which, to those of you who are new to this blog or just tuning in, I am desperate to leave, and, have a couple, one in particular, hopeful irons in fires. So this is very, very bad news and a major professional setback. I might be wrong about this, will do some checking, but I think I need to stay here at least until all the doctor visits, exams, potential surgeries are behind me. (I know, I know, I'm not even supposed to say the word, but let's get real. It's very possible I am going to require surgery and I need to make provisions for that now, even if it's only a "just in case" measure.)
I've been hit with a brainstorm.
As some of you who are very close to me know...I've had this goal, a true stretch goal in biz speak, for a few years. For my next job, I want to work with Richard Branson. And no, I don't mean slinging cd's at the Mega Store. I mean literally working with him, by his side, so to speak. I don't admire many business people, but, I like him. And it's not his renegade bad boy thing, either. My impression is that he's very shrewd but not an asshole, which is a very, very rare combination and so people don't know how to label him. (People like labels. It makes them feel safe, confident and superior) Then add in the whole daredevil renegade, wedding gown donning (hey, give him a break. As they say, the British are the first to put on a dress) thing and he's got that reputation. But I like the guy. I think we'd make a great professional team. I truly think he needs me. It's just that he doesn't realize it because he hasn't had the opportunity to work with me.
ANYWAY, I've been trying to play out the psychology and timing of my introduction to him. I figure I might be able to finagle one chance to impress him enough to consider my proposal. So it has to be perfect. Hence the fact that I am not actually working with Richard Branson (Dick, as he would be known to me) at the moment. It occurred to me this could be the angle I've been waiting for. Play on his altruism.
Make a plea from my sickbed: A little girl in Chicago was brutally attacked, broke her ankle, got a concussion, and whiplash, is bed-bound apart from making noble efforts to get to her job. Such is her dedication and professional spirit. There is one thing that would really brighten this poor girl's life: A job with Virgin. In London. With Dick. Won't you please help this poor handicapped girl fulfill her ambitions and dreams?
Okay, so I'm not so little and barely a girl, and so it wasn't an attack so much as a shove, and it wasn't particularly brutal. But it wasn't polite, either. And I did have a concussion and whiplash and still have two broken bones. And I am bed-bound apart from some sick dedication to get to work. Oh wait, it's a sick dedication to retain what few vacation days I have left. Which, hey, could be another angle!...This poor girl is repressed by the American vacation/sick leave system whereby she is made to use her personal vacation days for her sick leave. After surrendering seven of them to this tragedy, she is forced to go back to work or lose what little pay she earns in her woefully underpaid position at a premier and leading legal institution. But such is her dedication and professionalism (and need to pay her ever increasing rent) that she soldiers on, guided only by her responsibility as a team player and invoking the spirit of Dick, she takes two buses through very seedy parts of town, fighting off advances from dirty old men and further attacks by young gang thugs. A visit and subsequent job offer from Dick would lift this girl to levels of ecstasy she's yet to realize. You, Dick, have the power to make a difference in her life.
Can you just see Richard Branson trudging up four flights of stairs to the hovel I call home? Sitting on my bed, with Furry Creature...bearing gifts of a Virgin cell phone, CD's and T-shirts, offering me a job?!
Sounds like a comedy sketch. But you know, really, it could be an altruistic endeavor on his part. No, I'm not exactly terminally ill, but he's not exactly Princess Diana, either. And I just know we could be a really good team, I have so much to offer him (as an employee). I just know if I could have the opportunity to work for him for a few weeks he'd never let me go.
And we could share laughs and inside jokes about HWNMNBS II. I just certain Richard Branson has major issues with HWNMNBS II. He's got to. He must. He should. He better. I mean, I have major issues with HWNMNBS II. If I weren't a breathing, semi-healthy, firmly hetero woman over 25 with a very healthy libido I'd HATE the guy. And not because he's supposed to be the guy we love to hate. As you all know by now, my deep seeded hatred of pop music and culture, instant gratification that lasts no longer than an instant, nothing of any redeeming or long term value... oh sorry, that's another blog. I'm just saying, if he weren't so darned compelling, if our stars weren't in some strange cosmic alignment, if he didn't have such sexy hands, I'd be at the least dismissive and the most vehemently against him and all he represents. Okay. I am against all he represents. But he personally represents it with those hands and I am taken down, defenseless at times. Weak? You bet. Which is another reason I need Dick. Dick can rescue me from this strange compulsion. Yes. I need Dick. The time is now.
9:13 AM
Tuesday, August 05, 2003 Village of the Damned
Monday, July 21. 5:00 PM. Washington Blueline Station.
Going home from work. Rush hour. Crowded station. Descending stairs to platform.
Felt two hands push my shoulder blades. Next thing I knew I was falling. I tried to catch myself on the railing, but didn't quite make it. I vaguely remember someone brushing my side, felt a tug at my bag, but refused to believe I was being mugged. At 5:00 PM on a cram packed subway staircase.
Yet it appears that is exactly what happened. I took the woman in front of me down with me. Fortunately she wasn't hurt badly. The assailant tried to take her bag, as well, after he failed to get mine. He apparently hadn't counted on me falling so badly rendering it very difficult for him to get my bag.
"I don't remember much after that"...funny, that's always what people say. Right after: "It all happened so fast"...Sad to say, it's true. You think you'll be different. You think you're prepared. You think you're smart. You think you're able bodied. You think you'll at least get a good look at the assailant. Then it happens and you realize you're just like everyone else who gets assailed.
The aftermath is what moves in slow motion.
The next thing I remember...
The woman I took down with me was in front of me. I was sprawled up the stair case. I had a vague feeling of pain in the back of my head. Dizzy. Disoriented. What am I doing on the filthy subway stairs? Wait. My legs hurt. Why are people stepping on me? I've got to get up and out of here. I'm in the way. People are mad at me, trying to get around me. The woman in front of me is yelling at them. They're mad at her, too. My head really hurts now. Dizzier. Feel nauseous. Why can't I move my legs? Wait a minute, why isn't someone helping us? Someone pushed me. Ill. I feel really ill. Dizzy. Shooting stars on the ceiling. Sparks. Would be pretty and rather enjoyable if I weren't going to be sick. Must stand up. Someone trod on my arm. Sorry I'm in your way. My bag? Yes, that looks like my bag. Wait. Why does the guy in the short sleeve dress shirt and tie have my bag? Why are he and the woman pulling on my arms? Oh. Helping me up. I see. Okay. Right. Sure. With you in a minute. When I can actually feel my leg. Oh yes, there's the problem. That appendage behind my neck isn't my hand after all. It's my left ankle and foot. Ah. That could be the problem. Yes. That's definitely going to be a problem. Funny, it doesn't hurt. My thighs hurt, but I don't actually feel anything from my knee down. Interesting. Ill. Going to be really ill. Now. Up. Get up!
Oh dear. Sick. Really sick. Head pounding. Dizzier. Things spinning. I can now see my foot, I see it down there where it usually is, but I don't feel a thing. Except my head. And thighs. Whoa. There it is. PAIN. Lot's of pain. Extreme pain. Sick. Dizzy. Hey, how'd I get down to the platform? Head throbbing. Home. Must. Get. Home.
Short sleeve dress shirt man is back. Saying something about CTA guys not helping. Told him to use his cell phone to call an ambulance. Woman I took down is angry. Dizzy. Sick again. Really sick. People yelling at me. Hey, I know it's gross! You think I make a habit of puking on subway platforms? You think this is fun for me? And by the way I can't feel a thing in my left leg and my right inner thigh has possibly been set on fire. Woman asking me where I want to go. Home. Duh. Home. What train? Which stop? Huh? Oh. Outbound. Damen. Yes. Outbound Blueline. Damen. Train door. Sit. Let her sit, she's hurt. Air vent. Oh glorious air vent. Face in the air vent. Oh blessed air conditioning. Thank you CTA.
Damen. Stop. Off the train. Head. Hurts. Keep it together. Almost home. Nearly there. How am I walking? I can't feel my leg. Just down a few flights of stairs. Let them all pass. Keep out of their way. Railing. I can do this. Concentrate. There. Did it. Cross the street. All these hip and trendy cool people at the Pontiac. I wonder if they can tell there's something wrong with me? Not that I care what they think. Just wonder if they can tell. Hmmm. Must be regaining consciousness. Need HWNMNBS. Need him badly. Maybe he'll surprise me and turn up now, at the very moment I need him most.
Two weeks later I still don't remember and cannot believe that I got on the train, down the stairs and up four flights to my apartment. But I know I did because that's when the memories really begin. I called my doctor's office thinking I might still catch her there. Nope, just missed her. But the nurse paged her and she called me within 10 minutes. She told me, as one would expect, to get to the emergency room immediately.
THIS I remember. I finally got the courage to look at my leg/ankle. I thought I was prepared. Another lesson I've now learned: Nothing prepares you for seeing your bones protruding at odd angles from your body.
Ill. Very ill. Pain. Increasing by the second. That's another interesting psychological phenomena. Once I actually looked at it, it started to hurt. Prior to that it was just numb with a general pain. Once I looked at it, it really started throbbing and jabbing at me.
So down and out to get a cab to the emergency room. Funny aside: I told the drive I needed to get to the Northwestern emergency room, he looked back at me, and apparently my demeanor was not as calm and collected as I thought. Because, he got me there in minutes. During rush hour. The usual $12 cab fare was $6. Maybe he gave me the concussion/whiplash/broken leg special, but I very vividly remember scenery whizzing by in a blur.
Then again, I was concussed...
But I guess I'm lucky to be alive. The emergency waiting room has a way of bringing one to humble humility. I am not exaggerating, that place is the Village of the Damned. That's all I kept thinking over and over. A woman having a miscarriage, a guy having a heart attack, a teenaged boy brain dead from a spinal cord injury, a little girl having an asthma attack, a guy with a rash on his leg (yeah, I know, who goes to the emergency room for a rash? but they took him before me, really annoyed the socks off me). And a bunch of other people with no discernable malady who chose to be in the emergency waiting room looking morose. And this is a private hospital. I can only shudder to think what the public hospital emergency rooms must be like. Once I actually got out of the waiting room, three and a half hours later, the exam rooms etc were wonderful and the staff was fantastic. I had an actual room in the emergency room. Real walls. Not flimsy curtains. A telephone at my disposal. A really comfy bed. I mean, this is like the emergency rooms on soap operas.
I was whizzed in for X-rays and CAT scans, and pampered in-between. Doctors, nurses, interns...all checking in on me, catering to me, truly making up for the three and a half hours prior in the Village of the Damned. With one exception (that couldn't be helped). No drugs. Not so much as a Motrin. Because of the assumed and then diagnosed concussion, I could have nothing except water. Nothing. So there I was, ankle bones protruding, huge bump on head, neck in spasms, and no drugs. Not even a bullet to bite.
Yadda yadda yadda
There are two fractures, one "splinter compound," one clean. A mild concussion. Whiplash. Lots of bruises and scrapes. Hadn't noticed my knee bleeding until the nurse brought it to my attention. Due to the extreme swelling, they could only make temporary treatments. They put a plaster splint wrapped with Ace bandages as a temporary cast, gave me crutches, prescriptions not to be taken until after 5:00 PM, and sent me out into the dawn to face the new day. By the time I got a cab home, the sun was coming up. Got home, slept off and on for two days, then ventured out only to see the orthopedic doctor Thursday morning.
The situation was re-assessed. The outer break is very clean and should heal well and quickly. The inner break, well, that's another uglier story. That we're not going to talk about until two weeks when new X-rays will be taken and the progress in healing can be evaluated. So I'm not allowing myself to think about it until then. The orthopedic surgeon sent me to yet another place (across the street) to be fitted and given a temporary "immobilizer." Which I learned is a clunky, huge, heavy brace that attaches itself to you by way of Velcro. Depending on my mood, it's either my new best friend or, my left foot. I still have to use crutches. It offers tremendous support, but I am getting really sick of it. I cannot wait to get my sport model (as promised) when I go back for re-evaluation. Hate crutches. Hate them.
I've made a tidy little nest of my bed, stacks of pillows, books, magazines, water, air conditioner, Furry Creature. And frankly, it's not sooo awful apart from the pain. Friends have been terrific about bringing me food and keeping me company when I was off work. So, bless you all for being there for me in my time of real need.
As for the concussion, I had a bit of a headache for a few days, but nothing as bad as I thought it might be. A little dizzy, but probably from being exhausted more than anything.
The whiplash, well, I'm no stranger to neck and shoulder pain, so really, this isn't as bad as I thought it might be. Now that I'm back at work I notice it "twinging" in the afternoons, but that's the extent of it at this point.
Took a week and a half off from work. Don't remember too much about it other than lounging in bed, writhing in pain, watching the clock for the okay to take the next pill. Read the new Harry Potter. (not at all compelling, had I not been forced into bed and half stoned I doubt I would have bothered to get through it)
Plus the prescription I have is VERY strong. I am utterly stoned while on it. Which may not be a bad thing. It's like living in an episode of the Simpson's. Everything is candy coated colors and voices sound just slightly the wrong speed. I thought this sort of drug dulled the senses. It seems to be making mine and ultra vivid scene. Again I say, not entirely a bad thing.
This was two weeks ago. I've had a few adventures since that I will share in the coming days.
8:14 PM
Hello! I know, it's been ages. You thought Trillian was dead. A common misconception.
No, Trillian has been on a ride wilder than Mr. Toad's.
No, HWNMNBS is not back. Though there was one conversation and a few, I mean very few, emails.
Sadly.
Wish I could report that due to our getting back together and spending every waking (and sleeping) moment together I've been unable to keep up with the Blog.
No, instead, huge project finally got finished. The culmination of months of work and effort. Ended not with a bang but a whimper, which was fine. No big deal. Glad it's over.
Since then it's been one thing after another. Oh, and work.
But now, due to forced time off my feet, I have nothing but time on my hands and, poor you, lots on my mind.
First: Why I am off my feet. Broken ankle. Whiplash. The concussion seems to be better. At least the headache has ceased and I'm not dizzy and nauseus every time I stand.
Second: How I got in this condition. Pushed down the subway stairs in an attempted mugging. During rush hour. Hoards of people saw the whole thing. No one did one thing to help me. Really. Not that I expect anyone to go out of their way, but in hindsite I do find it socialogically interesting and worth note that no one, not one person, helped a woman fallen and unconscious on the subway stairs.
Thid: I am back to work but on shortened hours.
What better time to fire up the old blog spot?!
So here sits Trillian in front of the computer blogging her brains out.
Please, if you're out there and want to chat or comment, please, please go ahead. I'm begging you. I am bored out of my mind, medicated and literally physically unable to do anything productive about either situation and would enjoy company and conversation.
Frame of reference: Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. Except I'm female and as yet, no male Grace Kelly counterpart has appeared.
