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 25, 2003
Ahhh. Game six of the World Series. Marlins lead 3-2.
A week or so ago I urged people to get a grip, it's just a game and to be mindful they are not fans, but consumers of the product of baseball and all the goods and services affiliated with the game.
Many applauded my remarks. Thank you. Most of you are advertising and marketing insiders and have my perspective and are as jaded as I am. Nice to know it's not just me.
But many readers took offense to my remarks. Many chastised me for being a stupid girl who didn't know anything about sports, law or the American Way. All of which I openly admit, to varying degrees, at one time or another in my life, have been true.
In my years of blogging I have never received so much hate mail. My post and its alleged bad will and karma have been blamed for the Cubs loss of game seven. Many have put me on the pedestal of blame with The Goat and The Fan. While flattering, I cannot possibly match the unwitting yet brilliant marketing genius of either William "Billy Goat" Sianis or Steve Bartman.
A first time reader was extremely vocal and colorful in his rebuttal to my remarks. When asked permission to publish his remarks he refused to oblige and had more vocal and colorful remarks to make to me. The condensed and edited for blog version is: anyone of the "perspective" I wrote cannot call themselves a fan.
Which was my point. I'm a knowing consumer first, a fan second. Which is exactly what I urge the rest of the Universe to consider.
Mr. Trout, of Chaotic Not Random wrote me the best, most informed, credible and least profane response from "the other side" of my opinion. He presented me with well worded and concise arguments against my opinion. Mr. Trout is a baseball enthusiast, a fan and knowing consumer. And a pretty smart guy otherwise, too. And the only one who wrote me regarding my Perspective post willing to grant me permission to quote him. For the probability and stat crowd, Mr. Trout presented me with the following:
Mr. Trout theorized I was "made suspicious by the high frequency with which series go to seven games. Actually, the probability that a series will go n games, if the teams are evenly matched, is
P = 2( n - 1)! / [ ( g - 1)! ( n - g )! ( 2 ^ n) ],
where g is the number of games required to win the series.
So,
the probability that a series will go 7 games is 31.25%
the probability that a series will go 6 games is 31.25%
the probability that a series will go 5 games is 25.00%
the probability that a series will go 4 games is 12.50%
So five out of eight series will go 6 or 7 games just due to random chance. Kilgore thinks that MLB and Fox would not be willing to risk catastrophic business failure and jail sentences in order to tack on an average of 1.1875 games per series, although he has been wrong before."
(the above blogged with permission from Mr. Kilgore Trout. Who is in need of a particular form of plasma. Plasma for Kilgore Drive)
Mr. Trout is not privy to advertising and the almighty dollar issues involved with the worldwide franchise known as advertising.
Once again, I am urging sports fans to be mindful they are more than fans to the sports leagues they support. They are consumers. Customers. Clients. Without their dollars the franchises would fold. All the love of game in the Universe would not keep the teams on the field. It's the fan's money, not their emotional support, cheering or worse, prayers, that keep the athletes on the field.
Go out there and be a fan, but also a knowing consumer.
No, it's not "just a game."
It's a billion dollar a year money making franchise.
Friday, October 24, 2003 Single, long, naturally wavy, follicly well endowed female seeks stylist for long term relationship. Non-permer, dyes socially, not afraid of scissors, open to new ideas and change.
It happened again.
My hair tender is moving.
I can hear the Universe peeling out in laughter.
Be quiet.
This happens to me a lot. There are those of the opinion that I must be hard on stylists because they all move or quit the business once things get even remotely serious with me.
It's not me, it's them. There's something about the stylists I like, the tenders I like all have a distinct personality. They are perfect at first, seduce me with compliments and massages, shower me with care and affection, proud and a little jealous of me, fix me up and show me off to all their friends and colleagues, working around MY schedule, giving me discounts and free products, everything seems great...and just when I'm ready to commit to regular 6 week appointments, they turn out to be unstable and have commitment issues. This is not unlike the usual process with the men I date.
The longest relationship I had with a stylist lasted 18 months. I know people who've been getting their hair cut/styled/whatever by the same person for years.
Years.
I have a friend who has been with her stylist for 15 years. And she has lived 800 miles away from him for 7 of those years. She flies to New York specifically for a hair cut every two months because since leaving New York she has not been able to find a stylist to cut her hair the way her New York guy does it. And they say long distance relationships are doomed to fail. Ha!
I've read articles about how difficult it is for people to quit going to their stylists. They endure years of unsatisfactory haircuts because they can't break up with their stylist. I cannot imagine what that must be like.
I've had so many stylists. My "number" is so high I'm embarrassed to admit it. In fact, I'm not even sure what my "number" is. I lost count a long time ago. Which makes me sound (and feel) like a salon draggletail, but really, it's not me, it's them!
I was ready to settle down years ago. I yearn for the stability and security a long term monogamous relationship would offer.
I've never ended the relationship.
They've always moved or quit tending hair.
The current Tender of Trillian's Tresses claims she's going to take some time off then move a few blocks away to go into business with a friend.
I've heard this before. It's a common line stylists use to soften the blow to their clients. It's not you, it's me.
In this case, however, if this really happens, I will follow her.
We've only recently started to get serious. It started out innocently, we go to the same gym, and a mutual friend set us up. It began with "just a trim" and when, after a few trims and a lot of discussion, we both felt comfortable with each other and the situation, we went all the way to color. Serious color.
How could she do this to me? I trusted her. I thought she was different. I thought I was special. I thought we really had something. We went through so much together that night with the blond gone wrong. I thought we came out of the ordeal stronger and better.
But apparently things were getting to close for her. She needs space. Taking some time off to think about where this is going.
She realizes I have needs, and that I might see other people. She must not care.
8:31 AM
General Motors paid a lot of money for the research and development on this.
A lot.
Masters of their domain?
3:08 PM
Blasphemy! "Kimmie" feels I have strained my wrist.
I bow to "Kimmie's" superior knowledge of these things.
After all, she is Satan.
She all but shrieked with delight when I showed her my newly swollen wrist. More torture to inflict! Yeah! OMG! (I am fairly certain "Kimmie" types in acronyms. I am fairly certain she is in on the plot to overthrow and officially murder the English language by regularly using acronyms for the even the most mundane, slang and rudimentary phrases. I'm guessing she's a big fan of emoticons, too. She is, after all, Satan.)
Last night she seized my newly injured wrist with delight and enthusiasm.
This morning I seized my pain medication with like minded delight and enthusiasm.
I have to give her credit, though, she did tell me exactly what to buy for my wrist, what do you know, this nifty little elastic glove (combined with prescription pain killers...I wonder if this is how Rush started...) is making it much easier to type. By the end of the day yesterday I was worried that I might have to stoop to acronyms and emoticons to abbreviate my keystrokes.
Lucky for all of us, thanks to the brace glove thing, the full spelling out of the English language is alive and well at Life of Trillian (apart from HWNMNBS and the occasional too long to type out every time moniker. Which I suppose is the initial reason behind acronyms...so maybe I am guilty. But I guarantee you will never read OMG on this blog.)
I was hesitant to wear the wrist brace/glove, because I was worried that:
a) The health insurance police would find out I have yet another injury and revoke my health insurance;
b) People would think I'm the victim of abuse and refer me to our employee assistance program;
c) I would have to admit to myself that I've hurt myself yet again.
But after replying to two emails, I decided, behind closed door, this brace glove thing is the way to go. Almost normal feeling.
And "Kimmie" said it's a good idea to wear one as prevention for carpal tunnel issues.
Which gave me my perfect lie: Oh no, I'm fine! Just a little preventive healthcare. Carpal tunnel, you know.
I am being slightly neurotic about this because I am calling enough attention to myself by limping around as if I just broke my ankle yesterday.
"Kimmie" is taking this therapy thing really seriously. And so am I. But she's got an advantage, she is allowed, in fact supposed, to bend and twist and otherwise torture me. She is paid to do this.
It started out well enough, "Kimmie" administered a neck and shoulder massage, which was painful, but that good kind of painful. It was not without it's other forms of pain, though, "oooh, so tight up here Trillian, you've got some mean ol' tension there. That's not helping that whiplash of yours. You've got to learn to relax if you want to get better." (in a baby voice)
Not only did I get the pleasure of "Kimmie's" special brand of torture last night, she brought in her apprentice. 23-year-old "Kimmie" has an apprentice.
I can't get an assistant, not even a temp, who can actually assist me in anything purposeful, and yet 23 year old "Kimmie" has an apprentice.
Beelzebub.
Beelzebub comes with accessories.
The sort of accessories found in all the Frankenstein movies. Accessories requiring electricity. And little round things attached to the "patient." And dials and gauges on the side. I swear on the Guide it had an amp meter. Perhaps several. Scarier still are the devices that await my future visits. When Beelzebub was rolling out the portable unit of terror from the back room, and I can't be certain of this, I only caught a stolen fleeting glance, but I think I saw a Tesla coil.
Beelzebub hooked me up to the machine. Oh, they're clever. They lay you out on a table, make you lie in contorted positions, strategically place you so you cannot see the instrument of electrical terror or what they're doing to you, then strap you down. "Kimmie" supervised the hooking up. Everything looked good to her.
She then began speaking in tongues. Or in a language known only to Beelzebub and herself. A language involving a lot of numbers and odd phrases, no verbs, and no punctuation. She told me I might feel a slight tingling sensation (really - she took that page out of my book. I warned you about irony.) Just before everything went black I think I heard her mention something about Weierstrass t-substitution, rather off-hand. A bit too off handedly for my taste. I don't remember much about half angles, but apparently Beelzebub understood loud and clear, because the next thing I remember was feeling a steel rod pressing into the outside of my ankle with increasing pressure. All from two very innocent-ish looking round circles attached with sticky tape to my ankle, tethered to the instrument of electrical terror by what appear to be transistor radio earphone cords.
I'm no wuss. Remember, very recently I was shoved down a flight of stairs, broke my ankle in two places, had a whiplash and concussion, AND SWUTTING TOOK THE TRAIN HOME, walked up four flights of stairs, back down again and took a cab to the hospital, where the real fun began - waiting four hours without so much as a glass of water, to learn I could have nothing for pain for 24 hours AND THEN HAD TO ENDURE THE SETTING OF THE ANKLE FRACTURE WITH NOT EVEN A BULLET TO BITE. 24 HOURS I HAD TO WAIT WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A CHILDREN'S CHEWABLE TYLENOL.
I'm no wuss.
But last night I cried from physical pain. Beelzebub and "Kimmie" made me cry.
There I was, lying there on the table, connected to the Electric Machine of Terror, leg strapped down...Beelzebub gave me one of those ding bells they have at hotel registration desks in all the best comedy sketches. I was to "ding" it if the pain was too intense.
I bit my lip. Bit my thumb. Tried (unsuccessfully) to visualize my happy place. Reasoned with myself it was all mind over matter. Prisoners of war in the Viet Cong endured bamboo under their fingernails and lived in miniscule cages for months, years even, by invoking mind over matter, I could certainly manage 15 minutes of a dinky little electrode hooked up to my ankle. I would not let "Kimmie" and Beelzebub get me. The bell loomed ominously in my field of vision. No. No. NO!
"Is everything okay over here?" Miss all sweetness and nice "Kimmie" asked me.
I think I heard a strange voice come out of her mouth saying, "It's alive! IT'S ALIVE!!!! IT'S ALIIIIVVE!!!
When I tried to answer, all that came out was a choked sob.
"It...it...it...h h h urrrrts!"
"Hmmm. Hurts how?"
"Like a steel rod being forcibly pressed into my ankle."
Apparently this is the first time "Kimmie's" heard this result. She seemed confused but also pleased. But wouldn't remove the hooked up electrode things.
"Would you like me to cut back on the stimuli?"
"Oh boy, would I?!" (TURN IT OFF!!! TURN IT OFF!!!! HAVE MERCY ON ME AND TURN IT OFF!!!)
"Okay, we'll decrease to the slightest amount for another 5 minutes. Beelzebub already decreased to almost the minimum. You've got to increase your endurance here Trillian, in order to get this ankle back in shape."
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; (and for I have endurethed "Kimmie")
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. (and presseth into my broken ankle with an amount of pressure and pain the likes of which thou canest not imagine)
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; (an uncomfortable table with straps and in the middle of a socialized chamber of horrors)
Thou annointest my head with oil; (and my foot and ankle with some gooey slime gel stuff which smelleth really bad when joltedeth with electricity)
My cup runneth over. (let me tell you brother, in about an hour there's going to be a sacramental cup runnething over in my living room)
Apologies to NeoTheologue and Co.(rollest not thine eyes, it's an interesting blog) for any blasphemy. Pray for me. Please. I'm generally not a bad person. I'm generally not blasphemic. I'm generally respectful about religion and The Words. Thus is the extent to which I have been pushed by "Kimmie."
This was my second night of therapy, and the first time on the Electric Machine of Terror. And "Kimmie" was admonishing me to increase my endurance? What happened to establishing base lines, eh "Kimmie," if that is your real name?
And she and Beelzebub had the nerve to blow me what I think was attitude when they de-hooked me.
Again with the "we've got our work cut out for us here" remark.
And they left me whimpering on the table. I couldn't even reach over to get my Payless shoes. Between my neck, which was now throbbing, my leg, which I could not feel from the knee down apart from the phantom pain of the steel rod pressing into my ankle bone, and my newly injured wrist, I could literally not move in such a way as to retrieve my air cast, socks and shoes much less put them on.
This is the really embarrassing part.
I was reaching for my air cast, and...
I fell off the table.
Okay?
I fell.
Off the table.
Onto the floor.
And I just laid there.
For what I think was a really long time.
Until another therapist nearly tripped over me and asked me if I needed help.
"You know, yes. I think I could use some help."
She got me into a seated position on the floor and put on my air cast. And Payless shoes. (I have good shoes, I own good shoes! I don't usually wear Payless! Really! And so what if I do? You got a problem with Payless? Funny how even in pain and odd circumstances we worry about the impression we're making with our appearance. If blasphemy doesn't get me, vanity will. But I come by it genetically. My grandmother refused to go in an ambulance when she broke her hip until my grandfather fetched her the shade of lipstick she wanted for the event.)
Therapist II also noticed my wrist and said, "Wow, you really did a job on yourself! Ankle, wrist, back..."
"The wrist is new. I fell last night" (oh no. now she's going to think I have some weird neurological disorder which makes me fall and hurt myself)
"Let's take a look at that. Have you seen a doctor about this?"
"No, but 'Kimmie' thinks it's a strain."
"Can you bend it?"
"Yeah, see?" (nothing moves. not so much as a finger) "huh. well, I could move it before, back in the office."
"You better see a doctor about that. 'Kimmie's' right, probably just a strain, but it's quite swollen. And you can't bend it."
Assembled, sort of, I made my way to the water cooler, got a cup of water, somehow managed to get the industrial strength painkiller out of my purse, took one, and hobbled to the elevator.
The Socialized Chamber of Horrors is housed in a medical complex, as luck would have it, which is the same building as my doctors, including my orthopedic team. (as I now call them because I like how it sounds)
And remember what I said about irony? This is what happens when you are blasphemous. And/or vain.
When the elevator stopped for me, guess who was the only other person on the elevator.
My orthopedic doctor.
I nearly fell again, only this time with shock of the irony. (rather than shock of the instrument of electrical terror)
I pretended everything was great. At first. Said I just came from physical therapy. He gave me a sadistic knowing smile. Told me to hang in there, it will get easier. Then I said, "I hate to do this to you (panic on his face) but I fell last night and hurt my wrist. It's a bit swollen today (proffering my swollen wrist) should I make an appointment?"
"Let's have look." holds my hand and elbow, turns it in ways nature never intended (so this is where "Kimmie" picked up those moves) "Looks like a strain. Get a brace at the drug store, ice it and if it's not better in a few days give me a call."
"Thanks. I will. Get a brace. On my way home." (dammit "Kimmie" was right. dammit)
But I did as I was told, because I'm a good patient and a good girl, and miracle of miracles, there may be hope for my blasphemous soul yet because it's helping a lot.
9:44 AM
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
I'm tired. I'm cranky. I'm annoyed at the entire Universe...
It's not because I only had three hours of sleep last night. No, sleep deprivation is my general state of being. Shame I don't have babies or small children, really, because I'm completely accustomed to sleep deprivation.
It's not because I hate my boss. Well. Hate's not the right word. She's utterly useless and has a nervous laugh that sounds like Betty and Barney Rubble combined. (I know, I never would have thought it possible either, and then I met this woman.) I don't hate her. She just serves absolutely no purpose in my life. Oh sure, she's been my boss for over a year now and yet I'm still performing all of the duties detailed in her job description as well as my own plus more...no, I don't hate her. That's not her fault, it's her boss' fault. And mine. I enable her. No, I don't hate her. I merely want her to have never existed in my life. Too late for that, she showed up in my life, uninvited, and so I'm not sure how to categorized my feelings about her.
But it's not her that's got me tired and cranky.
It's not because HWNMNBS called, left a long message a week ago, hasn't called or written since, and yes, I did send him an email. ('sorry I missed your call, you know how it is, off in all corners of the Universe, great to hear your voice, call or write, I'd like to chat...')
It's not because every member of my family is asking something of me, and I feel guilty telling any of them "no" (and individually I'm more than thrilled and happy to help them, but as a group, all at the same time, it's a bit daunting.)
It's not because I'm now authoring/moderating four blogs/user groups. Because one of my sisters in broken engagement is getting married to the guy who left her at the alter and has begged mercy and forgiveness and is nothing but a prince among men and she doesn't feel "right" or compelled to moderate a blog and forum for people dumped by their fiancé/es, and since I'm the "obvious" "next up" choice I'm dealing with it...because I'm such a good friend and "so good at this stuff..." And leaving all the lonely hearts left hanging doesn't seem right, and besides, I'd miss them...and because I'm the obvious next choice to host a blog for people left at the alter. No, it's not that...
It's not because we lost a major project at work, three people have been fired or quit, and I've got an enormous amount of pressure on me to produce creative, original, ground breaking, innovative and awe inspiring drivel for the masses. On a budget more in line with same old boring crap the other guys did three years ago.
No, none of those are the reasons why I am particularly, noteworthily tired and cranky today.
It's because Arthur's parents are visiting him for the first time ever.
He always visits them, two or three times a year. His parents only travel to see their grandchildren, and since Arthur has not produced any, apart from three felines, he has not earned a visit from his parents.
So this visit is monumental.
Arthur does not live in bachelor squalor and filth. However. He has several tidying and improvement projects he's been meaning to get at for a few years. And now, the time has come.
Reality Wednesday, Putting the Real in Reality TV
Bachelor Pad Royale. Or, Oh Swut! My Parents are Visiting! Or, Mom's Eye for the Bachelor Guy.
We open in a posh office in a major metropolitan area. The resident executress answers a private line call.
"Hi Arthur, what's up? Want to see that Elvis impersonator gone wrong movie?"
(pause while she listens)
"Your parents? Here? When?!"
(pause while she listens)
"This weekend?!"
(pause while she listens)
"They're staying with you?!"
(pause while she listens)
"Calm down. It will be okay. Remember, this is about spending time with family, not about the state of your place."
(pause while she listens)
"I know you've lived there five years and have not hung one curtain. I know your second bedroom looks like a the back storage area of Costco."
(pause while she listens)
"No, I can't help you tomorrow night, I've got a date with 'Kimmie' and The Rack."
(pause while she listens)
"Okay, then, pick me up at 5:30."
Cut to a vintage rehab in a multi unit building.
The judges, Martha Stewart, Paige Davis and Elton John, are on hand to offer advice and rate the results.
Martha takes one look and rates the current state of the apartment as a bad thing. Paige feels a lot of paint in some wacky colors is all the place needs. Elton says, "Get rid of everything, EVERYTHING."
The crew, the bachelor resident, his friend with a cast on her ankle, and two cats show up ready for an evening of work.
Bachelor Resident proffers the promised task list divided into Must Do, Want to Do, Will Do If Everything Else Gets Done.
An argument quickly ensues when Friend disagrees with the categorizing of most of the tasks.
"Curtains are a Must Do, not Will Do! You've had them for five years and never hung them, what are you waiting for? A visit from your parents? Well, buster, that day has arrived. And sorting your books by author instead of topic is NOT a Must Do in my book. I know your dad's as mental as they make them over this sort of thing, but they're not his books! Believe me, he's going to notice there's no door to the bedroom or a traversable path to the bed before he realizes your books are shelved by topic instead of author. Ditto unpacking your dishes. Your mother will undoubtedly want to eat off something other than a paper plate. She WILL notice you've only got glasses in your cupboards. I'm quite sure the fact that the really cool buxom pirate woman painting isn't hung will escape her eye. In fact, are you sure you want to display that little treasure for her?"
Huge arguments.
Friend threatens to Leave Right Now, You Begged Me to Help, If You Don't Want My Help I'm Going Home.
Bachelor Resident apologizes. And orders pizza.
Bachelor Resident disappears, but can be heard scrumbling around in the second bedroom come Costco storage area.
Friend plays with resident cats.
Bachelor Resident appears with three bags with various curtains in packaging.
Friend proceeds to sort the curtains by room and size and opens the packages. "Plug in your iron while I sort these," she yells to Bachelor Friend who is rummaging for mounting hardware for the curtain rods.
"Iron?"
"Yes, your iron, plug it in and set up the ironing board. These are creased like a road map. I should have brought my steamer."
"You should have brought your iron. And ironing board."
Blank look that turned to contempt from Friend. "You don't have an iron?"
"No. Why would I?"
"Oh, I don't know, to press your clothes or something silly like that. Frivolous, really. I should have known better than to expect you to have an iron."
"Don't start this again."
"'This'?"
"I'll go pick up the pizza and buy an iron."
"It's the adult thing to do. I'll hang some art while you're gone. We'll work on that door when you return."
Martha thinks having Friend help is a good thing. Paige thinks Bachelor Resident should also pick up some paint in wacky colors and red oriental fabric while he's out. Elton thinks the best remedy for this place is a dumpster.
Friend finds picture hanging implements procured years previous (with the curtains) and a hammer. Friend fortunately knows every piece of art Bachelor Resident owns. Friend advised on most of said art. Friend provided some of said art. Friend even painted or photographed some of said art. Friend has been dying for Bachelor Resident to either hang some of his art or store it properly. Friend is relieved beyond words to be given permission to hang art in Bachelor Resident's pad. Friend is certain he won't believe the difference upon his return. Friend cannot believe how much of a bachelor Bachelor Resident really is. Friend thought Bachelor Resident was metrosexual enough to at least own an iron. Friend is very glad she is Just Friend and not Girlfriend of Bachelor Resident. Friend ponders if she may have hit upon the reason Bachelor Resident is a bachelor enduring a rather long drought. Friend admonishes herself realizing she has no room to talk about such matters.
Friend, even with an air casted leg, works herself into a picture hanging frenzy. Friend has envisioned the exact placement of every piece of art every time she visits Bachelor Friend's pad.
The cats look on with amazement. One cat is particularly interested in helping with the hardware aspect.
Martha thinks Friend's taste in art and choice of positioning is a good thing. Paige is excited about some of the bright colors in a few pieces. Elton thinks it's getting too cluttered.
True to her prediction, when Bachelor Resident returns he is amazed and says, "This makes such a difference, I think we're set. Let's have some pizza and sort the books!"
Pretending not to hear this, Friend says, "Set up the iron. Where's the ironing board?"
"I didn't get one. I thought we could just use towels on the floor. But check out this iron! Look at all the settings and functions! The instruction manual is 48 pages!"
"You didn't get an ironing board?"
"No. Don't start with this."
"'This'? Again with the 'this'?"
"Sorry. Have some pizza."
"Not until the curtains are hung. They're really expensive and sensitive fabric, we need to be very careful about clean hands. Iron and hang the curtains, THEN pizza. Then the door. And we need to re-aim the track lights in the living room."
Friend pulls flat topped cat perch into the center of the living room and covers it with clean towels. (Friend is very resourceful, the judges note.) Friend plugs in iron, looks at manual, and feels Bachelor Resident bought the most expensive and complex iron on the market for the sole purpose of annoying her. Friend once again gains insight into Bachelor Resident's bachelorhood. Friend once again concedes her own status and keeps her mouth shut. Friend thinks she is being very adult. Friend figures out how to turn on iron and goes through the four step heat selection process, figuring out the exact fabric content to temperature ratio.
Friend irons curtains on the cat perch while Bachelor Resident holds the newly pressed ends. Bachelor Resident holds them as if they are women's smalls from Le Perla.
The curtain rods, fortunately, were installed years ago, and have been waiting, bare and exposed, for this glorious moment. Bachelor Resident uses a 1936 era rare upholstered chair worthy of the Antiques Roadshow as a ladder. Bachelor Resident knows better, Friend knows he knows better, but understands these are desperate times. And keeps her mouth shut.
One window complete with stunning results. Friend stands back and marvels at the difference. Bachelor Resident climbs off the chair and also admires the newly reformed windows. Friend tells Bachelor Resident to work on the hinges on the door while she finishes the curtains.
Bachelor Resident agrees there are other manly projects that need a fixin' and that Friend can tend to the women's work. Bachelor Resident disappears to the back portion of the apartment.
Friend irons the rest of the curtains and turns the iron "off."
Friend will now do something really stupid. Friend, with air casted ankle, attempts to hang second and third set of curtains. All goes well-ish with the second set. But on the third set, one of the Resident Cats feels obligated to help. While trying to gingerly dislodge claws from sensitive and expensive fabric, Friend notices other Resident Cat sniffing the iron. "Move away from there, it might still be hot." Because, of course, these Resident Cats comprehend and obey English.
No really, they do. Because sniffer of iron cat then came over to see what the fuss is with the curtains.
Two cats. Eight paws. Two curtain panels. One human with a broken ankle.
The judges do the math. Martha feels this is not a good thing. Paige thinks it's just wacky! but sometimes accidents produce great design statements! Elton says he wouldn't bother with curtains. And prefers Poodles.
Friend yells to Bachelor Resident, "Bachelor Resident! Call your cats!"
Bachelor Resident yells back, "Why?"
"Just swutting do it!" Friend thinks Bachelor Resident could have already called the Resident Cats instead of asking why. Friend is frustrated with the whole curtain process. Friend also wants pizza and wants it now, so the curtains are going up, even if they are hung with two cats attached.
Bachelor Resident appears and helps remove cats.
Cat One is not pleased about this. So as protest, he scampers away like he's got a stick of dynamite up his tail end.
And jumps atop his be-toweled cat perch (can't blame him for this). Which causes Cat Two to chase Cat One, but trip the iron cord in his haste. Iron falls from cocktail table onto Bachelor Resident. Who yowls in pain of the iron on his leg and foot. Friend is relieved that she turned it "off" so that at least they aren't heading toward the local burn unit. Bachelor Resident is now running around in circles in pain. "ow....ouch...ow...ouch...ouch ouch ow ow ow ow ooouuuchhhh." Friend tries to get up to get ice from kitchen, but is stuck in yards of expensive and sensitive fabric. As she finally removes herself and heads to the kitchen, her air casted leg gets caught on the hem of a curtain. She stumbles onto the floor. Bachelor Resident is still walking in circles ow ow ouching all over the place.
While on the floor, Friend notices a peculiar burning smell. The iron, fallen on the varnished floor, is not far from Friend. Friend reaches to pick it up. Friend is met with hesitation from the iron. The iron is in fact, not "off" and has burned itself into the varnish of the wood floor. Wanting to hide this fact from Bachelor Friend (admittedly stupid and not very adult) Friend tries to pry the iron off the floor. Bachelor Resident inquires as to Friend's well being.
"I'm fine, just awkward, stupid air cast. I'm okay, really, I'll get you some ice, I just want to get the iron off the floor."
"What's that smell."
"Um, yeah. You know your new iron?....it appears to be stuck to the floor."
Bachelor Resident yells many expletives Friend has never heard. Friend thought she had heard them all. Friend's father was a Marine. In a war. A long time ago. Before the kinder, gentler military. Back when Marines in Wars earned their current reputation for expletives.
Bachelor Resident and Friend pry the iron from the varnished floor. The iron is really hot. And now has a sticky lacquer coating on its Super Teflon surface.
And what of the floor?
Well. The floor.
Friend is buying an area rug today.
Even though it's partially Bachelor Resident's fault for buying the most complex and expensive iron on the market. Which for some reason known to no one in the known Universe, has a two button 'off' system. I know, you thought off meant off. So did Friend. But guess again.
This iron is apparently manufactured by MicroSoft. Who knew Bill Gates was in the small appliance business? This iron requires you to turn off the on/off switch as well as turn the heat setting dial to off. This is exactly like the Windows delete function. "Are you sure you want to delete this spam? If so, choose yes, or simply press the Enter key. If not, choose Cancel." I made the decision to delete, I meant it the first time, I don't make these decisions lightly, don't tempt me with pesky questions of my reasoning.
But yes: Had Friend read the 48 page instruction manual she would have known about this handy feature.
Martha feels this is not a good thing. Her line of home appliances are simple. Paige thinks the iron motif could be sponged on the walls for a cute design statement. Elton feels the whole thing could have been avoided if they'd just thrown it all away in the first place.
But wait! There's more!
Once Bachelor Resident wound was tended (what a baby, Friend thinks, it was next to nothing, compared to a broken ankle...but keeps her mouth shut because she's feeling very adult), cats corralled and shut in a bedroom and pizza consumed, the Designing Duo decide to hang the bedroom door that has been unhinged since The New Paint in the Bedroom Party of 1999. This actually goes smoothly. Feeling they are just now hitting their stride, they move onto other projects.
One o'clock AM.
Friend must leave. Friend has to work and be creative driving force of her company in a few hours.
But as she's leaving, Friend notices the ill-aimed track lights and sets out to correct the problem. Friend must do this because it will bother her, and, she's longer armed than Bachelor Resident and can adjust them with greater ease. Or so she thinks. She could if she weren't in an air cast. With her coat on and purse over her shoulder. She discovers her impediments only after falling off a chair. And possibly breaking her wrist. Which she only admits to the following morning when she realizes she can't open her cat's food because her wrist is weak and, shockingly, swollen. Friend thinks that since it's not her predominant hand she will take some medication, see how it feels the next day, and will try to pretend there's nothing wrong with it.
Friend is sort of stupid about some things.
Martha, Paige and Elton admire Friend for soldiering on in the name of design and friendship. Elton closes the show with an unplugged rendition of That's What Friends Are For.
12:18 PM
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Sorry about the goofy link. Road Whiz can be found here.
For $24.90 it can be yours.
2:15 PM
“Never let the enemy pick the battle site.” I was looking forward to physical therapy.
I had visions of a rehabilitation area like you see in movies. Movies set in the distant future. Sleek equipment the purpose of which is not obvious by its appearance. Über therapists (men) dressed in Star Trek (Next Generation) medic outfits. In fact, I sort of thought they'd use something like Bones' (old generation) multipurpose repair-all physical ailment thingy on my ankle and foot and neck. I envisioned, at the very least, a sterile environment with a faint blue phosphorous glow, new age music and the sound of water trickling off in the background.
Insert scratch of needle on vinyl record here.
Envision your doctor's office. Got it? Standard issue medical blue/green and yellow/buff walls, industrial gray flecked carpet. Okay. Now gut out all the patient treatment rooms. Put some mirrors on a few of the walls, and throw in torture devices from the 18th century. Oh, and some of those Pilates balance balls rolling around. All in one huge communal room. Socialized therapy.
Yes, two nights a week, for the next 8 - 10 weeks, this will be where I end my workday. 45 minute sessions twice a week in the socialistic chamber of horrors. Hell. Which until today I thought was the 666 Bus. Or my office. Or a forced viewing of a complete special long episode of American Idol.
Please heed my advice: Do not tempt, scorn, question or mock the Universe and/or especially a God. You will be visited by irony and torture the likes of which you cannot imagine. "You think you're in Hell now?! Well, you ain't seen nothin' baby. You're going to physical therapy!" In fact, from this moment on, instead of "going straight to Hell" I'm now saying, "going straight to physical therapy."
And no Hell, er, 'physical therapy,' would be complete without it's resident Satan.
Let me tell you about "Kimmie." Satan could learn a thing or two from "Kimmie." She seems innocent enough at first, but that's a page right out of chapter one of the So You Want to Be Satan manual. (Satan for Dummies). "Put the mortal at ease with a non threatening appearance and demeanor. Fawns, bunnies, baby seals and young co-eds work well."
"Kimmie" stands about 5 feet nothing, weighs in around 85 pounds, and is 23 years old. I know these interesting "Kimmie" factoids because she told me.
The first thing "Kimmie" did was size me up. "You're a tall drink of water, aren't you?! Tee hee."
"Yeah, I guess so. I never really thought about it." (You swutting bimbo, I'm not that tall, you're just really short.)
"The first thing we need to do is get your weight."
"Why? Haven't I suffered enough?" (so you can further humiliate me)
"Usually patients in your condition have gained weight, and one of our goals is to not only rehabilitate your ankle and foot, but also get you back into your pre-injury shape. Tee hee. It's soooo hard to keep weight off anyway, and under these circumstances it's impossible. Tee hee." (Chapter two of the So You Want to Be Satan manual - "conspiring with the mortal creates a false sense of comradery, that you are "on the same team" and have loads in common. This will further lull the mortal into a false sense of security.")
"Okay. Should I take off my air cast?" (what the 'physical therapy' else can I take off to quickly shed a few pounds...how much do these Payless shoes weigh? Earrings! Necklace! Get 'em off!)
"Tee hee. No, it's air! Just hop on up here."
"Um, I'm not so good a hopping these days." (Maybe that can be one of "our" goals: Hop up on scale!)
"Tee hee. C'mon, we just need to get a base line to work from." And whips out her mini-laptop. Which is the sleekest thing in the place.
So the entire room of doomed souls was privy to my weight. Fortunately, some felt my anguish and had the compassion to look away. Others were too enslaved in their own torture to notice.
"Kimmie" then made me stand on the scale while she keyed in, a la airline check in agents, an inordinate amount of information. Weight? tap tap tapitty tap tap tap tapitty tap tap tapitty tap.
"Okie doke, let's get some measurements. Now you can take off that mean ol' air cast and shoes. Tee hee." Yes. In a baby voice.
Out with a tape measure that is actually pretty cool. I can't rip on this aspect, the measuring of the ankles and foot was kind of cool. Except that I had to hold myself in some rather uncomfortable positions in order for her to measure every possible dimension and combination of dimensions of both of my ankles. "Kimmie" noted with shock and I think a little horror, the freakishly high arch of my healthy foot. "I've never seen an arch this high! Wow, your other foot is still really swollen, isn't it?" (squeal, then baby voice) (had I not endured the doctors' shock and delight at seeing firsthand my freakishly high arch this would have filled me with more contempt and loathing of "Kimmie." But since I've heard it a lot lately, from actual professionals I respect, I conceded that my arch is in fact freakish.)
Loads more airline check in agent tap tap tapitty tap tap tap tapitty tap tap tapitty tapping.
"Kimmie" made me perform various acrobatics to see what I could do and how much work "we" have ahead of us.
This took over 45 minutes. And can be summed up thusly: If I could actually perform any of the movements she requested, I would not require physical therapy.
At the end of this session, she sighed a mock heavy sigh and said, "Whew! That was hard, wasn't it? (baby voice) We've got a long way to go. You need to book at least three more weeks of appointments on your way out tonight. Let's get busy!" (Chapter three of So You Want to Be Satan manual: "Employ a high school cheerleader in the playoffs enthusiasm for everything. This will annoy the 'physical therapy' out of some mortals, but will ultimately lend to your overall charm and credibility.")
"Let's get busy?" (Um. Okay. "Kimmie" if that is your real name. Satan.)
"Yep! Let's go over to the table. Hop on up there." (What is it with this girl and hopping?) The "table" is a not unlike something you'd see in Doc's office on Gunsmoke. And is as far across the Socialized Chamber of Horrors as possible. "Kimmie" trots over and pats the table, apparently to either prove it's stability or to point out to the Idiot Amazon Patient Who Cannot Perform Even the Most Rudimentary Physical Requests that this is the "table" upon which she needs to hop.
I made my way over to the "table," sans air cast and Payless shoes, and sidled my way onto it. I noticed a bit of impatience on "Kimmie's" part. Or maybe I was projecting.
But based on what came next, my guess is impatience on "Kimmie's" part.
"Kimmie" began pushing, pulling, flexing and manipulating my ankle and foot in ways even the Pop Up Kama Sutra couldn't detail. She packs a powerful punch for such a little thing.
And she had the nerve at one point to admonish me, slipping and letting her inner Satan show. "We've got to work together here, we've got a long way to go and you've got to put in effort to achieve results."
"I am trying, sorry, this is sort of painful for me." (And when was the last time you broke your ankle in two places and suffered major ligament and minor nerve damage, eh "Kimmie," if that is your real name? Let's see how well you comply with having your ankle bent in ways nature never intended then.)
Around the room other people were enduring various forms of torture. Cries of pain and sighs of relief when a particular form of terror ends are de rigueur.
Though in sizing up other therapists, "Kimmie" ranks highest on my annoy-o-meter.
And she's mine, all mine, for the next 8 - 10 weeks.
Geek girls! Another great night last night.
First, the vignette on Thomas Hart Benton. Big thanks and nod of approval to the Roadshow people for recognizing Mr. Benton and his work. He's often overlooked and is a fantastic American painter.
The Giuseppe Guidi watercolor was a surprise treat.
The carousel cat - very cool - those are getting really rare and scarce. They used to be standard flea market finds (not Denzel, per se) but I haven't seen one in over a year.
Hang onto your seats girls...It's KENO-VISION!!!! Leslie! Again! Nice butt shot to start the segment. Once again Leslie performs the first half of the appraisal in a squat. Up. Down. Up. Down. But wait! He's pulling out an enormous knife from his tailored suit pocket! Is that a box cutter? He must fly on Southwest! Funny, I had him pegged as a United kind of guy. Look how he rips into the bottom of that settee! Oh man. I wonder if he'd be interested in ripping open the nether regions of my couch?! Maybe he's got a thing for late century Room and Board. Look at him rip it up! He's really cut a swath, there. Makes for good TV. Is it educational TV ratings sweep week again?
This must be a small reward for enduring "Kimmie" and the Socialized Chamber of Horrors.
Monday, October 20, 2003
For those of you still singing the Spam Song (or worse, Time to Change), take heart and brace yourself for a long battle. Behold the lowly Earworm.
Zaphod, in his infinite stupidity and obtuse wisdom, subscribed me to every email marketing crap list he could find.
I know, bulk mail box, auto trash, hit delete. Yes, these are the viable and best options.
Until your bulk mailbox maxes out on space in a matter of four hours.
Yes, I am receiving so much spam that my bulk box fills in four hours, at which point spam is diverted to my real mailbox. My bulk box regularly trashes itself, but I am receiving so much spam that even my rather large capacity and regularly trashed bulk box cannot keep up with it.
Leaving me no option but to unsubscribe to the bulk mail.
Which requires actually looking at some of the mail.
My favorites are the ones which, when you link to the unsubscribe window, make you another offer. "We're sorry to see you go, are you sure you don't want a Road Whiz?" (I'm not making that up, that's the name of an actual product. Seems like the development people would have nixed that one. Road Whiz? Kind of set up to fail with a name like that.)
"You know, I've lived my life this long without Road Whiz, I think I can manage. Thanks anyway." Hit unsubscribe.
"Are you certain you want to unsubscribe? Because we're offering an incredible deal on a list of foreclosed homes in your area!"
"My area? Really? Road Whiz AND foreclosed homes in my area?" Unsubscribe.
The thing is with spam, you can't just hang up on them. You tell them no and they lead you to another window to unsubscribe. It's the low end annoyance factor, the scum of the marketing barrel, the bottom feeders of advertising. They've got stupid and crappy products and employ stupid and crappy marketing techniques.
But for people like Zaphod, who will stop at nothing to annoy me, this is manna. By simply filling in my email address on a few key sites, within a week he can have me receiving thousands of spam/junk emails a day.
Which, in a roundabout way, is how I'm getting to the point that the telemarketing legislation needs to be passed, and it needs to include spam.
In the old days, before spam, when a person was rejected by the object of their desire, they would employ all sorts of revenge tactics. One of the most widely used was putting the object of their desire on telemarketing call lists. Annoying yes. But along came voice mail and caller I.D. and the annoyance factor was reduced. Spurned suitors were left unfulfilled. But now, stalkers and rebuffed suitors around the world have another option. An option with tentacles so numerous and far reaching, that it is ultimately more annoying than a telemarketing phone call.
And it shall be named: Spam.
Who actually buys this stuff? Don't answer. There's one born every minute. And they're given credit cards.
Term insurance for smokers! (Finally! Life insurance for people who have the highest disease and fatality rate on the planet!)
A naked old guy selling Viagra! Seriously. MyDrugsRx. (I'm not kidding. Sure, he's a fit 70 year old guy, but, well, you get the picture. And I'm not in need of Viagra at the moment. But hey, they offer FREE! Overnight FedEx shipping. I guess if you're a 70 year old guy in need of Viagra that's probably important.)
A legal police radar jammer! (Cool! A legal police radar jammer!)
Hey! The next big real estate secret! Tax liens! (Wow, I'm so special, so privileged to have this information. Good thing I didn't delete that one.)
Online jackpot. (You know, I've been thinking I don't gamble enough. Why go to Las Vegas when I could gamble off my credit card from the comfort of my own home?!)
The Air Press Massager is offering me free Thigh Cuffs if I act now. Hmm. Thigh cuffs. Well now. I might just have to offer up my credit card to the good folks at TV Time Deals for this one.
Oh, this is good, when you hit unsubscribe at Price Wheels, they don't let you go without giving them a reason. I have to admire the spine and stomach of any spam marketer who not only requests the reason for unsubscribing, but goes so far as to make you give them a reason. They're really asking for it. I cannot even imagine what poor person has sunk so low in their career that they are forced to have the job of receiving and reviewing the unsubscribe emails and reasons. "Internet opportunity! Work from home! Masochists strongly urged to apply."
You know, I always thought the break up of the Bells was a good thing. Competitive rates, consumer choice...but then I got spammed. Just how many phone companies are there?
OH NO! Forget Iraq, Afghanistan, Israel, Northern Ireland...THERE'S A WAR BEING WAGED IN MY COMPUTER RIGHT NOW AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW ABOUT IT!!!!! Thankfully the diplomatic corps at Intrigue Learning Systems are on top of this. This one really bothers me. People who are timidly getting online (senior citizens, for big example) will receive this spam and worry. "Corrupt files will soon release harmful destruction! Download our FREE health check to scan your hard drive now before these harmful files ruin your PC!" Small type disclaimer: *PC PowerScan™ offers a free computer health check tool available for unlimited use and a paid premium error fixing service. Right. And just how many "errors" do you suppose they find and how much do they charge to "fix" them?
Revenge is sweet Zaphod, but short lived.
This is great. I love this. Could not start my week on a better note. 123Deals, the originator of many of the spams I've been receiving, sent me a notice telling me I only needed to unsubscribe once. This is a personal email from their tech support guy, annoyed with me for filling his mailbox with 189 unsubscribe emails. (Their system allows you to just hit unsubscribe.) I love this. Revenge is sweet! The guy obviously doesn't have a sense of irony or half a functioning brain. I cannot wait to reply to him. I will savor the moment I hit send on that email.
9:40 AM
Sunday, October 19, 2003
Husband of friend of Trillian is fine and home. Well. Probably forever emotionally scarred, but physically okay-ish and home.
I haven't heard many of his details yet, regarding the fire, and unless he or his wife care to divulge I'm certainly not asking. So please don't ask me for details, gory or otherwise, because I don't have any beyond the official news releases at Chicago Tribune or Chicago Sun Times.
M'kay?
I am going to visit them this afternoon. I checked at my local card and gift store last night, they didn't have a section for, "Survived a high rise fire with lacerations and minor smoke inhalation" so I'm going to take him a bottle of booze and a six pack of AffyTapples. (Guide note: Don't "skip intro" and take the tour with Affy Man.) Because if it were me I'd want to get pissed and eat happy treats.
But maybe I'm not the best gauge. Because in general I want to get pissed and eat happy treats. But since I have witnessed husband of friend of Trillian getting pissed and eating happy treats in the past, it seems like a good option for these circumstances.
Great. Once again I sound like an emotionally inept girl with a drinking problem and eating disorder.
But hey, at least I'm not "The Woman who Was Mugged and Broke Her Ankle."
