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
Friday, October 17, 2003
In re: Fire in Cook County Building
Trillian is fine. Ish.
Thank you to the Universe for all the concern.
I don't know many details - I'm in an vacant hotel meeting room on a laptop - going on internet news and an email from a friend who's husband works in the building and fortunately is okay but being treated for minor injuries - the fire in the county building is contained. Apparently the stairwells were smoke filled and untraversable (my friend's husband works on floor 32) and no sprinklers are in the building because it is old enough to escape fire codes for sprinkler systems.
I know the building well, lots of really great people working there.
Thank you for your concern. I really had no idea how many people cared.
Hopes and prayers and all the appropriate whatever for those in need.
Sorry, I should have been more on top of this, given the recent Goat Sweater Incident. Thanks for the reminders.
Without further adieu, Universe, as a tribute to Mr. Pope, I present, again, Meryn Cadell:
The Pope
It began as a regular day in my room,
with a cup of hot black coffee
Sure, I was depressed but I always am
Some people love life, well not me.
But then the choppers came,
two by two by ten
announcing apocalypse of a different kind
So I ran out of my room, ran down the stairs
Down the street into Nathan Phillips Square
People, people running and horses everywhere
Yeah, the Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope
We're all here to see the Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope
Well you got yer pope pennants, buttons,
yer pope clothes
You got yer pope binoculars to see him up close
and I cried when I saw that man in white
I cried much to my surrounder's delight.
I cried 'cause I couldn't breathe anymore
I cried 'cause people were stepping on my feet
Hey, hey Mr. Holiness, way over there,
maybe we love you but we're sadly lakcing air.
Well, I love that man, Pope John Paul III.
I love him, probably more than he deserves.
Okay, so he persecutes homosexuals,
does not believe in abortion,
vists with Kurt Waldheim
and tells us not to take the Pill,
there's still a certain je ne sais quoi...
Some peace, some love some goodwill
Yeah, the Pope, Pope, Pope, Pope Pope.
Then he scooted away in that great Popemobile
I was feeling so trampled
I didn't know what else to feel.
Then we all kissed the ground
where John Paul had been.....
I can hardly wait
til someone famous comes to town again. 1:25 PM
In my mailbox yesterday:
Trial size (two days worth) Crest Whitestrips. Unsolicited.
Victoria Secret Shoe Book. Because I bought a shower gift from them 6 years ago and they haven't left me alone since.
A reminder postcard from my gynecologist.
A missing child flyer featuring a girl who is the spitting image of one of my nieces.
Glad I came home to that box o' fun.
I cannot help but assume these items did not randomly arrive on the same day. They are further messages of mockery from the Universe. Or maybe I'm just being too sensitive.
Apparently someone, the good folks at P&G at least, feel I could benefit from Whitestrips. But they only sent me two days of the prescribed 14 day treatment. Nice. Thanks P&G.
Apparently it's not enough for Victoria to show me her secrets in mega paged catalogs two or three times a month, making me feel completely inferior and worthless on many levels. Now she sends me, and me alone, I think, Shoe Book to further mock me and the fact that I cannot wear anything but extra wide Payless shoes. Victoria's Secret Shoe Book? Victoria's Secret? Shoes?
Oh goody, time for my yearly check up. Let me order something from Victoria's Secret for the special occasion. And whiten my teeth so they'll look good when they're clenched during the exam.
And ice the cake that was my day with the missing child who could be my niece.
Thursdays. Never could get the hang of them.
And oh joy, I get to work most of the weekend! Huge big mega important reception thing tonight. Cheap wine, rubbery brie, and polite, witty and insightful conversations. Deals will be made, lives will be changed. Ha.
Huge big mega important closed door sessions tomorrow! But if the doors are closed, why do I have to be there, you may ask. And I've asked that myself. And not been given an answer other than, "We might need your input." Oh. Okay. So I'll forfeit another Saturday just in case you need my input. I should feel special. I guess.
Attitude alignment.
It's a sunshine day. Everybody's smilin'. Whitestrip smilin'.
9:49 AM
Thursday, October 16, 2003 To Dream the Impossible Dream Office. Party. Karaoke.
Three things that should never, ever combine to join forces.
Add alcohol and you've got a real problem on your hands.
If someone suggests it as a fun icebreaker or entertainment for an office event, run. Run far away. As fast as you are able.
I emerged relatively unscathed. I think. Compared to my coworkers I am the shining example of model behavior and decorum. It wasn't the worst indignity I've suffered.
Atrocious renditions of horrible songs is expected. I think that's the alleged fun of karaoke.
Putting that aside, there are some people so horrible, so awful, that it transcends humor and verges on torture.
The clichés are all true.
I'll leave the negative critiquing of karaoke singers to Simon Cowell. He gets paid a lot more money than I do to toss out lame and mediocre insults at bad singers.
But.
I have to work with these people. Every time I go to a meeting with my senior manager, I have to forget the fact that she sang four songs, badly, in progressive degrees of intoxication and disrobement. I have to pretend I don't know that she loves the Carpenters.
Or that our young new assistant dedicated Mrs. Robinson to her. And then did a very touching and surprisingly good and scarily heartfelt rendition of the song. For the sake of everyone involved I hope it was meant to be a joke.
I must somehow erase the image, burned into my brain, of a middle aged female colleague doing a Shakira impersonation, rump wiggles and sexual gyrating included. I must manage this before I meet with her to go over a budgeting issue this afternoon.
I must forget the sound akin to a cat in heat was in actuality a colleague butchering Beyonce. I must not remember this the next time she whines about the network recovery process.
I must wrap my mind around the fact that the editor whom I can hardly tolerate on a good day has not only heard of Mooney Suzuki but was hoping to belt out A Song About Today. (How the...? Did someone put him up to this? Has he been playing with my iPod? It cannot be possible that we both like the same anything, or would employ the same diversionary tactic of naming a band with no remote chance of availability at the karaoke bar. It's simply not possible. It makes my head hurt in confusion to even consider this possibility. He and I are diametric opposites. We know this, accept it and have carved out an arrangement. Like mindset on any topic is not possible. It's a breach of negotiation.)
I must remember that because Mooney Suzuki was not an option, he had another drink and then made a dedication to the Cubs and sang To Dream the Impossible Dream (yeah, the Man of La Mancha anthem. Suffice to say, he's no Don Quixote. Or even drunken Peter O'Toole.)
I must remember that I laid down the law, stood my ground when I said no way would I sing anything other than Pixies, Misfits, Morrissey (not The Smiths) or Kirsty MacColl. And stuck to my pledge. (I figured those were safe bets, believable names, and if, by some act of Satan they had songs by them, I could probably manage my way through a verse or two.
Kirsty was only thrown in under protest. "They don't have any Pixies or Misfits or Morrissey (what's Morrissey?) you've got to choose something the real world has heard! None of your kooky music!" (My 'kooky' music? Oh yeah, that Morrissey's a real (avant) card.)
"Aw darn. How about Kirsty MacColl?" hoping this would be a safe choice. Whew. No Kirsty. Other people were surprised by this, which surprised me, then I discovered they had her confused with Diana Krall.
I must remember that our division director called me, yes me, out of the whole crew, he called upon me, to accompany him in the Green Acres theme song. Heck until last night, I wasn't certain he even knew my name. (rumors of my version of this song, while greatly exaggerated, have obviously made their way around the office and into the "right hands" - I blame his secretary. Or myself. He did catch me singing it one late night in the office when I thought everyone had gone home. Don't ask.) I must remember that we did a so-so version of it, he called me a good sport and cracked up at my Eva.
Guide note: If you should find yourself in an office karaoke situation, go with a television theme. They're typically short, sometimes funny, everyone else is singing along and doesn't pay much attention to you, and no one expects them to be sung well. (well sung?) Another note to get through an event of this nature: Be sure to plan it during a 'crucial' sporting event. Half the office won't show, and of the half that does show up, half of them will be itching to leave or watch the game in the bar, and the remainder will be so drunk or enamored with the karaoke idea their enthusiasm will carry them to feats of unsurpassed embarrassment rendering you safe from scorn, ridicule or the need to find another job the next morning.
I survived. We'll survive. Who knows. Maybe this will prove to be a good bonding experience for our department. It's over, Quitter Colleague is gone, and unless some unforeseen occasion arises, I will never again step foot in a karaoke bar.
In these shoes? I don't think so.
Thursday's Things I Know for Sure (this ain't Oprah's list) Lace turtleneck is an oxymoron in fabric.
Note to men who drive expensive sports cars with the top down: It's other men who are looking at the car, not women looking at them.
I do not want to go Inside Rush Limbaugh's Addiction. Or anyone else's.
I have to repeat this: Dr. Weil is creeping me out. (see last week's Thursday Things)
Gary Oldman + Sirius Black = Good.
Emma Thompson + Sybil Trelawny = ???
If, as according to Emode banner ads, I.Q. is the 21st century aphrodisiac, Velma (Scooby Doo) should be the spokesmodel, not the sultry young blond with lips parted and wanton come hither gaze.
Wednesday, October 15, 2003 Maintain Perspective. Please. Apologies to everyone in the Universe who couldn't care less about baseball, sports or the Cubs. Really sorry about this. But if I don't catharserize this out of my system and into the Universe I am going to simultaneously combust. Or at the very least go off on an undeserving coworker. Because it's my blog, and I live in this town, I have a right to spell it out for the narrow minded morons filling my world today:
Money.
Athletes make a lot of money. A LOT of money. More money in one season than most of us will earn in an entire lifetime. Where do you think the money to pay those salaries comes from? $11 - $30 tickets at the stadiums? Grow up and guess again.
Major league sports are franchised. Money making businesses. Business.
Concessions in the stadiums are sold to the highest bidders. Who recoup their "rent" by charging premium prices to the fans. They make a lot of money when games are played. Particularly when games are played to capacity crowds.
Franchise endorsed products: T-shirts, hats, bobbleheads, programs, plastic cups, anything with team logos on them, bring in revenue.
Second (and in "big" games, first by a long shot) to alcohol distributorship rights at the stadiums is television advertising.
Advertising brings in revenue for television. A lot of revenue. Advertising pays the salaries for television people.
Like a lot of industries, there are "agreements" and "understandings."
It is in stadiums', teams' and networks' best revenue interests for sporting events to run their fullest and longest potential.
Seven game series = seven opportunities to run some very high revenue generating advertising.
A four game sweep of a seven game series generates less viewership, less advertising revenue, less money in the pocket of the network.
Some networks are more credible than others.
Look at the Fox lineup. Not the most stimulating or credible programming. Not the most credible network. Hats off to them for being the unscrupulous marketing geniuses they are, and for breaking into the "big three" and staying. But they are what they are. They cannot rest on their Simpsons, Malcolm in the Middle and American Idol laurels forever.
Fox "won" the rights to the World Series of Baseball.
Connect the dots people. Use your swutting brains. It's a game. And a very big source of revenue for Fox.
Much as I enjoy the game, much as I would love to see the Cubs win, I am keeping the financial aspect of the current situation firmly in mind. Great American Pastime = Great American Swindle. Support and love your favorite teams. Remember, in the eyes of just about everyone involved on the supply side of sports, including a lot of athletes, you are not a fan, you are a consumer. Be an informed consumer.
The Chicago Tribune said it better than I ever could:
The Mitt Hits the Fan
I will not comment further.
(moment of silence for the 8th inning that died last night)
Go Cubes!
No, that's not me who made the typo. That's exactly what is painted - HUGE and professionally - in a storefront window I saw last night. The painter did a bang up job, painted the bear cub really well, used the perfect shades of blue and red, got the "C" logo just right, made really swell starlight glints, and spelled it C-U-B-E-S.
"Ladies and gentlemen, your Chicago Cubes!"
For all I know it might be a math olympic team also in the final heat of playoff madness.
It's Karaoke Day! Hurrah Hurray!
It's also Reality Wednesday here at Life of Trillian. Coincidence?...or conspiracy?
Reality Wednesday
Customs Agent! A real life look at the lives of customs agents around the world.
Show opens in the coffee room of the customs office in a major hub city.
The room is well stocked with exotic staples and decorated with artifacts from around the world.
We see the agents discussing the arrivals for the day. Some are smoking cigars (Cubans).
An agent appears wearing head to toe Prada.
"ooo-wee, girl, lookin' fine today! Is that the outfit you confiscated over the weekend?"
"You know it! When I saw that woman returning from Italy, I knew she was exactly my size. I couldn't wait to see what she bought. Trying to pass this off as under $800. Ha! She'll think twice before ripping off the US Customs Authority next time!"
Laughs all around the room.
A bell rings, over the intercom the agents are called to action to greet an arriving flight.
Cut to the arriving gate. The weary and hapless travelers are making their way off the plane (bye now! buh bye!) and weaving through the elaborate hall system of the airport customs area.
All are brandishing landing cards like medals of honor.
All have "nothing to declare."
Some have been out of the country for weeks, even months. And yet have managed to return home with less than $800 worth of goods.
The judges Columba Bush, Diana Ross (really great photo on that link), and Sir Paul McCartney observe the passengers via closed circuit camera. They comment and critique the various hiding techniques, quality and quantity of goods being brought in by the passengers. "They'll never get through with a Rolex, they ALWAYS spot a new Rolex."
"And a fur coat! Puh-leeze! That woman with the large chest better watch it!"
"The joint in with your regular cigarettes never works. The dogs. The dogs!"
At the arrivals sorting point, citizens of the country and visitors are separated. Citizens are scrutinized, asked off the wall questions, "Where'd you grow up?" "How long were you gone?" "Cubs fan?"
"Yes."
"Wrong answer! The Cubs are never going to pull this thing off! I bet you were thinking you'd make it home in time to see the end of the game. Didn't you? Well? Didn't you?!"
"Well...I was sort thinking maybe I might catch the last few innings. I don't suppose you happen to know the score?"
"Score? The score?! Do I look like WGN?"
"Um, no. I just thought maybe...."
"You thought what? You could leave the country and come waltzing back in and expect to be welcomed with the Cubs score?"
"I'm not exactly 'waltzing'"
"What's wrong with your leg? Hurt it over there?"
"Broken ankle. No, I was mugged here."
"Really? Where?"
"Subway, rush hour."
"I'm gonna have to send you over to Dave. He checks in the handicaps."
"What?"
"I didn't know you were handicapped. You gotta be searched."
The tired and hurting traveler limps over to "Dave."
Dave is not pleased to greet her. Dave was getting ready to go on break. Dave is a White Sox fan. We find this out when he asks, "Cubs fan?"
"Yes. Do you know the score?"
Breaks out in sinister laughing. "No, I don't know the 'score' because I haven't gone on my break. And I couldn't care less about the 'score' anyway."
"Sox fan?"
"Born and raised Back of da Yards."
"How nice for you."
"Yeah. It is nice for me. Except we should be watching the Sox, not the Cubs." takes a security wand over the area of the cast on the traveler's leg. Unhappy with the silence from the meter, he says, "Gotta have a look. Take it off."
The traveler complies.
Dave examines the bare leg and foot. "This is really swollen. You seen a doctor?"
"Yes, several, in fact. Thank you for your professional opinion. It's a bit worse because I just got off an 8 hour flight. AND IT HURTS. So maybe I could re-assemble my cast?"
"Yeah, go ahead. You visit any farms?"
"No."
"Out in the countryside?"
"No"
"'Cause there's mud on your shoe." Picks up the traveler's Payless shoe and points to the sole, where a 2 cm flake of dirt is caked into the tread.
"That's probably American mud," the weary traveler optimistically offered.
"You ride horses?"
"Huh? Um. No. Not lately."
"'Cause this looks like you've been in a stable."
"No. No stables." Thinking to herself, 'Friend's dog. Walked the dog in the garden. May have stepped in something. Can Dave really tell the difference between ordinary dirt and animal droppings? Can he differentiate feces species of origin? Should I mention this?' "I did walk my friend's dog. Maybe that's it."
"Mad Cow is not a joke."
"I know. I'm not laughing. But I didn't go in the country or anywhere near a farm or stable."
"It'll kill any pets you might have at home."
"I didn't go in the country or anywhere near a farm or stable. May I please have my shoe?"
Hands her the shoe.
While she's lacing up he hands her a business card. "You suddenly remember going to a farm, you call this number. Meanwhile, wipe those shoes with Pine Sol when you get home."
"Okay. Thanks."
Traveler limps to crowded baggage collection area. Another agent with a beagle is circling the crowd.
Judges, still watching on closed circuit camera, critique the baggage area. "Well lit baggage carousel. Makes it easier to spot the real from the fake." "That traveler with the broken leg...I never would have taken that. I would have given him what for."
"Dogs. The dogs. They've got dogs."
Beagle pays extra attention to an elderly woman's paper bag. Agent tells elderly woman he needs to examine her bag. "Oh, oh my, okay. Here."
"You've got FRUIT in here!" the agent yells accusingly at the elderly woman, "You signed your card, you said you didn't have any food items! This is FRUIT! FRUIT IS FOOD!"
The entire baggage area is now staring at the elderly woman and the agent and beagle.
"Oh my, I didn't think. I meant to eat it on the plane. I forgot I had it. There's an orange. I'll just throw it away."
"NO MA'AM! You cannot 'just throw it away' I need to confiscate the whole bag."
"Okay, here," flustered, the elderly woman hands him the bag.
Agent takes the bag.
Dog is now straining on his lead, trying to get to three well dressed young women waiting nervously by the carousel.
Agent continues to explain to the elderly woman that food, especially produce, from other countries, is not allowed.
Dog is now whelping, nearly breaking off his collar and lead.
The girls are trying to move away from the dog.
The agent finally notices the three well dressed girls. One is wearing leather jeans. When he has enough slack in the lead, beagle surges toward leather jeaned girl's rear end. Beagle is jumping and pawing at leather jeaned girl. Agent is mad at beagle for this and tells him to sit. Agent apologizes to young well dressed girls. Leather jeaned girl, in particular. Beagle is whimpering and won't take his eyes off leather jeaned behind.
Weary traveler with broken ankle muses that Really Big Dog from her second attack would be good at this job, while Friend's Dog would be horrible.
Judge Sir McCartney says, off camera, "Dogs. You've got to watch out for the dogs. Jet, Martha, they were good dogs. These DEA dogs are different."
Agent tries to impress young overly well dressed girls with his knowledge of dog breeds and sniffing abilities, "...now your Bassets, you can't beat them for nose, but they're lazy, see, so for my money, a Shepherd is the breed to go with. Badger here, he's good, small, wiry, yeah, Beagles are good too. But give me a Shepherd any day."
Dog cannot contain himself and jumps at leather jeaned girl.
Agent pulls dog back just before the dog bites the leather jeaned behind. Agent apologizes embarrassingly. "Must be the leather. He went after a suede jacket the other day. They train them for fur, sometimes they're just so good they go for leather, too." He then takes, rather, drags, the dog, legs and paws extended in "slam on the breaks," hold your ground mode to the other side of the carousel.
Traveler spots her lone bag and leaves the baggage area.
Long line.
While she's waiting, the three overly well dressed young girls approach. Ask if they can go ahead of traveler because they're running late, and (I kid you not) leather jeaned girl, trying to play on traveler's sympathy, says, "I really have to go. Bad." (squints up eyes, like, "oooh, ouch, gotta go")
"Yeah, it was a long flight. Long wait in customs today."
"So can we go ahead of you?"
"sure. fine. go ahead." (get to the bathroom before the beagle rips it out of you.)
The security agent notices the three girls and calls them aside. Weary traveler tries to contain her glee and smugness.
As she hands her landing card and declares an honest nothing, she sees the security agent inquiring as to the origin of several pieces of jewelry the overly dressed young girls are wearing. Overly dressed young girls appear to be nervous.
Traveler leaves but hopes justice will be served.
Had to relinquish something at US Customs? Duty Free not so free after all? To find confiscated treasures in your town, click here!
8:45 AM
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
You might have to fight with Lance Bass for this, but in case any of you want a job with opportunities for extensive travel, knock yourselves out.
Karaoke Countdown: 1 Day!
World Series Countdown: 1 Day!
In my continuing effort to live down "The woman who was mugged and broke her ankle" reputation, I have new inspiration. Last night I saw a woman waiting for a cab (presumably) outside a seniors' apartment building. She had to be at least 85 years old, and I'm giving her points here, I suspect she was older. Bad red dye job with two inches of white root growth, pull on polyester slacks, tunic with a wide ribbed waistband and jewels glued on the front, right at boob level, enormous earrings on stretched out lobes, SAS shoes.
And a black bejeweled handbag with "Vixen" spelled out in glittery airbrush paint - actually pretty good job on that, great typeface, 50's starlight glints on the V and N.
I'm not making fun of this woman. Not at all. I aspire to be this woman. I have relatives like this woman whom I adore. My family is sort of known for them. You know Aunt Clara on Bewitched? That's what happens to the women in my mother's family. And I mean that in a good way. They appear to be sweet little old ladies, and they are, but maybe a little dotty. Just when you think they've firmly fallen off their rocker, they say or do something so normal and profound and healthy you know they are completely 100% okay, just 85+ years old, seen it all heard it all, done it all and by God don't care what anyone thinks and will not be slowed down because they've got a few miles on them.
Back to Vixen. All the way home I thought about her and what her "story" might be. There are several plausible possibilities.
She's living down something that happened, maybe she was on a walker or cane, and doesn't want to be known as "the woman in 12B who had a hip replacement." So she went out and bought the Vixen bag to really start chins wagging at the senior center.
She's the slut of the senior center and ain't too proud to deny it. (she was very jaunty for an 85+ year old...)
"In her day..."
At that age it's difficult for the men to figure out which one is the slutty friend, so she saves them precious time by spelling it out for them.
Her kids are threatening to put her in a "home," so she's using Guerilla tactics to attract a man to shack up with to shut them up once and for all.
She's got a bit part as a reindeer in the Christmas pageant at the senior center and is getting into character.
She has really bad eyesight and her name is Vivian.
I don't know this woman, but I like her. A lot. She's my new inspiration. If Vixen can garner a new, or embrace an old, reputation, at her age, surely I can get past "The woman who was mugged and broke her ankle" reputation.
Who knows, maybe tomorrow I will sing. Karaoke. I wonder if they really do have any Misfits tunes...
Geek Girls! Boring show last night. Until the very last five minutes, that is! Leslie! Leslie! Leslie! Federal table! Leslie! He did almost the entire appraisal in a squatted position. In his gray plaid double vented suit. How about at the end when he was breathless with excitement, "You made my day!"? Yeah, mine too.
(Go Cubs.)
Speaking of dotty old ladies....
Public Notice to Miss Haversham people: If there's anything you want on the Miss Haversham archives, grab it soon. We're thinking about making the blog public again, so anyone from the distant past can access it and get what they want from it. If you are opposed to this please let me know, or, better, remove whatever you do not want the world to read. It is uncertain if all the archives will migrate to the new site/blog. Sorry. Trillian's server isn't as expansive as Miss Haversham's. Don't bother Miss Haversham, she's really busy, what with the nuptials and everything. Email me at the above link with questions and concerns.
8:21 AM
Monday, October 13, 2003
...and in the, "I have so many conflicting thoughts colliding at once I can't see straight and it's making my head hurt" department...too many synapses firing too fast...confused...hate...interesting...abuse...horrible...sad...kind of cool...help disabled...could go horribly wrong...mind control...government bad...PETA...poor monkeys...far reaching implications...want my mum and blankie.
Even with low interest rates, are real estate prices soaring out of your reach? Sick of the rat race? Need a little place to get away from it all? Just hate your neighbors and people in general? Thanks to a story on CCN.com today, I finally re-found the site for lunar real estate. It's been updated and refined (New! Improved!) and has loads more info and links.
Me, I'm opting for Mars and Venus. I absolutely love this disclaimer.
"Here is a part that is quite different from selling Lunar Property, and we must make you aware of it. We can be reasonably sure that there is no life on the Moon, but, not even the Lunar Embassy can guarantee you that we will not find life on Mars. If such extraterrestrial life is found, and if such life is sentient enough to make a decision of any kind, in any form, language or gesture, as to whether it would like you on its property or not, then the opinions of the lifeform will take absolute priority and OVERRULE any rules we may have made. This is regardless of, if such extraterrestrial opinions may make sense to humans or not. What does this mean? Simply put, it does mean that if you buy a property on Mars, and when you get there a little green thing is on your property, and it says: "we don't want you here", well then, unfortunately your 20 dollars were a malinvestment (and ours too!). The Lunar Embassy prides itself on respecting all lifeforms of the Universe. Whether they be sentient or not, we feel, is unimportant. Further, should any lifeform that is NOT sentient exist on your property, it is your (and our) responsibility to ensure that it does not come to any due harm due to our presence on the planet. Yes, that includes microbes."
Glad for the respect, I suppose, but it's happening with increasing regularity.
Well. Twice in the past four weeks-ish.
More regular than it used to happen.
Thing is, I've never really been miss-ed. Somehow I crossed that line from young lady to ma'am - skipped right past miss.
I'm not a miss, not yet a ma'am.
Frankie notices she only gets ma'am-ed when she's tired. Or with Benjy. Which we agree is appropriate because she's wearing an enormous caret-ed ring you cannot fail to notice and is clearly with the man who is her mister. Ma'am is the only correct way to acknowledge her.
Since I am not wearing an enormous caret-ed (or any ring on that finger) I'm going to go with my tiredness is showing more than I realize.
But not a great way to begin a week.
Particularly this week.
The Week of Karaoke (reverb echo reverb echo reverb echo)
Yes, it's finally almost here. We are but mere days away from the big event. The office is abuzz in anticipation. It's even bigger than Cubs talk this morning.
"Do you think she knows?"
("She'd have to actually show up to work to have a clue")
"What song are you going to sing?"
("Over My Dead and Rotting Corpse by the Outta Tunes.")
"I don't know that one..."
(roll of eyes, blank stare, "nevermind. maybe Misfits 'Television Casualty' or 'I Did it My Way' a la Gary Oldman in Sid and Nancy.")
"Sid who?"
(roll of eyes, blank stare, "nevermind. whatever.")
"I can't wait to see Senior Manager make a fool of herself!"
("You don't need karaoke to see that...Just go down to her office any day of the week.")
What is it about karaoke? I've never been down with the whole karaoke thing. I just don't get it. Perhaps in two days I will understand. Maybe some mystical transformation will occur and I'll start hanging out at karaoke bars. Maybe even get a little home unit. I know all about them now, know where to buy one, what features are crucial.
Work. Must work. Must work. Must. Be. Creative. Driving. Force. Of. The. Company.
You, too, can sponsor an asteroid. They're doing good work here and not getting much press. (Read: The sky is falling, the sky is falling! We've got proof and no one is listening to us!)
10:04 AM
Sunday, October 12, 2003
It figures. Just figures. This is, after all, Life of Trillian. No surprises except unpleasant ones.
I go away for a few days and HWNMNBS calls. AND left a message. There will be those who will argue this is a good thing. He called, I wasn't home waiting by the phone, AND he left a message. Score two for Trillian.
I however, see it as further proof that the a) Universe is conspiring against me with unsurpassed irony; b) that men know, know when another male is sniffing around their woman - even (especially) if it's a former woman, even if it's a woman they left at the alter. They don't want her, but they don't want anyone else to have her either, and telekinesis or telesniffsis helps them out with this; and c) the, "Women only look attractive to men when other men want her" theory.
I am positive all three of these aligned for the perfect union and hence the phone call from HWNMNBS. I should be jumping for joy (if I were physically able). And I did at the sound of his voice. Well, not so much jump as hop on one foot and squealing with elation. But not one to be satisfied, no, I have to think it through to the nth degree and lambaste the Universe for the three aforementioned factors.
He knows, somehow men always know, that Former Person of Interest was on the scene and sniffing around. Not 12 hours after Former Person of Interest appeared from nowhere and tried his best (or worst) lines on me, HWNMNBS called. Because he sensed someone else was interested in me. And, being a confused, yet ego driven male, he called, AND LEFT A MESSAGE just to secure his place on the Trillian Food Chain.
Or maybe he just missed me (finally) and called. Like he said. He did sound kind of needy.
But that could be a ruse.
It's also possible he sensed me on his turf. Our turf, his turf by default because I left. That should clear up any questions some of you may be itching to ask, so save the emails. I didn't see him, didn't go anywhere near his corner of the Universe. Ford wouldn't let me. And I only considered it once. Weak moment. Ford saved me from myself.
Too old for this crap. Too old, too tired, too wounded, too sick of it all to be playing jr. high school games with myself. Must be love. Oh yeah. It is. That's been established.
Countdown to the Case Cubs v. Marlins
(missed all of the game...stupid customs agent...Sox fan...have to admit, if I'd returned to a call from HWNMNBS AND the Cubs winning and ending this leg I would be seriously concerned about The End and calling on the folks at NeoTheologue (rollest not thine eyes, it's an interesting blog)...Fox and the MLB let those all time high advertising dollars go?! That would be a sure sign from above to reconcile your life and prepare to leave this mortal coil.)
7:28 PM
