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, October 11, 2003
We're so lucky Al Gore invented the internet. We should all thank him personally. Let's all send him thank you email. (What? You can't find an email address for Al Gore, the inventor of the internet? Really? Preposterous!)
Countries and time zones away, and yet I can keep up with the Cubs. Thanks, Al. I owe you one. This internet idea of yours really took off in a good way.
One might think that from countries and time zones away one would have things other than the Cubs on their mind.
True enough. Can't sleep. Dog Prefect feels duty bound, compelled by some unknown something to attach herself to me. I don't mind in the least, but the licking of my ear by a dog (an actual member of the canine species, that is) and big paws in my back are making it difficult for me to go off to the land of nod.
Ford received his award for being the all around swell guy he is, Wife of Ford at his side, really a wonderful evening. Ford hates swanky do's. Ford was uncomfortable throughout the whole thing.
Nothing compared to Trillian's discomfort at making the toast at the reception.
Public Speaking...
Clowns...
Death...
Trillian will take death, please.
Especially since former Person of Interest was there.
Never could speak in complete coherent sentences when he was around.
Years later this guy appears in my life. I mean, what are the odds that his sister and Ford would both receive awards, the same year, the same night, and that he and I would both be on hand? Even with hundreds of people there, it still seems a bit too coincidental to me. Not that I'm reading any "it's fate, destiny!" thing into this.
And that he would recognize me? Well. I haven't changed all that much.
He has. Sort of. Without the hair foppishly hanging in his face and the faraway gaze he looks like a lot of other men his age. At least that's what I'm going to convince myself of so that this does not develop into some weird unhealthy crush thing. Again.
And he had the nerve to Trillian Darling me. Swutting darling-ed me. This from the guy who, when last he saw me, had left me stranded at a gallery in the northern most region of the middle of nowhere while he went off with three more appealing (richer, older, model-er) women. "No, that's okay, Person of Interest, you go along, I know, patrons and everything, very important. I'll take care of things here, I'll manage my way home." (Nevermind I've been fantasizing about this night for the past six months, from the moment I first saw you. No, really, go along. The entire paycheck I spent on this outfit was money well spent, I needed a very overpriced frock and uncomfortable shoes anyway, just happened that what I thought was a date came up at the same time. No, you go along, have a blast. I'm leaving in a few weeks anyway, wouldn't want to have to make some sort of difficult decision about leaving for a great new job or staying with my wonderful new boyfriend.)
Hmmmm. That came flooding back awfully quick. Crushes are funny that way.
The thing is, I wish he'd been old and tattered. But, he's just gracefully older. Acceptably aging. And in some ways, we'd still make a good couple. Even with the, uh, "age" difference.
And apparently now, after all that's happened to me since the night he left me at that gallery, he thinks so, too. Or at least he thought we'd make a good couple for tonight.
And he had the nerve to get pissed, spill his tale of "woe" on me, come onto me, and then say, "You're always going off somewhere or another." As if I were the one who hurt him. As if all he wants in life is to settle down with me. Ha!
That's rich coming from the guy who left me stranded at a gallery on his opening night (with three, THREE other women of varying degrees of intimidating qualities), never to be heard from again.
And always? Counting now, there are two times I was going off somewhere in conjunction with anything remotely to do with him.
What a crashing bore. Handsome crashing bore. But a crashing bore nonetheless. Ford hated him, Wife of Ford hated him slightly less because of the handsome thing.
What's kind of strange is all this encounter did was reinforce and bring up feelings for HWNMNBS. On paper, former Person of Interest has got pages over HWNMNBS. But side by side, there is no comparison. Stupid life lessons. That I didn't need to learn because I already passed those tests, and never took anyone for granted.
Dog Prefect just harrumphed as if she knows exactly what I mean. Maybe she does. Her past is unknown, the details of the years in and before the shelter have never been made known.
Friday, October 10, 2003
Out of all the seats, on all the air vessels, in all the Universe, why, oh why do these people always sit next to or in front of me?
Really, just a bus in the air. That's all it is.
Could have paid the extra fare and sat in business or first class.
When you buy a ticket for a class of seat called ECONOMY, what can you expect? The airlines are not pretending that it's anything other than what it is, and they are very open about it. Don't try to dress it up at all. It says, in big red rubber stamp, "ECONOMY, you cheap jujuflub." Well. The "you cheap jujuflub" is implied.
Except Virgin, but, they're different. Very different. The Mac of the airline industry. If Dick hadn't pulled out of my hub (never will I totally forgive him for that, but I understand, it's business, have to make smart business decisions. I probably would have advised the very same thing.) But I would have been on a Virgin plane and none of this would have happened. Shameless endorsement alert: If you're flying, and Virgin is an option, choose them. If you've suffered on other airlines, you're in for a treat. It's not that they're really good, they're just not bad. Which is actually saying quite a lot. "Fly Virgin. We're not bad." You can have that one Dick, my gift to you. If you've flown anywhere on any airline in the past, oh, 12 years, you know what I mean.
Especially if you've had the pleasure of flying on The World's Favourite Airline. Proof. I want proof. I want names and addresses of all the people who voted for The World's Favourite Airline. I believe this to be one of the greatest marketing lies ever told. Who is this World and what horrendous other airlines have they endured to vote in their Favourite Airline? If this is their favourite, I cannot possibly imagine the atrocities they've lived through on other airlines.
Class: Economy. It should read: Class: None.
Myself included.
This is twice in three days I've looked like an extra from Prisoner, Cell Block H. I'm not proud of that. I don't like that. The first time was excusable, I'd just had three hours at a spa. I looked like Prisoner, Cell Block H, but felt like Sex in the City. So that's different.
But right now I look and feel like an extra in Prisoner, Cell Block H. And I've got exactly an hour and a half to do something about it. So what does Trillian opt to do with her preparation time? Blog, of course. Silly.
Maybe the hour stuck in security at the airport got things off to a bad start. I gave myself loads of time, expected delays and questions, but getting through with a broken ankle is an ordeal I cannot describe at the moment. Knew it. Expected it. Called ahead. Prepared the best I could. And I suppose bad people could fake a broken anything to get through security and so yes, I understand. Totally understand. I'd be angry and afraid if they'd been any less thorough. Surely not all the other people going through checked their luggage, though, seems like almost everyone carries on these days...
broken ankle,
no checked luggage,
woman traveling alone,
international flight.
Apparently that's a profile of interest. Not complaining. Really. I am glad they are thorough. Not sure that a complete investigation of the entire contents of my carry-on and purse were necessary...apparently the Bobbi Brown line of cosmetics, when paired with MAC lipstick is a tip-off. Ladies, word to the wise: Iced Plum and Iced Beige Shimmer Sticks and Lustre lipstick in Capricious are of great interest to female security personnel. I could go on about the irony of my lipstick being named Capricious and the fact that it played an integral role in my detainment at airport security. But I won't. Save it for cocktail banter.
I'm really glad security is so thorough. I really am. If I'm profiled as a person of interest, so be it. Detain me. I honestly have no issues with being questioned. Ransack my suitcase. Go ahead. Please. Do your job. Yes, those are fishnet tights with one foot cut off. Yes, those really are my underpants. Please, paw all over them. Yes, hold them up so your buddy down the way can see them. Can't be too safe these days.
I do have to wonder about some of the other people in the mass swarm who were swept through by the remaining lone agent without so much as a glance, while four agents were "dealing with" me.
Barely made the boarding call.
"You can't sit there."
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you, with the obviously impaired leg. You are not allowed to sit in an exit row."
"But the woman at the check-in desk..." (oh no, I sound like red Swingline stapler Milton)
"No. You have to move."
"I assure you, if a situation arises requiring the opening of an exit door, I'll be the first to get one of them open, faster than you can say floatation device."
"No. You are not allowed to sit there. I'll find you another seat. Gather your items and follow me." Huffy and disgruntled because the desk person said as long as I could lift the door it didn't matter what my physical ailments were, and now she had to actually do something other than hand out pillows, blankets and magazines to someone in ECONOMY CLASS. Sorry sweetie, those German men in business class will just have to get drunk without you for a few minutes.
I know she found me the worst seat on the plane on purpose. I know it. She's one of those height challenged women with an intrinsic loathing for taller women. I know this because when I stood up and crashed my head on the bin above me she laughed. Yes. Laughed. An out and out guffaw. And she didn't stifle it. And gave me a very smugly satisfied look, too. Airline people must see this how many hundreds of times every day? I would think any humor they might see in it would get old after, oh, I don't know, the second day on the job. (Wanted to say, "Just because my legs are longer than almost your entire body doesn't mean you have to hate me. Can't we exist in peace and harmony? I don't hate you because even in three inch heels you're barely chest level to me. Oh. I don't normally do this, but for you, little lady, let me just throw the girls in your face while I contort out of here. Yes they're real. And they're spectacular. You can hate me for them. That's fair.") Yes, the flight was shockingly full, but, I'm absolutely certain there was a seat somewhere other than trapped in the last row in front of the bathrooms sitting next to:
Mr. Manchester United circa 1970. Who was really, really annoyed that he was not going to have two seats to himself after all. And made a huge production out of letting me into my seat. Wanted to say: "Shaving your head doesn't fool anyone. Your male pattern balding is obvious. The hoop earrings do not make you look younger or like a bad ass. They make you look like a middle aged guy with a Mr. Clean fixation. Except you smell really bad. And if you insist on wearing a United jersey, what say you either lay off the brewskis or buy one that fits you without accentuating that nice big gut of yours?"
What I actually said: "I'm sorry, really sorry, they wouldn't let me sit in the exit row, even though the woman at the check-in desk said it would be okay, and they gave away my original seat in the mean time, and I'm really sorry to bother you. Excuse me. Sorry. Broken ankle. Nearly healed. It's fine, really." (don't need to move any of your things, I'll just straddle your duffle bag which doesn't fit completely under the seat in front of you, move aside your Walkman (is that a CCR cd? CCR is available on cd?) and oops, let me pick up one of your 11 magazines I knocked out of the seat pocket...Hustler? Lovely. This is going to be the best 8 hours of my life, I just know it! The only thing separating my hips from yours is a 4" x 6" x 18" armrest! Oh foolish heart be still.)
Combined with an arm rest that wouldn't budge from my other hip and the guy in front of me in full recline (does that extra 12° of recline really make that much difference in your comfort and sleep? Really? Because I would think having your head in a complete stranger's lap with her knees jabbing under you would get uncomfortable after a few hours. But that's just me.)
...and the near constant flushing of the toilet behind me.
...and the Spongebob suitcase dropped from the overhead bin onto my head may have contributed something to the Prisoner, Cell Block H look, as well. Guess they never heard "items may have shifted during take-off and landing."
...and the seemingly four mile walk from the gate to and through customs, after an 8 hour ECONOMY CLASS (you cheap jujuflub) flight is a really nice way to end a trip. Nice touch. I know I always say this, but I wonder if the people who design airports have ever actually flown on a plane and used an airport.
Interesting how being grounded for four months was stifling me. I was itching, literally itching to get away.
How soon we forget. Or something like that. The positive take on it would be, "good to know some things never change."
I've heard stories about the early days of airplane travel. Mythical times when there was legroom, and airlines served actual food on actual dishes, people wore their best clothes, and bathed at least three days prior to flying. It sounds like such a magical time, when anything was possible. I even have some old airline posters showing travelers de-planing, smiling and waving, rested and refreshed, ready to enjoy their holiday. Such happier times.
My Prisoner, Cell Block H extra status was confirmed by awaiting Ford. I reasoned it couldn't be that bad, he was able to pick me out of the crowd. But when your very polite, always has something good to say friend says, "yeah, you could probably make it through the first few rounds of a Cell Block casting call, old girl... Not to worry...long flight...a little rest, fresh air, maybe some shopping will put it to rights..." you know it's worse than even you think it is.
So now, back at Chez Prefect, I am "refreshing" while Ford picks up Wife of Ford. Got to pull myself together, try to look like I have actually slept a few of the past 30 hours... The Prefects have adopted a few more animals since my last visit. Dog Prefect is her usual all over me self, however she did give the aircast a furtive look and I swear she raised her lip in disgust at it. I hear ya sister. I feel the very same way.
10:41 AM
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Trillian has the best friends in Universe. Trillian wonders why, since she is so lucky with friends and family, that she has such horrible luck with men.
Trillian will not digress into an I Am Miss Haversham moment.
All the way from across the Universe, Frankie and Benjy arranged for me to have an evening at the spa. Massage, facial, manicure. Heaven. A "You're finally off crutches and out of that horrible Immobilizer and since you've had such a crappy three months here's a little something to help you forget the evil in the Universe for a few hours" present. Guess they couldn't find that section at Hallmark so they opted for the spa thing.
I am, in so many ways, one of the luckiest beings in the Universe and I am taking a moment to acknowledge that fact. A lot of really crappy and weird things happen to me. True enough. But. Those crappy and weird things have brought me some truly wonderful and amazing friendships. On the whole, in general, as a species, we kind of suck. But I am fortunate to be able to personally attest the fact there are some exceptional standouts among us.
The spa was wonderful. A true luxury that everyone, male or female, should experience. An expensive frivolity? Yep. Absolutely. Well. Maybe not so absolutely. I am more relaxed and in a better frame of mind than I have been in ages. So looking at it from that perspective, it's cheaper than therapy and good for your physical health, too.
So after three hours of sheer bliss, and newly established zen, I was in 7-11 trying to figure out what to have for dinner, as you do, and in came Coffee and Danish Brother and Uncle of Really Big Dog. (From my second mugging.) As if to illustrate my point that the really crappy things that happen can bring wonderful friendships.
He came running, well not so much running as trot/tip-toe scuffing up to me and hugged me. And then he introduced me to his girlfriend.
Yes, girlfriend.
You heard me.
Not that I have made any judgments about Coffee and Danish Brother or his sexual orientation. I haven't. Or that I care. I do not. I merely stated the fact that he showed up at the scene of an attack with coffee and danish. Which was very nice and very thoughtful and who doesn't love danish? But. This guy is either the most metrosexual guy on the planet, the epitome of metrosexuality or the girlfriend is a beard. Not that there's anything wrong with either of those situations. I'm not on this planet, or any other, to judge. I observe and report.
The girlfriend did seem uncomfortable, but I wrote it off to the fact that the conversation mainly involved the attack, the cops and the state of crime in the city.
And the massage and facial really mellowed me out, man, so I'm sure I had that hazy stoned faraway look.
Combined with the post facial face (blotchy), with no make up and weird post-facial and massage hair (stringy around the scalp edges from the massage and facial oils). I looked like an extra from Prisoner, Cell Block H. And didn't care because I was very relaxed, man. Not exactly the sort of first impression that says, "Hey, I'm a fun, stylish person! You want to hang out with me!"
So I don't blame her demeanor on her potential beard status, but on the situation.
Plus, Coffee and Danish Brother introduced me as, "This is the woman who was attacked! The one with the broken leg?! On crutches, she was! Attacked! After breaking her leg by being mugged she was attacked again!" (Coffee and Danish Brother tends to speak in exclamation points. You can almost see them in the air when he speaks. Kind of like the Riddler. The Exclaimer!)
And that's starting to bother me. Not the exclaiming thing. The fact that everyone I've met since July knows me first and foremost as, "That woman who broke her leg while being mugged in the subway." And some will add on "and then was mugged again while waiting for the bus on crutches!" I'm no martyr, and I really don't want to be known as "That woman who broke her leg while being mugged in the subway." And so in my post massage/facial/manicure zen state, and thanks to Coffee and Danish Brother, I realized I have to compensate with a very sparkling personality and some sort of impressive style to everyone I've met since The Incident. And now I'm worried about that.
Of course the crippled chick fetishists out there will no longer be interested in me now the crutches are gone and the cast reduced. No big loss there, from what I've seen, anyway. (though I might be able to seduce a few with what appears to be a prosthetic leg...)
But I've met a lot of other people. And while I try very hard not to "use my handicap" (much as I accepted the Broken Ankle Discount at the newsagent, I didn't expect it or even really want it) I'm sure there are people who cut me slack (for being tired or cranky or weepy, or for having less than Trillian perfect hair, repeating outfits more often than the regular monthly or more rotation, not working out...) and now, or soon, I am going to have to overcome my "That woman who broke her leg while being mugged in the subway" reputation or it's going to stick to me like a bare thigh on a vinyl car seat in August. I have to be me, just me, Trillian, in such a big and yet normal Trillian way that it causes everyone to forget that I was ever "That woman who broke her leg while being mugged in the subway."
It's possible I may overcome that rep by becoming "The Woman Who Doesn't Drink Beer but Drank a Case of Old Style Because the Cubs Won the Series."
One of the few co-workers I like greeted me this morning not with, "Good morning how's the ankle," or "Hey, nice manicure, great color!" or, "how 'bout that game?" No, the first words out of her mouth, over her hazelnut flavored cream coffee were: "The Cubs damn well better win so dad can die happy."
Um. Okay. How does one respond to that?
"Yeah, that would be great!"?
"Nah, they'll never pull it off."?
I know the story behind the statement, but still, not exactly the top 'o the mornin' one expects and has a ready response.
She lives with and is the caregiver to her very elderly and not in such great health parents. Her father, a lifelong diehard Cubs fan, has been housebound in a wheelchair for 11 years. His theory on all of this post-season madness is that the Cubs are doing this for him, that it's a sign from above he will die soon, that the Cubs somehow know this is going to be his last season and they are making it the best, so that when the Cubs win the series he can die happy.
Okay. I get it. I had it at: Dad. Elderly. Housebound. Cubs fan. Didn't need the details extrapolated before I even reached my office.
Yes, a touching sentiment. But perhaps one that should be kept at home, in the family and only brought out when a) the Cubs actually win the series and b) her father has actually been dead a while and this is a fond memory story. Not something you tell a co-worker over your morning coffee during the play-offs.
This is also a woman who has worn a different Cubs shirt and a rosary to the office every day since the play-offs began, praying for the Cubs. (we do not work in a casual office - in fact we only have casual Friday every other Friday) That's her business, between her, her boss and God. But it's starting to annoy me. It's a game. I've learned to love the Cubs. I hope they win this thing for all it would mean to the city and a lot of fans. I have my Go Cubs! sign in my office. I will drink that case of Old Style. (Not happily or gladly, but I drink it I will) But. It's a game.
One of the "credible" newspapers even ran a headline last week, "Is God a Cubs Fan?" The joy of living in a very Catholic city is that church news, Pope news, God news, frequently makes it's way onto front pages and leading stories. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Per se. You move to a Catholic city, you deal with it. The thing is, this woman is praying for the Cubs to win so that her father can die happy. Apparently escaping a war ravaged country as a child, emigrating to the land of opportunity, getting an education, a good job, a beautiful home, being married for 65+ years, raising a loving family, and all the rest of it are not enough. He needs a Cubs World Series Pennant, too. Or he's not dying. At least not happily. Cubs fans. Geesh.
For the sake of discussion, let's put aside personal beliefs for a moment and say there's a God, some supreme being. I'm thinking He's got bigger things on his plate than a game. A baseball game. And maybe now especially is not a good time to bother Him with prayers about a game. If there ever is even a good time. Maybe the mother of a player could send a prayer or two for her son to play well, not hurt himself and be a good boy - I could understand that, I think a God would, too, I think that might be appropriate. But for a fan to pray for a victory in a baseball game? Have I got it all wrong, would God care about a game? Is it okay to bother Him about that? These are rhetorical questions, unless the good folks over at NeoTheologue (rollest not thine eyes, it's an interesting blog) can help me out with this.
I just realized the porn surfers are going to have a surprise when the land here expecting: Facials, massages, Danish, fetishists, vinyl, bare, thigh. I haven't had en masse porn hits and h8r mail from disappointed porn surfers in a while, might as well throw in lap dance and breast from the archives, and go for the grand slam in porn hits: Swedish Redhead.
Sorry guys, just me, Trillian.
I'll give you a little something just for stopping by, though. You might want to check out: This blog.
Trillian is not endorsing this blog, rating it or dignifying it in any way. Just sending the porn hitters there so they will leave Trillian alone.
Thursday's Things I Know for Sure
Being habitually addressed as "kiddo," "cupcake," "missy," or "peaches" (or any other food item) by a colleague is condescending, disrespecful and annoying.
Putting on a Winter coat for the first time since last April and finding money, no matter the amount, in the pocket is one of life's most self assuring and satisfying moments. (I knew I didn't lose that $2.68, I knew it!)
Finding the very expensive sunglasses you really thought you had lost in the coat pocket is better than finding any amount of money.
That Dr. Weil guy who has popped up on banner ads on nearly every site I visit lately looks like a Robert Bly Retreat for Men gone wrong, on a new age collision course with evil. (And he's creeping me out - "Want some vitamins little girl? bwa ha ha ha")
An evening having people fawn over you like you are Dorothy getting renovated in the Emerald City is something everyone should experience.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003 Finally, an explanation to the Magrathea incident. Sort of. Whales and Dolphins. 10:27 PM
Funny how certain smells can take you back to another place in time...
Girls, I know you will understand this
and feel the intrinsic incredible emotion
You have just pulled over your head the worn,
warm sweater belonging to a boy...
The sweater has that faintly goat-like smell
which all teenage (all, sic.) boys possess,
and that smell will lovingly transfer
to all your other clothes...
I have a goat smelling sweater. I call it The Goat Sweater. I love The Goat Sweater. The Goat Sweater was HWNMNBS's (of course). Who couldn't tolerate the goat smell. The Goat Sweater smelled like a goat when it was new. HWNMNBS does not smell like a goat. And didn't want to smell like a goat.
He packed improperly for a weekend getaway to a very cold place in the Universe. A place so cold it's known for sweaters. Which is why he hadn't packed one, thinking it would be a good excuse to buy one. (One of the many reasons I love this guy, with logic like that we're a match made in Heaven.) He wore it 5 hours. We didn't notice the goat smell when we bought it or the few hours he wore it. We were outside. Hiking. (ahhhh, a better place and time...HWNMNBS, a perfectly healthy and able ankle, one of the coldest places in the Universe...) When the smell came over us, it was too late to return it. That night by the fire, overcome with emotion and the moment, I recited the sweater poem by Meryn Cadell. Perhaps not the most romantic seeming bit of poetry to recite to your beloved, but, it worked for me. I got the guy. At least for a while. I had the guy.
Much to my surprise I pulled the entire poem up from my subconscious on demand. (I think it's taking up the space where my 8's multiplication tables were stored.) HWNMNBS went wild with laughter, thinking I had made the whole thing up, including the name Cadell Meryn. It became one of our songs. Ish. Our sweater, our song. One of us would throw out a line now and then. Lovingly. I still have The Goat Sweater, it still smells like goat, and I love it. (You have to get really close to notice the goat smell. Really close.)
Yesterday afternoon, a colleague/friend called me to action. Big celebrity sponsorship event crisis. "Trillian, are you up to it? Can you manage on your ankle? Please? Please! I need help! Big, serious help! You're the only person I know in town who can help me!"
How could I say no?
Dashed home (this cab thing has got to stop), realized I would only have time for either make-up and hair or outfit choosing I did the math. Since I was already rather casual I decided: Outdoor event + at night + October + 30,000 people = Clothes not so much an issue. Not wanting to embarrass my friend in front of his higher-ups and work peers = issue. The Good Make-up and hair required. ("Besides you're already wearing the outfit you would probably pull together anyway.") Make-up, hair...door buzzer. "Swut, my ride! Outta here, see ya Furry Creature."
Then my mother telepathed me. "Better take a sweater, dear." Okay mom. Grabbed the first one handy, you guessed it, The Goat Sweater.
Colleague/Friend sent a limo. A belguiming limo. And his girlfriend whom I've met exactly once.
Who apparently either wants to impress the celebrity involved in the sponsorship event, or just happens to always dress like next month's cover of Maxim. Difficult to say which.
I am quite certain she has never possessed a sweater that smells like goat.
Conversation was strained to say the least. We had one more stop, to pick up cartons of t-shirts. I mean cartons upon cartons of t-shirts. When we left the limo trunk was full of cartons and tied with twine. The interior was packed full, girlfriend and I had to sit up front with the driver. I knew the circumstances of this situation and knew Colleague/Friend was in crisis mode and this was the best solution he could manage on short notice. I gave him loads of credit for the ingenuity, his girlfriend gave him loads of something else for putting her through the "ordeal" as she later called it.
We arrived at the venue.
A bunch of stuff happened.
Several hours later I got home.
And thus begins this week's Reality Wednesday.
Backstage Staging Zone!
The show opens in the backstage of the backstage area of a concert venue. This is a huge corporate sponsored event. They have procured a Claims to Want to Save the Rainforests but Endorses Expensive Cars which Emit Pollutants that Erode the Rainforest, So Famous They are Only Known By One Name performer (CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP) as the evening's entertainment. Corporate event managers, corporate hot-shots and their children, their hangers on, and a bunch of "lucky winners of backstage passes" are on hand. Chaos and confusion. CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP cannot be found. Running late from another endorsement gig.
Friend and in-the-know-from-years-of-experience-with-this-sort-of-thing Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager is on hand, called in at the last minute to help solve a simultaneous catering and t-shirt crisis. (She's good. She's really good. The real star of tonight's show.) His girlfriend is annoyingly having problems keeping herself in her top. People are whispering. Corporate Marketing Manager is trying to be oblivious but is obviously annoyed by the display of breast his girlfriend is showing in front of his professional peer group.
Here the judges, who this week are, shockingly, Randy, Simon and Paula, will rate the behind the scenes situation. Quality and quantity of food and booze, age and beauty of women, and the number of Important People on hand. Comparing it (pointlessly and annoyingly) to their personal backstages.
Shot of the crowd forming in front of the stage.
An entourage of limousines can be seen rolling up the street.
Backstage, Corporate Marketing Manager is holding four simultaneous cell phone conversations. Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager is holding two additional cell phone conversations in his stead. From over this din can be heard, "He's here! They just pulled in!" All except those busy with sound, food, t-shirt or stage duties run to greet CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP. Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager stays behind to deal with the t-shirt crisis. And she can't run anyway, and has seen CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP and couldn't give a toss.
She's now, momentarily, the only one who has a clue what's going on, what needs to be done and who should do it and therefore is momentarily the One in Charge. (We find out later, during the wrap-up, that she hates this but wanted to save Colleague/Friend Corporate Marketing Manager's behind, and did what had to be done in the name of friendship. She's very altruistic. Randy likes this. Paula cries. Simon says he doesn't understand why she's not working for Richard Branson.)
In walks a swarm of people.
Somewhere in their midst the aura of CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP can be felt.
He's not actually seen. The swarm surrounds him to an office made over into a dressing room.
Chaos ensues.
Problems arise.
The show goes on.
CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP is excellent. Really, really excellent.
The judges go nuts. Randy can't contain himself, loses his dawgy coolness. Paula cries. Simon says CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP's a bit old, needs a different haircut, hates the outfit, but sounded good, like an older Sting.
T-shirt and catering crises are resolved. Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager who is now in quite a bit of pain wants to go home. Badly.
But No! CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP is going to be here in a minute. You've got to stick around!
Hoping for a ride home after all the ballyhoo, she stays.
Girlfriend of Corporate Marketing Manager, who has been sulking and drinking heavily all evening complains, in a high whine, for the umpteenth time, that she's cooo-old. Corporate Marketing Manager tells her, way too loudly (out of frustration) "You should have worn some *bleeeeeep*-ing clothes!"
Silence.
Dead silence in the backstage staging area. (apart from the gentle strains of a ballad from CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP out on stage.)
The judges love this. Love it.
So does everyone else in the back stage staging area who are long past over her breasts spilling out all over the place, refusing to help with the t-shirt crisis and refusing to don a t-shirt when the coooo-old complaints began.
Understandably, sort of, Girlfriend's hurt. Okay, she should have worn something resembling an actual shirt. Brought a jacket. Something. But we've all been there, caught up in the moment, it seems like a good idea at home...and maybe she's not lucky enough to have a telepathic mother. Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager feels sorry for her. And offers her a sweater.
That smells like a goat.
Girlfriend casts it a wary look, but accepts it. (She realizes she has no choice in this situation - everyone heard her whine and complain, everyone heard her boyfriend slate her, everyone heard Miss Altruism 2003 offer a sweater. She simply cannot decline, no matter what the sweater looks like or how it smells.)
CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP ends the set and eventually parades through the back stage staging area. Corporate Marketing Manager is introduced by his boss (a bit too vigorous handshake, there, Corporate Marketing Manager, watch that...). And then introduces his girlfriend.
Who is wearing a sweater that smells like a goat. And is at least three sizes too big for her. Which renders it impossible to tell whether or not she even has breasts. The sleeve covers her hand as she reaches out to shake CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP's hand. So instead of giving CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP a good look at her breasts, as she had planned, she gave him a hand full of wool that smells like goat.
CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP makes polite smiles and nods, and walks past Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager, who is sitting on a counter, legs dangling, and notices her orthotically enhanced ankle and leg.
He goes all misty. He is humbled. He approaches Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager who is looking for any chance of escape. There is none.
CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP pulls his most sincere, deeply penetrating, "I really care" look for the camera and then for Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager. He puts one hand/arm on her shoulder (which is kind of a reach for him, he's not as tall as you might think, but much better looking than you might think. Even for a guy his age. Really. Much better looking.) and offers the other hand in a handshake.
Colleague and Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager surprising herself with the amount of enthusiasm, "Hi! Nice to meet you. I saw you once a long time ago. I was young." (so was I, he interjects. A few nervous laughs. Was that supposed to be funny? Better laugh just in case. He might go all broody on us if we don't.)
"Always nice to meet a long time fan." ("fan" might be a bit presumptuous, "long time" even more so, Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager thinks, but let's it slide without comment. Grace! Tact! Poise! This gal's got it all!)
"Want a t-shirt?" she offers (again with the altruism)
"Sure!" he says.
She moves to hop/slide off the counter and CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP (hand/arm still on her shoulder) moves to help her. Eyes suddenly big and worried that Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager might further injure herself.
"I'm okay, I'm used to it. Just a bit tired tonight. Moving a little slow."
All concerned and deep look again, CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP takes her hand in both of his and says, "It must be so difficult. You have such a brave face on it. That must get tiring. You must just want to tell people to *bleeeeeep* off sometimes."
"Well, yeah, but that's got little to do with my leg. (CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP laughs knowingly) And some people have been really nice. Today, in fact, has been a good day. I got the Broken Ankle Special at the newsagent."
CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP stops dead in his tracks. "Broken ankle?"
"Yeah. This is my second cast, you should have seen the Immobilzer."
CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP bursts out laughing - spittle going all over the place. "Broken ankle?!! Good *bleeeeeep*-ing *bleeeeeeep*!!! I thought you were an amputee! A Heather Mills!!!!"
"huh?" looking dazed and confused at her aircasted leg sticking out of capris and into Payless shoes and realizing for the first time the arrangement does resemble a prosthetic limb. "Well. I'm no Heather Mills. But then you're no Paul McCartney."
Shock and laughter from CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP.
Colleague/Friend of Marketing Manager tosses him a t-shirt and he's gone.
Corporate Marketing Manager is still completely absorbed with the event. Girlfriend is now itching in the goat smelling sweater, and is probably forever not speaking to Colleague and Friend of her boyfriend. If in fact after tonight he is still her boyfriend.
Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager wraps up the t-shirt situation and bids farewell to the scene. "No, don't go, we're all going for drinks! CWSREECEPERSFTOKBONP might join us!"
"Nah, I'm tired, I need to go home."
Girlfriend makes a production and striptease out of removing the goat smelling sweater and throws it at Colleague/Friend of Corporate Marketing Manager, "Don't forget your sweater!" she taunts as she's throwing it.
"Thanks!" Colleague/Friend cheerfully yells, but under her breath the sarcastic, evil, less altruistic side ("...and you're welcome.")
The judges are full of comments. Randy thinks Corporate Marketing Manager should dump the Girlfriend and start a company with Colleague/Friend, and lists all the people he's worked with in the past. Paula cries. Simon can't stop looking at Girlfriend's breasts and asks her to marry him. And by the way, Colleague/Friend of Marketing Manager, saved the show tonight, Randy I disagree, she's too good for Corporate Marketing Manager, she should be with the Virgin people, Branson could use someone like her. Corporate Marketing Manager, you're appalling, really dreadful that you let things get this far out of hand, thank God for Colleague/Friend. Except she should leave her sweater home next time. "
If you want to destroy my sweater
Pull this thread as I walk away (as I walk away)
Watch me unravel I'll soon be naked
Lying on the floor, lying on the floor
I've come undone (Weezer. Picking up where Ms. Cadell left off.)
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Weirdness that is my office.
Or does this happen everywhere?
Someone brought in cookies yesterday and left them in the communal food area (weirdness issue #1, we have an actual communal food area for snacks and treats)
The cookies were some weird hybrid cookie. From the outside they appeared to be "healthy," super fibrous oatmeal raisin, but turned out to be not only super fibrous oatmeal raisin, but also high density sugar bombs of chocolate chunks and macadamia nuts. And sugar. Lots of it.
I usually avoid the communal food area like a plague of rage, but was suckered in by the "healthy" appearance of a) oatmeal coating and seemingly whole wheat consistency with raisins poking out, and b) the appearance of being commercially produced (as in not from a co-worker of unknown origin's kitchen).
One bite and that weirdo messed up combination (that I'm sure on paper sounded like a good idea) was straight into my trash bin.
But, other people took them (my co-workers will eat anything if it's free and sitting in the communal food area (weirdness issue #2))
There was one (whole, in tact cookie) remaining when I came into the office this morning. The health bite come sugar bullet sat out all night. Not that it would hurt this thing. In fact, the "fresh" air might do it some good.
An hour later I noticed someone had taken half the remaining cookie. It wasn't a clean break, someone had clearly just broken the thing arbitrarily and left whatever part they didn't want behind. (weirdness issue #3, why not just take the whole thing?)
Two hours after that I sent a fax and noticed someone had now broken off half of the remaining half, leaving 1/4 the original cookie. (weirdness issues #4 & #5 - who eats 1/4 of a cookie? and leaves only a 1/4 behind presumably "for someone else"?)
Five hours later, the 1/4 cookie still remains. I know, I know, the whole "no one will take the last anything" factor. But, that rule has never applied in our communal food area. It's a swarming, grabbing, crumb flying devouring mass free for all in there. With all the manners and decorum of a shark feeding frenzy. (weirdness issue #6 - no food decorum is observed in my office)
I did however, see my idiot boss pressing her finger onto the crumbs around the 1/4 cookie, then lick/sucking the crumbs off her finger, then repeating the process. Leaving crumbs on her face. She did this shamelessly and in wide open view of several people, while carrying on a conversation. I cannot even dignify this behavior with a weirdness issue # because it's my idiot boss and all bets are off with her. The weirdness factor (#7) here is that the other people in the conversation, people whom until today I thought were uptight decorum types, didn't seem to think her behavior was at all out of place.
And again I state, the cookies were weird and not good. Healthy people didn't like them because of the caloric, sugar and chocolate content, junk food snacksters didn't like them for their high density fiber and somewhat healthy content of oatmeal and raisins.
If the 1/4 cookie is still there when I leave tonight, I'm throwing it away. Or should I leave it and see if it's there in the morning?
2:07 PM
Men! Black Holes! Burroughs! And it's barely 10 AM!
I never thought I'd look upon the train as a blessed sanctuary of civilization. Never. Then I was forced to ride buses for three and a half months.
As I got on the train this morning, a young woman brusked past me to board ahead of me. Rather unusual, the early morning commuters at my station are usually orderly about boarding. But she had sussed out that there were very few seats available this morning. There were an unusual amount of travelers coming in from the airport with luggage taking up a lot of seats and space. (Some of them appeared to be Marlins fans.) Anyway, this caused a bit more of a crowd in my usually half empty rear car. All the regular commuters were pushed out of their regular cars to the last cars by the travelers.
So young woman, sharp as a tack and eying all of this as the train pulled in, sped to the end of the platform and not quite shoved (but almost) me out of her way to get the last two seats. Yes. Last TWO seats. She had a: purse; backpack; and gym bag. And apparently wanted to read, as well.
So she plopped her gym bag and backpack on the empty seat and plopped herself next to them.
The difference between her and the Healthcare Worker 20 Something Latina on the 666 bus is that she knew she was out of line, felt guilty about it and couldn't muster an ounce of dignity to look at anyone. She knew she was wrong, even if I weren't in a cast. Which is obvious today because due to the spike in temperature, I pulled on one of the few transitional items I have, a pair of capri length pants. So the aircast is blazingly white and obvious to everyone.
What this woman did not know is that I have endured so much worse than her that really, I barely noticed her and stood, nonplussed, in the aisle.
Within about 30 seconds of her plopping down, the atmosphere in the car turned ugly. There is an abundance of men on my train. Young men. Middle aged men. Older men. Professional men. Construction worker men. Student men.
Well. All of the men in the immediate area who witnessed her rude slight to me stared at her. I mean stared her down. Some were threatening stares, others were stares of disbelief. One guy started curling his lips back and was starting to growl. Well. Almost.
Then the guy directly across from her said, "Are you kidding me?! Move your stuff!"
She pretended to think he was talking to someone else.
Another guy, next to her said, "There's a disabled person who needs to sit down, MOVE YOUR STUFF!"
Meanwhile, at least seven men got up to give me their seats. One came over, offered his elbow, yes, OFFERED ME HIS ELBOW and ushered me to his seat.
The guy directly across from her said, "Move your stuff. The train is crowded this morning, you have no right to take up two seats."
She now summoned the nerve to look up, sheepishly, and realized the angry mob of snarling men that had formed around her. I don't think she's the type of woman who usually draws a crowd of angry snarling men. I think she's the type used to drawing crowds of adoring salivating men. I am hoping, for all the rest of womankind, that she will be humbled by this experience. My suspicion is that she will not.
Without a word, she pulled her backpack on her lap and hurumphed her gym bag on the floor in front of her. (Way too far out into the aisle, I think as a spiteful turf tactic.) The guy who had insisted on giving me his seat very self satisfyingly plopped down next to her. Other men around me asked me if I was okay, what happened to my leg, (mugged?! broken?! that's horrible!). Again I was thinking, "What black hole have I fallen through and will I be able to get to work on time?" Sure, I'm extra jaded because of the bus commute, but I don't remember the men on the train being this nice.
Two of the guys insisted on helping me off at my stop and up the stairs out of the station. (which is really, really difficult for me, to the point that I've been thinking I might have to go back to the buses for a while.)
At the corner newsagent, the guy, a new guy I haven't seen before today, who may have been Dan Aykroyd, said, "What can I get for you today TRIBUNE! SUN TIMES! DEFENDER! you look like a Tribune kind of gal" (I do? Is it that obvious? I didn't know it showed! Gal?) "CUBS PLAYOFF! TRIBUNE! GET YER TRIBUNE rooting for the Cubbies?"
"Oh yes, of course, isn't everyone these days?"
"heh heh yeah even us Sox fans TEAMSTERS IN MEDIATION! SUN TIMES! what happened to yer leg? TRIBUNE! DEFENDER! CUBS PLAYOFF!"
"broken ankle"
"SUN TIMES! really? too bad. what happened?"
"Mugged"
"No shit. Really?"
"yep"
"aw geeze, I'm sorry. TRIBUNE! GARBAGE STRIKE! here's your TRIBUNE we've got a broken ankle special today (hands me my paper and a plastic Go Cubs! sign) I handed him the price of the paper and he refused to take it. SUN TIMES! TRIBUNE! CUBS PLAYOFF! CUBS SPECIAL! I told you, we've got a broken ankle special. Go Cubs. (wink) you have a good day 'dare, take care. SUN TIMES! TRIBUNE! TEAMSTERS MEDIATE! "
I wonder if this guy always talks this way?
"Hi honey I'm home FROM WORK! ROUGH DAY! my boss is an idiot, SALES ARE DOWN! looks like there'll be NO BONUS! this year. What's for dinner? PORK CHOPS AND APPLESAUCE! my favorite. No I don't want to hear about your SISTER'S NEW BOYFRIEND! right now."
Geek girls - two Leigh Keno segments last night! And he was in full caress mode! He nearly molested that cupboard door on the dry sink. Oh to be that cupboard door. Leslie must have been at the gym.
What about that Garth Williams illustration? $6,500! Go Garth!
Was it just me and my dread of work these days, or was the guy with the china Milton (red Swingline stapler) from Office Space? "yes, you see, it's china, and we bought it...don't know...you see...my wife...china...maybe English...my china..."
But one of the stranger moments in Roadshow history had to be that Burroughs collection. Okay. I've got a dark sense of humor. A taste for the macabre. I've read Burroughs. I can even appreciate Burroughs on a few levels. But was that t-shirt supposed to be funny? I'm fairly tolerant about this sort of thing, nunplussed, figure you've got to laugh if you can. But he shot his wife in the head. Shot his wife in the head. Repeat, shot his wife in the head. Call me uptight, but I don't think making a joke about it emblazoned on a t-shirt is funny. And I have no idea if the Roadshow folks were making that point, or actually thought it was funny or a worthwhile piece of history. The painted PVC pipe and signed books? Yes. Of course. The t-shirt though, I mean, what the...?
I was a little surprised to see the clock radio/8 track player only valued at $200. I thought 70's mod was going for a lot more on the open market. Did anyone happen to notice what 8 track tape the woman had in it?
Note: And speaking of the 70's...The, um,"poetry" featured in yesterday's blog is not an original Trillian composition. No, even in my wildest fantasies I could not reach that level of prose. For those of you not indoctrinated to the musical genius that is the Brady Bunch, that is Time to Change featuring Peter Brady.
Come on out of that doghouse, it's a sunshine day. Everybody's smilin'.
Autumn turns to winter,
And winter turns to spring.
It doesn't go just for seasons you know,
It goes for everything.
The bi-annual clothes changing season is in full effect.
You know it's time when you notice other people looking really stupid in seasonally inappropriate clothing.
And then you take a look at yourself and realize you are just a flippy-slippy skirt away from being seasonally inappropriate yourself.
So to save yourself from yourself, you must put away the Summer (or Winter, as hemispherically appropriate) clothing. Out of easy reach.
Swap the seasonal clothes.
Do it now. The time (and temperature) has arrived.
Storing your Summer or Winter clothes out of easy reach will also ensure two to three weeks of sudden record high or low temperatures. (To wit, the local revised forecast of 75 balmy degrees tomorrow.)
Too bad.
Regardless of what the thermometer says, you shouldn't be wearing Summer or Winter looking clothes now, anyway.
Suffer.
This is also the perfect time to finally get rid of some of those garments that should have been gotten rid of a long time ago.
The dress you wore the night you met your boyfriend - three boyfriends and two sizes ago.
The suit with shoulder pads to make Dynasty era Linda Evans envious.
I don't care how much it cost. Shoulder pads came back briefly and have left again. Unless you're in a Robert Palmer Tribute band, get rid of it.
Gauchos. They didn't catch on in the '70's, they didn't catch on last year, get rid of them. Now.
Guys, those shoes - the brown ones with the toes permanently curled up at least 30°? - outta here.
(The same is true for voices,
When boys begin to grow.
You gotta take a lesson from Mother Nature,
And if you do you'll know.)
It's difficult. I know. I have so much emotional attachment to nearly every piece of clothing I own I could keep a therapist in very nice style for a lot of years on that issue alone.
The trick I employed this year, and so far it seems to be successful is: Pretend you're moving. Next Spring. (This eliminates the denial and consequential inactivity immediacy can sometimes induce.) Is it worthy of a schlep and extra weight charge? No? Out it goes.
The other trick I find useful is to spend a few evenings with some hyper-current, über-cool magazines.
From Europe.
How do the contents of your closet stack up to the photos in the magazines?
Of course I don't endorse living a life as presented in photographs in über-cool magazines.
Eschew it, actually.
But.
If by comparison your closet could be that of the not-so-cool cousins back home of the people in the photographs in the über-cool magazines, or worse, the very square parents of the people in the photographs in the über-cool magazines, it might be time to let go of some of the older or frumpier items. Even if you actually are the not-so-cool cousin or are old enough to be the parents of the people in the über-cool magazines.
(When it's time to change (when it's time to change),
Don't fight the tide, go along for the ride,
Don't ya see.
When it's time to change, you've got to rearrange,
Who you are and what you're gonna be.)
By all means, keep your favorite jumpers and shirts and skirts (especially skirts) and the suits that can endure at least one more season of dry cleaning (and do not have Dynasty shoulder pads or lapels that are not quite current, yet not quite retro), the little black dresses (providing they fit) and a few items you just cannot part with for emotional reasons.
The rest should go.
I started small. With my underwear drawers. Yes plural.
I was very, very good. Much is gone.
Speaking of emotional attachments. Details will be spared here to save what's left of my broken heart. And I'm running low on Kleenex.
(Day by day you're facing the changes you've been through,
A little bit of living, a little bit of growing all adds up to you.
Every boy's a man inside,
A girl a woman too.
And if you want to reach your destiny,
Then here's what you can do.)
Then the socks. (shudder shudder) Accept that the mates to favorite socks have left and are never coming back. And now it's time for its mate to leave. It's difficult, casting them out, when they've already been left behind by their partner. But you've got to think about yourself. This isn't a charitable home for Socks without Partners, it's a drawer. And many single socks go on to lead very successful and adventurous lives. Set them free.
The problem confronting me is that we're in the midst of a garbage worker strike.
Bad timing on my part.
But you've got to do this the very moment the urge strikes - or when you realize you are a mere too flimsy skirt away from being woefully, noticeably out of season. You must do it right then.
I donate my clothing to charities.
But undergarments and single socks? Sounds like trash to me.
But we're not supposed to put out anything other than perishable garbage, you know, biohazards and the like, until the strike ends. Which seems very fair to me. Though it is causing daily ponderings of my lifestyle. But that's another blog.
I know if I set the neatly bagged socks and undergarments in the alley or in the full dumpsters, the homeless shopping trolley brigade will have a blast. The thing is, it was difficult enough for me to let go of a few of those items, I don't need to be confronted with them in some form of re-use on a homeless person of either gender. Seeing Pete, the local loon, rolling his trolley through the park, festooned with the teddy that used to send HWNMNBS into fits of passion would be more than I could bear.
So they sit here, dangerously near the lingerie chest from whence they came.
The real trick with discarding garments is to do it quickly. No time to reconsider. No time for remorse. Get 'em out, forget about 'em and move on with your life.
All the more reason to get the garbage worker strike resolved ASAP.
(Sha na na na na na na na na,
Sha na na na na.
Sha na na na na na na na na,
Sha na na na na.) 7:56 AM
