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
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Twelve days ago, something happened to me. Yes, that was the day of the fateful date with Creepy Perfume Guy. But something even worse than that happened to me that day. Yes. Really. Something worse. On the same day.
That was the day I heard the words which strike fear in the heart of every woman when uttered by her stylist in a hair salon: "Oh shit..."
Silence.
"...well, you know, it doesn't look as bad as it could. You know what? I like it. Yes. I like it. We'll have to do something about your brows, maybe, but it could work. I think we've found a new you! "
Silence.
Silence.
"I was just getting used to the old new me."
Silence.
Silence.
"Okay. Tell me. What have you done to me?"
"I must have mixed the wrong color for your highlights."
"That much was obvious. But what do you mean by 'oh shit?' 'Oh shit it's way too light' or 'oh shit it's way too dark?' Because I can live with 'oh shit it's way too dark.' I might even be happy with 'oh shit it's way too dark.' But I could have issues with 'oh shit it's way too light.' And just what do you have in mind for my brows?"
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
"Let's see what it looks like dry before we take any corrective measures."
Oh yes. Let's. "Corrective measures?!"
It wasn't as bad as I feared. And yes, once dry, it was a new me. It wasn't nearly as 'oh shit it's way too light' as I presumed it to be. And she's right. We may have found a new me. A new, now with 30% more blonde, me.
Here's a swatch:
I didn't think it was too bad at first. In fact, I sort of liked it. Other people did, too. People made favorable comments. "Kickin' up the highlights a few notches, eh Trill?" I got a lot more attention from strangers. You know, all the usual blonde v. brunette reactions. My highlights said sunny, vivacious blonde! Little did strangers know under those sunny, vivacious blonde! highlights lurked the soul of a dark, broody brunette.
Or did it?
The past twelve days have seen me perform some of the dumbest moves of my life. Which is leading me to think the dumb in blonde isn't in the follicles but in the peroxide. And that it may be more than 30% more blonde my stylist swore was all she mixed.
Let's review the dumb things I've done in the last twelve days with a little help from Julie Brown.
The Twelve Days of Blonde Miss Because I'm a blonde, I don't have to think.
I talk like a baby, and I don't pay for drinks.
I went on another date. Okay. So that's not terribly stupid. Well. Wait. Given the abysmal results of 50 First Dates thus far and the horror stories therein, going on another date after I'd sworn off men forever was in fact: Dumb. Really, really dumb. I'm not saying I deserved the Date with Discomposed Dan, but let's face it, I'm not exactly having the best luck meeting really nice, interesting, sane men lately and any man who asks me out is suspect, I know this, and to attempt a date is stupid and just asking for trouble.
Never have to worry 'bout gettin' a man
As long as I keep this blonde and I keep this tan,
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Working yet another late night, I traipsed to the vending machines for dinner. The yellow light on the change machine was flashing its out of change signal, I had limited coinage, so my choices had to be right the first time. Fourth row, position three: Twizzlers. Check. Fifth row, position five: Sweet n' Salty Energy Mix. Check. Sixth (bottom) row: Oooooh! Orange Zingers! I haven't had those in ages! Oh boy! It's late, I've got just the right amount of change! I'm tired and I'm splurging! We all know what's coming next so really, do I need to explain any further? Of course the Zingers got stuck on the spiral coil. Of course I tried to free them. Of course I almost spent the night on the vending machine room floor, arm bent and stuck in the machine.
I see people working and it only makes me giggle
'Cause I don't have to work; I just have to jiggle.
Thinking I had finally finished a project on a tight deadline and done so with a unique and creative twist, I emailed the project to a printer in Toronto. Satisfied with a job well done, I sat back and enjoyed my shoes for a few minutes. A few, brief, glorious minutes. The satisfaction spell was broken, the shroud of stupidity lifted, when I received an re: email from a printer in Atlanta who lost the bid on the print job. My contact there was delighted to hear from me, pleased that I decided to send them the job after all, and that I was putting some very work starved press men to work during the holiday lull. Yeah. The peroxide gets you into these situations, but it's the brunette standing there trying to explain and make fumbling excuses. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, erm, yeah, well, see, your email is very similar to someone else's and on my address list, ha ha, funniest thing, really, it appears you are right under another printer on my address list and, erm, um, well, see, that's a job we're sending to Canada, but I've got another project coming up next month I'd like you to bid on, I'll send the specs in a few weeks...sorry for the confusion..."
I'm a blonde, B-L-O-N-D-E.
I'm a blonde; don't you wish you were me?
I never learned to read, and I never learned to cook.
Why should I bother when I look like I look?
I'm vegetarian. What do I know about cooking a turkey (or any other animal)? That's right: Nothing. So when I told my sister I would cook everything except the animal for the family holiday dinner, I meant it. She came through with a prepared bird of some sort. Great. Perfect. Just heat and eat. I mean, that's what I thought "prepared" meant, anyway. Imagine my surprise to learn there's actually more to preparing a "prepared" turkey than warming it in the oven for a few minutes. Imagine not realizing there are many bags and wraps and wires and oh what the swut is that? a half hour before the rest of the holiday meal was going to be ready to consume. Imagine my family coming up with a new holiday game while waiting another hour and a half for the "prepared" turkey to be edible: Recollecting and adding up the years and number of college credits I've earned and how much money and time has been spent on said college credits. "I thought you had to be real smart to go to graduate school..." my young niece innocently remarked after asking for the 27th time if we were ever going to eat and how come Aunt Trillian doesn't know how to cook a turkey.
Bitch.
I know lots of people are smarter than me,
But I have this philosophy:
So what?
I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
I packed my home telephone in a moving box. I didn't realize this until the telephone rang, I only heard the base station ringing and I couldn't find the telephone. I had to call my home number from my cell phone, untape and unpack three boxes before I could figure out which one was ringing and find my telephone. (The brunette follicles won the battle (but not the war) with the forces of blonde when they came up with the plan to call my home telephone and listen for the ring.)
I see girls without dates, and I feel so sorry for 'em,
'Cause whenever I'm around, all the men ignore 'em,
'Cause I'm a blonde, nyah, nyah, nyah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, nyah, nyah, nyah.
While attempting to help my father repair my parents' furnace I lit the little flame lighter thing, you know, the thing like a cigarette lighter with a long tube thing for lighting stuff (see, I AM a blonde) and created a small fire ball which, had there been just a little more oxygen, would have resulted in a Backdraft-esque wall of flame. I can't take complete blonde fault for this, my father, himself a natural blonde, gave me the igniter lighter thing and told me to try to re-light the pilot light on the furnace when he said when. I thought he said when. Well. He didn't actually say anything remotely like the clear, enunciated "when" I was expecting, but he was over on the other side for a really long time and the string of endless profanity had crescendo-ed and then grown silent, and I heard a hissing noise start in the pilot light area, so I took that to mean "when." It didn't. I nearly didn't have to worry about whether or not I should "do something" about my brows.
They say that to make it, you need talent and ambition.
Well, I got a TV show, and this was my audition:
Umm ... okay ... what was it? ... umm ...
Don't tell me ... Oh, yeah, okay.
Duck, Magnum, duck!
I got on the wrong train. I would have been on my way to California if the janitor on the train hadn't decided to sweep the business car of the Zephyr and said, "Lady, you can't board this train yet. You got 2 hours. Who let you on here?" The thing is, no one let me on the train. I just sashayed down the platform, 30% more blonde highlights bouncing along, fluttering in the breeze, and hopped onto the first car I chanced upon and assumed it was the right train and the right car. All bold and pompous. I apparently forgot there are usually a few trains per platform and you get on the first train at the end of the platform when they announce boarding for your train. The really stupid thing about this and why I think the peroxide has taken hold of my brain is that I have been boarding and riding trains my entire life and never, not once until now, in any country or foreign language, have I boarded the wrong train.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
I took some photos to the do it yourself print kiosk and selected 4 wallet sized photos of 6 different photos for my mum to send in the holiday cards I was sending for her. Had I paid attention to the very clear on-screen diagram, had I been 30% less blonde, I might have remembered/realized there are four wallet sized photos on each wallet sized print. One print = four wallet sized photos. 4 prints = 16 photos. So I only needed one wallet sized print of each of the six photos to accomplish the desired number (24) of wallet sized prints. But no. We had 12 extra wallet sized prints of six different photos to spare. Got a blank spot in your scrapbook or refrigerator? Got a new wallet with one of those photo inserts? Need a family photo to adorn your desk to make your office look more homey and approachable? Got a little collage project brewing? Want a photo of my family? I've got 72 various posed wallet sized prints to spare.
I took an IQ test, and I flunked it, of course.
I can't spell VW, but I got a Porsche,
My parents have OnStar. They also have an automatic garage door opener. Their car has a special little compartment for the remote opener controller pod. You press the lid of the special little compartment and that presses the remote opener controller pod. The special little compartment is right next to the OnStar dial buttons. 6 days. Several errands and lots of running around to do. 9 "OnStar how can I help you Mr. McMillians?"
Yes. There was one day I got the same OnStar operator on two different misdials. "Sorry, see, my parents' car has..."
"I know, I know," he said, "'this special little compartment for the remote garage door opener controller pod.' Ms. McMillian perhaps you should disconnect your parents' OnStar service for the duration of your visit."
'Cause I'm a blonde, B-L-O-N-D-E.
I'm a blonde; don't you wish you were me?
I just want to say that being chosen this month's Miss August
Is, like, a compliment that I'll remember for as long as I can.
I forgot I am a woman of child bearing age and as such have monthly needs and requirements. Very embarrassing to be caught unaware and unprepared and completely stymied by the whole process. ("But it was just that time of the month four weeks ago!" I may have been heard uttering as I ran out of Walgreen's. at breakneck speed.)
Right now I'm a freshman in my fourth year at UCLA,
And my goal is to become a veterinarian because I love children.
I wrapped up my niece's latest installment of American Girl conspicuous consumerism all nice and pretty in really cute kitty cat-mas wrapping paper. Then I wrapped my brother's Gordie Howe autographed hockey puck in specially designed case in the polar bears in mittens and ear muffs wrapping paper. And ran out of tags. So I made my own. Because I'm clever that way. But where I'm not so clever, apparently, and very blonde, apparently, is placing them on the proper packages. A week later in Michigan, my niece was confused but tried to very polite when she opened the hockey puck. "Thanks for the round heavy black thing, Aunt Trillian," she managed to bewilderingly say in her little girl voice, casting the specially made case aside, and then quickly resuming her present opening and hoping for a better more suitable gift from other relatives. (This was before the "prepared" turkey debacle, by the way.) Hardly the image I had in mind of her delight over the bacchanal of doll accessories, the image which kept me going when I braved the American Girl store and painstakingly chose accessory after accessory, taking every detail and my niece's likes and dislikes into consideration. Realizing my error in tagging the gifts, my mind raced to an image of my brother in California, opening up kitty cat-mas wrapped American Girl doll accessories. Hardly the image I had in mind when I procured the Gordie Howe autographed hockey puck for him seven months ago.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Other girls think I'm snotty, and maybe it's true.
With my hair and body, you would be too.
I'm a blonde, B-L-O, oh, oh, ... I don't know!
The Grandmommy of all stupid things I've done in my life: Purchased and downloaded the entire Britney Spears My Prerogative EP. That's right. Four versions of Britney's cover of My Prerogative. Bobby Brown's My Prerogative. A song I intensely disliked 1988-90 when Bobby Brown's original was on the radio and in the clubs and wouldn't go away. I can only assume, in the few, short lucid brunette moments I get now and then, that it was actually subversive mind and body control, not a dumb blonde moment. Britney is like the Mother Ship to all newly over peroxided women. She calls to us, transmitting on some peroxide only frequency, our highlighted strands like antennae, picking up her signals. I was powerless under her influence. She commanded my fingers to move, to do her bidding, apart from the brunette part of my brain, willed me to hit Buy Album and Okay when prompted if I really wanted to purchase the album My Prerogative by Britney Spears. I cannot tell you the shame and embarrassment and down right dirtiness (drrrtiness?) I feel over this. I paid actual money, $3.96, for four versions of a really horrible song covered by Britney Spears and have absolutely no recollection of doing it. It's like the people who are abducted and have missing periods of time they cannot remember. Britney Swutting Spears. I'm sure if I were to listen to Britney's songs I would be completely blondewashed by her evil mind control transmitted from the Britney Mother Ship. I'm absolutely certain if you listen to Britney's songs backwards that's what you'll hear. "You will obey. I command you to wear really stupid, tacky, skanky clothes, bleach your hair to an over processed shade of yellow with the texture of hay and wrap a python around your half naked and unexplainably wet body. I command you to make desperate grasps for fame with stupid publicity stunts. I command you to speak in a very odd dialect even though you haven't lived anywhere near the origin of said odd dialect for years. I command thee to buy, buy, BUY! my re-cords, y'all! Now go! Go! I'm on the fast track to pulling a Dana Plato with my life, so you Must. Buy. My. Music! Save your queen! Bleach and burn, bleach and burn! You can't be too blonde or too skanky!" In my defense, iTunes had a bunch of artists flashing in the new music banner, and I meant to buy the Incubus cover of Roxanne (long story). Yes, a cover of another really stupid '80s song, and no, Incubus doesn't offer me any redemption for the Britney Spears Incident. But. Still. I think that's how it must have happened. All I really know is that when I took my iPod out of the dock and checked my purchased music folder for Incubus they weren't there but Britney was. Four times. That's all I know for sure. And in another defense, if I were someone truly stupid enough to intentionally purchase My Prerogative, I would also have been too stupid to know how to correctly spell prerogative and never would have found the song to buy it. So it had to be evil blonde forces at work. Anyone who actually knows how to spell prerogative wouldn't intentionally purchase Britney Spears anything. And for now, at least, I know how to spell prerogative.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah!
Wednesday, December 29, 2004 Allseasons has a good idea and useful links for the tsunami victims. Try it on your own site! Fun and helpflul!
(And Allseasons is a super good photographer and has some great stuff on Flickr. Fun, helpful and talented!)
6:32 PM
Take a picture, it’ll last longer
Things I’ve seen in the past week I wish I could/would have photographed...
Actual Church Sign Better than Any the Church Sign Generator I’ve Seen:
“CHRIST MAS EVE 7 PM 11 PM
CHRIST EYE FOR THE SINNING GUY MON 7 PM
ALL WELCOME”
I wanted to attend the Christ Eye for the Sinning Guy service? session? homosexuality intervention/exorcism? spiritual makeover? but couldn’t, didn’t have the time what with the holidays and all. It’s probably more fun to imagine what goes on there. A bunch of guys, probably 12, follow a sinner around doling out apostlistic advice? One of the intriguing things about this concept? shameless attempt at using pop culture to pull in wayward souls? is that someone involved with this honestly believes this is a good ruse for pulling in sinners and converting the Christless. Someone believes sinning guys are going to drive by the sign, see it as a personal message from Christ or God Himself and say to himself (I presume “all” means all men based on the Sinning guy title and because it was at a Baptist church and when they say guy they mean it. The womenfolk safely home tending to the youngins’ and sheltered from the sinning guys) “Hey! I’m a sinning guy! I could use a little spiritual advice! I’m there! Make me over!” This is also proof of the impact of television on culture and all walks of life: This was in a very remote corner of the Universe, one of those places which appears to be untouched by modern times, one of those places where they have a grain elevator, a grange hall, a bona fide diner, plaid flannel is a way of life, and is too remote and unpopulated to be serviced by cable companies so people either have a dish or antenna or don’t watch a lot of television. And yet they have presumably seen Queer Eye or heard about it.
A 23-ish-Year-Old Guy with Head Stubble and Tattooed over One Ear: Budweiser and Over the Other: Camel Head tattoos always give me pause to ponder if the person is fickle or truly wants a tattoo but has professional/parental/spousal repercussions to consider. They were spelled out in fonts loosely resembling the logo fonts.
Loosely.
Very loosely.
But choice of tattoo matter sent me soaring to new heights (lows?) of ponderment. Was he a) being ironic (doubtful by the looks of the rest of him); b) fickle about getting tattooed so went for his head thinking he could always grow his hair to cover the tattoos, and chose over the ears because even if he goes bald chances are he’ll have some hair over his ears; c) thinking “hey, NASCAR guys wear all those logos! I’ll get Budweiser and Camel, my favorite brands, tattooed on me just like a NASCAR car! d) actually being paid by Budweiser and Camel for these very personal endorsements; e) worried enough about copyright infringement that he told the tattoo artist to be sure to make the script not exactly like the logos; f) alternately proud and ashamed of his vices and brand preferences; g) trying to look really macho and fit in with the guys down at the shop; h) abducted by white trash aliens and branded with these marks (did we put six pack of Bud and a pack of Camels in Voyager capsule along with the works of Shakespeare and Beethoven and a message of peace and goodwill? I mean, we did send The Rolling Stones on that capsule, so Bud and Camels are not out of the realm of possibility. Those NASA guys always making jokes...); i) stupid?
The 4-ish-Year-Old Kid Walking around the Grocery Wearing: A Spiderman pajama top, Red Wings sweat bottoms, and a tinsel and wire halo festooned upon his be-mulleted head. Three days after Christmas. (Maybe the Christ Eye guys got him.)
The Woman Decked out From Head to Toe in Fake Fendi Print Attire. No, nothing new here, we’ve all seen the photos and maybe even a few of these designer imposter clad army recruits on the streets.
But.
This woman.
Well.
I mean.
It doesn’t come any more over the top fake, including the stamped metal rhinestone encrusted logo earrings-necklace-bracelet-belt buckle-anklet ensemble. Bling, baby, bling! But what really set her apart from the other head to toe designer imposter brigade was the Fendi logo dyed or sprayed in a repeating pattern along the bottom of the hair sticking out from under her fake Fendi cap. Now that’s class. You go girl. You and Bud/Camel head tattoo boy should get together. You could compare trademark copyright infringement laws.
The University Aged Boy Who Was the Spitting Image of Waldo. Of Where’s Waldo. Realizing his resemblance to Waldo, embraced it, went with it, and donned the striped shirt, scarf, cuffed jeans, sneakers and glasses frame style. The amazing/great thing about this is that he was with a group of “cool” looking kids, so he’s got friends or at least people who allow him to tag along with them. At long last: I Found Waldo. My life is complete.
The PC Someone “Donated” to Charity Anyone remember WANG? Anyone watch the Antiques Roadshow? Who the swut “donates” unusable crap like this to charity? It’s not helpful to anyone. The impoverished will not benefit from a “computer” so old they can’t even use it as a word processor because no printer or disks or, well, anything, is compatible. Sure, those of us sorting the donations got a good laugh out of it, but, after all the sorting, we were left with a heavy lunk of plastic to dispose. Office Depot will take any old computer, people, take your old crap there if you can’t bear to put it in the rubbish yourself.
An Enormous Dog Chained to a Snowman I love dogs. I love snowmen. But I hope there’s not a warm snap because if Frosty melts away Kujo will be untethered and free to roam.
Judas Priest Kicks Ass/Jesus Died for Us Graffiti The Judas Priest looked newer. It’s possible the juxtaposition position was a random act of irony.
But.
I see some stoner kids thinking it would be really funny to spray out Judas Priest Kicks Ass above the Jesus Died for Us message. Stoner kids. Long may you live. It warms my heart to know with all the cooler than thou kids toting music by bands-so-cool you-can-only-find-their-music-to-download-on-websites-with-secret-passwords around on their iPods that the stoner AC/DC-Judas Priest-Metallica loving teens are still around with their spray paint.
A Company Named: Kuntz Tool Okay. So you have the unfortunate name Kuntz. You probably got teased a bit about that. Sorry. Kids can be so cruel. And then you grew up and went into the tooling business. Great! You’re proud to be a Kuntz. Proud to be in the tool business. Great!
But.
Maybe the combination of Kuntz and Tool in your business name was not the greatest business decision. If not the least inspired. I’m just saying. Kuntz Tool? What the heck were you thinking? It looked like the sort of place that would have those nylon jackets with the company logo embroidered on the back custom made down at Linda’s Monogram and Custom Embroidery. Maybe they could work a deal with the Bud/Camel tattoo guy. Kuntz Tool would fit real nice on the back of his head. Wouldn’t the stoner kids find it hysterical if Kuntz Tool opened a shop next to Nutz on Clark? (If you happen to be the Kuntz Tool people, really, I mean you no ill will. I’m sure you’re lovely people with a good little tool business. I’m just saying. Kuntz Tool? You couldn’t even try to hide behind an umlaut? (Küntz?))
The Grimy Panhandler Shaking the Requisite Fast Food Cup and a Cardboard Sign Proclaiming: Dalmacion Puppys 4 Sale He had a box containing four white puppies, possibly Dalmatians.
Has this guy seen 101 Dalmatians and thought this would be a good way to play on the young children (and their parents) who pass him? Is he thinking breeding Dalmatians would be an easy side gig to his panhandling? Is this a new trend in panhandling? Begging and puppies? Did someone drop the puppies with him trying to unload them and offering to split the profits with him? (Cruella?) Is there a breed of dog called Dalmacions?
The Middle Aged Couple Who Spent the Entire Showing of Finding Neverland Passing a Cell Phone Between Them Reading and Sending Text Messages,
lighting up three rows around them. Okay, this would have required video. And it’s really more of an annoyance than a missed photo op. But. My niece and I and a lot of other people paid $10 to be in a dark room with a larger than life John Depp and that flashing phosphorescent light and button pushing really ruined our Depp Experience.
The Gray Haired Hippie with the Pony Tail Bound in One of Those Leather Cord-Wrap Things, ZZ Top Gray Beard, Santa hat, Black Harley Jacket, Red Leather Trousers and Eurostyle Biker Boots. And a Corn Cob Pipe. Tis the season. You rock, dude. Your kid is spray painting Judas Priest graffiti down at the viaduct. Just thought you’d be proud to know.
The Teenaged Boy and His Younger (10-ish-Year-Old) Sister Traveling Unaccompanied by an Adult Who Napped Cuddled Up to Each Other. (And no it wasn’t some gross incest thing, it was just a really cute moment of sibling harmony, the kind which only happens with parents aren’t around.) No big deal. Nothing funny or ironic here. I just thought it was cute and wished I could have taken their photo.
Ditto the very Senior Aged Lady Who Rode an Entire Five Hour Train Trip with Her Handbag (which was an actual handbag) Perched on Her Lap.
The St. Andrew Prayer-A-Thon 2004 has come to a close. I hope those who participated got that special something they bugged St. Andrew for during the past month.
Hey Trill, what about you? How’d you fare with St. Andrew this year?
Well.
Yes.
And no.
Once again, St. Andrew giveth and St. Andrew taketh away.
This year the taketh away part happened sooner than last year, so that’s either an improvement over last year (less time to ponder any immortal possibilities) or proof that it doesn’t really work at all (if you only have a gift for a day is it really a gift or just something borrowed?) or maybe that's the catch with St. Andrew, he delivers your request as promised, desire granted, no mistaking that, but then plucks it away from you. Just because no one mentions the plucking away from you bit doesn't mean the prayer doesn't work, it just means there's a catch, some unwritten fine print. Or maybe that's what happens when non-Catholic, pretty much non-anythingers prays to a Catholic saint.
But you know. Whatever.
Nothing ventured, nothing lost.
I’m no worse off than I was before the Prayer-A-Thon.
No better.
But no worse.
Wait.
Better.
I had my little quiet moments of reflection and solitude throughout the most difficult time of year for me.
And isn’t that really the best gift of all?
(Insert passive aggressive cynical remark of choice here.)
And I was given the ongoing gifts of disillusionment, disappointment and despair.
Useful, practical gifts. Sure, I get them every year, but I can always use more.
The worst is over. New Year's Eve to get through and then The Holidays are 11 months in the future. 11 glorious months.
Now it’s time for new year resolutions.
Which I don’t make.
However.
I will be glad to get 2004 in the trash. The calendars will be ceremoniously torn off the walls and thunked in the rubbish bin. I’m looking forward to being rid of the past 12 months.
Lots of changes ahead in 2005. New apartment. New neighborhood. No more train commutes to work. New monitor in my office. Yeah. 2005 looks like it’s going to be swell.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Ms. McMillian is having difficulty posting words which will pass the review of the censorship, erm, editorial board.
"if you're looking for holiday cheer on this blog, well, you've come to the wrong blog" she was heard uttering.
Ahem. Ms. McMillian is staring down the business end of a nasty, horrible deadline. Yes. Her job is so fun and cool that she gets to have really important deadlines during the holidays. So while you're out enjoying the break between Christmas and New Year, raise a glass to Trillian who could probably really use a drink right about then because she's working to make her client and her boss and The Company happy and fiscally healthy.
She did mention some of you might like to read or re-read a few posts from the archives. The Mod Hair Ken post seems to be a favorite, if you're looking for a good version of A Christmas Carol, Trillian reviews a few here. And if you've heard about some St. Andrew thing going on, the roots of it can be found here.
She also said it's not too late to order from Amazon, Trillian's got a few gift ideas here.
7:59 AM
Monday, December 20, 2004
I've had a lot of weird stuff happen to me in my lifetime. Hence Life(?) of Trillian.
A lot of it man/dating related.
You know how people say, "just when you think you've seen/heard it all..." and then tell you something to top all weird behavior? Thus proving none of us have or ever will see it ALL. I've seen a lot of it. I thought I'd seen or heard most of it.
And then I went on a another date.
Why do I do this to myself?
I swore off men forever.
No more dates.
No more hope.
No more sex.
Nothing.
To do.
With.
Men.
And then I met this guy.
And then another one emailed me.
Both seemed, you know, maybe, dateable.
The guy I met asked me out.
This in itself is huge.
I actually met a guy in a normal way (at a party), we talked, he was interested in me, asked for my phone number, rang me, we talked, and he asked me on a date. This is normal. This is the way people meet, date, fall in love, blah blah blah. For a brief shining moment I felt like a normal human being.
But I'm me. And that shining moment was, of course, very brief.
I met the guy after work, drinks and dinner.
He was on time. He snazzed himself up real nice. He used the gentleman manners his mother obviously taught him.
We ordered drinks.
He turned to me, took my hand, looked deep into my eyes and said, "I brought you a present."
"A present? For me? You shouldn't have!" (sincere shock, oh swut, I didn't bring him a present. I didn't know we were exchanging gifts this year...)
"Just a little something, nothing really." (proffering a square, prettily wrapped box)
"Gosh, it's too pretty to open!" It was wrapped all pretty, the expensive store gift wrap counter kind of wrapping. Nice, thoughtful, maybe a bit too much too soon, but very thoughtful.
"It is pretty, isn't it? But go on, open it." (looking back, this is the first hint that something unusual was about to happen. He said, "It is pretty, isn't it?" in a sort of weird, too thoughtful kind of way.)
Gingerly opening the gift, sincerely trying to save the wrapping because, well, okay, fine, I'll admit it, I was thinking I could re-use the wrapping. Okay? I'm moving. I'm broke. It's "the holidays." Give me a break.
It soon became obvious the gift was a very expensive bottle of perfume. Not eau de toilette, not something by Coty or that you buy at Walgreens. Real, serious, industrial strength, insanely expensive perfume.
I'm not going to be petty and tacky. A gift is a gift and no matter how expensive or cheap it's a gift and it's a kind gesture.
But.
I'm not big on perfume. For me perfume is reserved solely for: I'm looking to score/entice/arouse my man moments. And then there's the fact that most of it sends me into an asthmatic fit. There are precisely three perfumes I can wear and still breathe. And this wasn't one of them. Hush. There's more coming so hold your comments. I'm just walking you through my experience as it happened. My first thought was: Perfume? Expensive perfume? On a first date? What the...?
This was a first. I've had gifts on first dates, not many, not expensive, but a few gifts. This, however, was perfume. Expensive perfume.
Perfume is a very, very personal thing. Women are very particular about it - even women who are not asthmatic. And for a man to give a woman perfume, well, I mean, it's a very personal thing to do and he swutting well better know her well enough to a) know what perfume she likes (or at least what general type of smell she likes) and b) know her well enough for her to be okay with the implied sexuality of the gift.
And unless he is in fact: Cary Grant, Bryan Ferry, Roger Moore, Maurice Chavelier, or a high ranking member of the mafia gifting his newest moll ("here ya go babe, I got yooz summa dat smelly stuff you dames like"), he is not blessed with that perfect blend of swing and humility to pull off the "here, I bought you a little something" on a first date, with the little something being perfume, and not come off creepy. (Lingerie is also way off limits. By the way.)
So there I was, looking at a very expensive bottle of perfume, one whiff of which would send me coughing and wheezing for two days, and this guy staring at me. A bit too intently.
I looked up from the bottle of perfume to find him giving me a penetrating stare. You know, like Christopher Walken.
Insert psycho shower scene sound bite here.
"Gee, this is really swell. Thanks. It's really nice. You shouldn't have. (really, you should not have done this) Thank you."
"Put it on." he said/demanded in a low, slow voice. You know, like Christopher Walken.
"Uhm, see, well, why don't I just go into the ladies' room and put it on in there because..."
"I want to watch you put it on."
Oh swut. Oh swutting swut.
He seemed normal. He seemed okay. I mean, at the party, when we met, he didn't seem like the sort of creepy weird guy who would bring very expensive perfume as a gift on a first date and demand to watch while I put it on within 20 minutes of sitting down for drinks.
And yet, there he was. Penetrating stare and all.
"Erm. Yeah. This is a really swell gift. It's very nice. I really appreciate the thought. Very thoughtful. Super thoughtful. But, see. The thing is, I have asthma and..."
"You don't like it?"
"It's not that I don't like it. Like isn't a fair term. It's possible I can wear a tiny little itty bitty drop of it, but I don't want to try it at the beginning of the evening in case, well, it's just, I'm sorry. I have asthma and certain perfumes, and I don't want to spoil the evening in case, well..."
"You won't wear it for me?" he said, obviously very angry with me, that penetrating look turning sinister. You know, like Christopher Walken.
For me? For me? For him? Whoa. Wait just a minute here. It's not as if you are in any position to make the "do it for me" request. You sir, are a man on a first date. I owe you no obligatory "for me" requests.
"You couldn't have known, obviously, and you know, I'm really sorry, it's a lovely gift (weird, but lovely) and really thoughtful (too thoughtful) and I'm so sorry."
"Open it. I want to smell it. You can pretend to put it on." he barked at me. Yes. Barked at me. He barked like a dog. Woof woof. Bark woof bark bark bark is really what I remember him saying at this juncture.
Okay. Way, way, way way out of my comfort zone. I like a little role play as much as the next sexual deviant, but not within 20 minutes of a first date. I am not Belle du Jour, I'm not on the clock here, you don't have to get right down to business because you're paying by the hour. Even though I wore those questionable boots the other day.
He wants to smell it?
Pretend to put it on?
This can only be leading to one thing and one thing only: He's got some kink about perfume, aromas and watching women apply perfume. Nothing at all weird about any of that. Nothing at all. In fact, as arousal goes, it's very normal stuff. It just shouldn't be brought up within 20 minutes of the first date when there has been no indication whatsoever that I was out lookin' for a quick and easy roll in the sack.
Why me? What is it about me that attracts these weird, abnormal, bizarro behaving men? I don't think I'm sending off "hey! Weirdo! Yeah! You with the far too presumptuous attitude and creepy penetrating stare! Over here! Bring your kinks and bad manners with you and come *!ck me!" signals.
"No." I was bold. I was assertive. I was not going to be the nice girl who goes along because she doesn't want to offend or hurt anyone's feelings. Because I have been that girl for far too long and I'm too stressed, too tired, too medicated and too fed up with men trying push me, bend me and make me be someone other than me.
"Yes." (WOOF!!) he demanded. Yes. Demanded. Argumentatively. Barkingly
"No."
"Yes." (BARK BARK (fangs shown) BARK!)
"I'm not playing this game and I'm not arguing. No." setting the perfume and the nice wrapping on the table in front of him and getting up to leave.
"Don't make a scene."
Wanted to say: Don't make a scene?! You bring me a gift, of very expensive perfume, on a first date, stare at me all creepy Christopher Walken-like, bark at me demanding that I open it and let you smell it while I pretend to put it on and you're telling me not to make a scene?! Drama King, you set the stage, wrote, directed, produced and starred in this act.
But didn't say that because: I'm not going to dignify with a response. Not going to give him a reaction which is what he obviously wants. Not going to lower myself to his level. Not going to play this game. Not going to stay here a second longer.
Putting on coat, hat, gloves.
"You're leaving?! (BARK! HOWL!) You don't want a decent man! You've got a great guy right in front of you and you get all bent out of shape. You know what your problem is? (Why do people ask this rhetorical question in the heat of arguments when we all know they are going to tell us exactly what they think our problem is even if we say, 'yes, as a matter of fact I do know what my problem is so save your psychology and opinions and breath for someone else'?) You don't want to be treated well! You're old and single because you like being treated badly. Women like you need to realize it's your own fault you're alone. You're too picky and too stupid to recognize a good guy when you've got one in front of you."
Silence falls over the restaurant. People at other tables staring. Me standing there trying to put on my gloves. Can't get my fingers in the right places. Maybe I am stupid.
Okay. Stop staring. I'm not that swutting old.
Wanted to say: Stop staring at me. It's rude. Yes, you, girl with the stupid, cheap and tacky feathery top from three years ago, really bad home-kit highlights and too much eye liner who is obviously older than me. And you, too, table of women in from the suburbs to get stupid drunk and have a night on the town. Here you go! Here's your fun story to tell tomorrow when you're back in suburbville telling all your suburbville friends about your wild night on the town in the city. I hope this makes you feel smug and superior in your cozy four bedroom with your husband and kids and mini van. And you're all older than me, too. By the way, so maybe you can't be that smug or superior, and I live in the city, every day and night, I can go out any night and get stupid drunk and make scenes and have creepy men bring me expensive perfume. Swut you.
Grabbing handbag, not fussing with gloves any longer, and just. Getting. The. Swut. Out. Of. There.
"Cab, ma'am?" the door man asked as I left.
It was at that moment, the ma'am, which sent me over the edge.
"Ye..yea...yessssssssssss." sob sob sob sob sob
"TAXI!"
"Here you go. (opening cab door) Feel better. (offering arm and helping me in) He's a jerk. Have a good evening."
Door men. The good ones are, well, good ones. Been though this scene so many times before. Dates gone wrong. Men gone wrong. Dates who don't show. Men who meet someone else they're more interested during a date with me. Men who go to the men's room and never return. Door men see a lot of this. They must. Because they all know the drill. Get a cab as quickly as possible, be nice to the poor girl who's leaving alone and obviously on the verge of tears, get her in the cab and get her away from the front door before she scares away other patrons.
Sitting in the back of cab. Crying. Pouting. Should have said: "Old and stupid? You're six years older than me, single, and dumb enough to bring perfume as a gift on a first date! Did you really think that 'Let me smell it, I want to watch you put it on' line was going to get you in my pants?" Hmmm. Maybe I should go back and say that to him. I wonder if he's still there. He didn't follow me out of the restaurant. No. There are no second chances with this sort of thing. Done is done.
Get home.
Things instantly looked better. There was a parcel waiting for me. A present? For me?! And it's not from some creepy guy on a first date! It's from someone I never expected to send me anything! It's a huge surprise! I don't care what it is, it's from a really kind, caring, super thoughtful person whom I wish didn't live so swutting far away! And oh swut. I didn't know we were exchanging gifts this year. I haven't sent one holiday card, not one, and certainly not a gift. Still. Glee. Because this isn't the sort of person who sends things expecting something in return. And besides, they moved and I don't have their new address but now I do!
I bounced up all four flights of stairs all, "Gee! I wonder what it is! Oh boy! Oh boy!"
Furry Creature, poised and ready to perform his duty as date-gone-wrong consoler cat. Things are better all the time!
And then! Oh yes! Yes! Answerphone message light flashing. It swutting well better be HWNMNBS' voice on there or I'm going to hurl myself out of one of these drafty windows.
Eleven messages? Seriously? Eleven messages?
Uh oh.
I'm suddenly not liking the flashing light of the answerphone. The light flashing brighter and bigger and ominously.
Deep breath. Here goes.
"Hey Trill, we're going for drinks at (bar in your hood) tonight. Not sure if you're here this weekend. How's your mum? We'll pick you up if you want to go for drinks. Call me."
"Trillian, it's your father, (yes dad, I know, I've recognized your voice for a few years now) your mum and I just wanted to say hello. Hello. We'll call you again later tonight. Probably around 9:00 your time. We're going to watch a program about PT boats on the History Channel. We'll call after that. Around 9:00. She's not home. I told her we'd call her again later tonight around 9:00 after the PT boat show. She must be out to one of her parties." (My father hasn't quite got the hang of the talk button on cordless phones. His messages always include either conversations regarding me not being home or long minutes filled with whatever he's watching on television or listening to on the radio because he forgets to push the "off" button. One time my answerphone was completely full with nothing but what sounded like the commentary of the Master's Tournament.)
"Hey Trill, we're here (at bar in your hood), thought we'd see if you're in. Guess not. Call me."
"Trill, it's Mark, from the mail room? At work? Sorry to bother you at home, Carl in HR gave me your phone number, I hope you don't mind, but I thought you'd want to know John's father died today and they think the funeral is going to be Monday. My number is (oh swut, pen, paper, swut, swut, swut. John. Poor John. Oh swut) call me, I should know details by tomorrow." Oh swut. John. I like John. John is a good guy. John is one of my two friends at work. Oh swut. John. Your dad. Oh swutting swut. Okay. Reality check. My problems are nothing and completely insignificant.
"Trillian. (oh swut. it's him. shut up you idiot. a man has died. just shut up and go away and leave me alone) Call me so we can straighten this out." Straighten what out? Your presumptuous weird behavior or the embarrassing and rude insults you hurled at me? No thanks to either.
"Trillian, we got off to a bad start..." ERASE.
"Trill..." ERASE.
"Yo." ERASE.
"Trillian, look, I..." ERASE
"Ms. McMillian, remember me, that guy who blows into town and sweeps you off your feet every few months? The one you refuse to write or call because he's dangerous? Yes, it's 3 AM here, and no I haven't been drinking. Your line's been engaged all evening, I've been trying to reach you. Just wanted to talk, friendly voice and all that, and good news, I'm going to be in town Sunday through Wednesday, prepare to be swept off those sassy heeled feet of yours. Danger Man is back in town." Brit Barrister. You know...oh, forget it. It'll never go anywhere but we're occasional good ports of call for each other. Be quiet. He's nice. He's intelligent. He's witty. He's here for a few days every now and then and that's that.
"Trill..." ERASE! Didn't you hear? A man has died. And a much nicer, smarter, kinder, funnier, less Christopher Walken-like man than you is flying in from Europe to sweep me off my feet so take your perfume and shove it you creepy freak.
If anyone is interested in a presumptuous single hetero guy who will lavish you with expensive perfume on your fist date, let me know, I've got a guy for you. Sure, he's a little creepy. Sure, he likes to watch. Sure he's rude and has an anger management problem. Sure he's totally self unaware. But. He's single. He's employed. And he's lookin' to score. I know there are women out there who would eat up the expensive gift aspect and would be more than happy to oblige with any barked commands as long as the gifts keep coming and the price tags get higher.
Friday, December 17, 2004
Hey! Look everyone! Webdate.com has a bunch of those actor imposters on their dating site! I've always wanted to date a celebrity imposter. It would be just like dating Richard Gere, Mischa Barton, Paris Hilton, J Lo or a young Tom Cruise without the pesky celebrity problems.
Who’s the Bravest of them All?
In my ongoing effort to observe and report, I endeavor to take on life and send reports to the Universe. Living life and dealing with it so you don’t have to, we always say here at Life(?) of Trillian.
It's in this spirit that I face work related required business social functions. If all those words strung together in one sentence makes no sense to you, you are the luckiest person in the world.
Because if those words in one sentence make no sense to you, you (or your girl/boyfriend/spouse) have a job which does not require you to attend social functions sponsored by business associate’s companies which are supposed to be fun but are really thinly veiled excuses for sales and marketing campaigns.
They are cleverly (and many times not so cleverly) disguised life insurance seminar-type events.
And some of us, many of us, have jobs which require us to attend these “social” “fun” events. The invitations begin arriving by mail and phone and email in November and strike fear in the hearts of those of us who “have” to attend them because our jobs/bosses/companies requires us to practice business etiquette which clearly states you must attend, make an appearance at, and stay long enough talk to the person at the sponsoring company who invited you. There is no gray area. No leeway. No getting out of it. Unless of course you want to be known as the gauche one who doesn’t follow business etiquette (not a problem for me, I’ll happily be known as the gauche one) and be stalked/plagued by calls from the associate who invited you prefaced with, “I didn’t see you at the party! We missed you!” (translation: You tacky, gauche low life, I invited you to a party with free food and booze and you didn’t bother to show up, I hate you and I am not going to cut you the deals on pricing I’ve been giving you for the past two years. In fact, a new price list is winging its way to you as we speak. Happy swutting holidays to you and your company. Happy new year. Bwa ha haaaaaaa.)
To make it palatable and intriguing and to be sure someone actually shows up, the sponsoring companies host open bars. This is a tender mercy they bestow upon their prey, erm, associates. Everything’s better with a little alcohol. Even Jim, the most obnoxious, overbearing, pushy sales person in the world is tolerable with a few drinks in you.
I’ve been able to gracefully and legitimately get out of a lot of this year’s business social responsibilities due to the fact that I’ve been out of town or working late because of an ill mother. Yes. It takes an excuse that extreme to get out of these events.
My Job is So Cool and Fun, Part IV I attended a few functions this year. I got through them. No one’s saying I enjoyed them. For me, these events have become like a yearly doctor exam. You have to do it. If you don’t you’ll get some really horrible disease which will go undiagnosed because that’s just the way karma works. It’s not pleasant, everyone else is there for the same reason (fear and blackmail), and like you, would rather be anywhere else. One by one we take our turn (oh swut, there she is, “Hi, you! How’s it going! Great to see you! Thanks for inviting me again this year!”), assume the position (drink and hors d’ouvres clumsily held (and often dropped) while trying to shake hands), try to go to our mental happy place (HR Puffinstuff, HR Puffinstuff...), make small talk with someone who is there to do a job everyone hates (“Hi, I’m Jim. I’m in sales. I’m an obnoxious, overbearing prat! Do you have a business card? Let me put you in my PDA!”), get probed and prodded (“So, are you going to order a gross of X for the Big Client project? Let’s talk pricing after the holidays, m’kay?!”), ponder just how long this is going to take and what the heck is going on (“Party” my arse, they entice us with food and booze, we’re like lambs to the slaughter), get left alone to try to regain composure (“Oh look, there’s Suzie! Do you know Suzie? Suzie works at (much bigger company with really cool clients who have big bucks to burn)! If you’ll excuse me, I need to catch her before she leaves. Have a great time tonight!”) and then leave as quickly and quietly as possible, casting a furtive glance of sympathy to those waiting their turns. (Poor Suzie. Dear girl didn’t stand a chance.)
These parties are the same the world over. No matter where I’ve been, what company I’ve worked for, or what job I’ve had, the common theme are these obligatory holiday parties which are frighteningly similar. It’s a small world, after all.
You will be able to spot the reps from the sponsoring company because they will have decided it would be fun to wear Santa hats, elf shoes, reindeer antlers, or a crown of candles a la Santa Lucia. Some will modify their fun adornment to show their personal festivals. (No one will ever forget the dreidels hanging from an account rep's antlers at a party I attended a few years ago.) They will also be the only ones trying to talk business. They will have their PDAs and Franklin Planners and stacks of business cards at the ready.
If you are unfortunate enough to stay late into the evening, when the liquor has been flowing two hours longer than it should have, and if you are sober enough to realize/remember what’s taking place before your very eyes, you will see things no one should be forced to see. You will see grown, normally respectable people groveling for business through slurred speech. You will hear people begging for interviews at other companies through slurred speech. You will hear things about other people and companies you really don’t want or need to know. You will hear remarkable promises being made. You will see some of the sluttiest/tackiest/tightest “festive” attire become sluttier/tackier/tighter. (My all time favorite was the light up sweater worn by a young female account rep. By the end of the evening the lights were strategically placed, and let’s just say her sweater was not the only thing lit.) You will see people attempting to be discreet as they leave together, but failing badly. You will see the back ends of people as they puke in the restrooms. You will lose any respect you had for your account rep. You will realize you now have an artillery of blackmail you can use if pricing negotiations get ugly in March. But only, of course, if you remain more sober and more above reproach than the rep. Which is why the reps will try to get you more liquored up than they are. A) They want you liquor you up, loosen your lips and have their merry way with your budget, and B) They want to be the one with the blackmail if things get ugly during pricing negotiations in March. So the trick is to stay more sober than the sponsoring company reps and leave early. Fortunately learned these lessons early in my career. And here I am sharing them with you. Because I’m swell that way. Consider it my holiday gift to you. See? Observing and reporting can be helpful.
How to get through a holiday business function with your sanity and job in tact.
A) If dates/spouses are invited, take one. If you don’t have one, find one. Everyone, male and female, needs a rent-a-date in their holiday arsenal. A friend no one at the party will know, a brother or sister will work.You and your date/spouse need to form very clearly defined plans of action for leaving the party. Establish an agreed time to arrive and depart the party. On the off chance you’re both having fun and want to stay longer than the agreed upon departure time, be sure to have a signal for “I’m having a blast, I want to stay longer than an hour!” But the most important plan is your contingency evacuation plan, your “I’ve had it, we’ve got to get out of here now” contingency plan. Practice your plan well in advance of attending the party. You do not want to confuse your signals in the event of an actual “I’ve had it, we’ve got to get out of here now” emergency. A word about rent-a-dates: I have a great one. He’s gay. He’s been my rent-a-date for so long there are people who think we’re married. I’m not kidding. For girls, the great things about a gay rent-a-date is that they always look fabulous (they will own at least one tux), they will help you with your hair, make-up and clothes before the party, they always treat you better than an actual date, they can hold a gin martini almost as good as Roger Moore, they will hurl really funny catty remarks about people at the party, they will respect you in the morning, AND you can return the favor by being their beard if they should require one. Everyone wins. The hazard with a gay rent-a-date, though, is if they meet someone at the party they really like. Work out a contingency “I’ve met someone interesting let’s ditch this party now” plan with your rent-a-date for this possibility before attending the party.
B) If dates/spouses are not invited, Yeah! Instant excuse to leave early! “My husband/wife/boy/girlfriend has a party at their parents’ tonight, just wanted to stop by and say hello, happy holidays, see you next year!” If you do not have a husband/wife/boy/girlfriend, make one up. Yes. Lie. Everyone will be intrigued by your new imaginary husband/wife/boy/girlfriend, and gossip and rumors will spread like wildfire throughout the party all night all over town by noon the next day. So what? If you don’t have a husband/wife/boy/girlfriend chances are your reputation could use a little intrigue. “But what happens when I have to actually produce a real husband/wife/boy/girlfriend?” you ask, worried. Oh, silly, Relax. Holiday break-ups are so common, after the holiday party season has ended, all you have to do is make-up a break-up with your imaginary husband/wife/boy/girlfriend. And guess what? People will feel sorry for you (be sure to make yourself the innocent victim in your imaginary break-up) and will be eager to set you up with someone, probably someone from the holiday party. Hey. Trust me on this. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.
C) Know your alcohol limits. Seriously. If you know gin martinis go straight to your head, DO NOT DRINK ONE at a business social function. Because the pain of the hangover the morning after is nothing compared to the pain of your boss’ screaming echoing in your head when s/he finds out you agreed to give all of your company’s business to the sponsor of the party, even though their prices are double that of the closest competitor. And even worse than the pain of the hangover or your boss screaming at you, is the pain of unemployment resulting from your irresponsible, drunken behavior while going beyond your alcohol limits at a business function. And no, Clintoning, Lewinsky-ing or actual sex with any business associate during or directly following a business social function IS NOT OKAY. There will be repercussions, and unless you are able/willing to face those repercussions, stay as chaste as a new born baby during these functions. I don’t care if Gina’s sweater has flashing lights on her nipples and she’s giving lap dances to all her clients. This is your time to shine as the example of decorum and proper business etiquette.
D) No matter how hard they try to get you to agree to a contract/product/meeting after the holidays, be strong and make no commitments to the party’s sponsor account rep. Smile and politely say, “The budgets on those projects are being reviewed, our client had lower revenue figures than expected so we have to trim the costs and scale down our original plan.” Feel free to embellish and add look of real serious and grave concern. This rhetoric, which may or may not be a lie, will shut up almost any rep except the most obnoxious prat who no one takes seriously anyway so it’s okay to just walk away if he persists after you make this comment. Maybe you really do want to use the party sponsor company. Fine. Great. But commit to nothing now. Stay strong. Stay courteous. Stay employed.
E) Chances are very good you will be invited to several holiday functions sponsored by competing companies. You will see most of the same people at these parties. Patterns of behavior will emerge. If you’re lucky, you might develop a relationship with a fellow business party invitee. This is good. This is very, very good. You may not realize it, but being friendly with another client of a company is a very, very good strategy. It gives you bargaining power. It gives you clout. It gives you someone to talk to at these things. And together, talking and drinking, you will be a threat to the reps at the party. They prefer to strike their prey when they are alone or with a date/spouse. A client grouped with another client can cause serious negotiating issues. If client A finds out client B is paying less for the same service/product, client A is going to be very, very difficult. So most reps will avoid stalking clients at parties who have allied themselves. It’s easy to find an ally client. Just observe who is alone and attending some of the same functions as you. March right over and introduce yourself, making it very clear you are a client and not with the party sponsor. (It should be obvious because you won’t be wearing a santa hat, elf shoes, antlers or Santa Lucia wreath.) Don’t badmouth anyone. Don’t gossip. Just be nice and talk about how you know the party’s sponsor. Trust me. Conversation will ensue.
I survived, I will survive. It’s almost over. The end is near. I see the bleak empty calendar page which is January fast approaching. And there is much rejoicing. Because I have a really cool and fun job.
1:41 PM
Look, I'll make no apologies for these. No one, especially me, ever said Scots are a healthy lot, or culinary mavens, or sane. And yes. I have tried one. Okay? True confessions. I have eaten one. Well. A bite off the end of one. But I didn't swallow. That's right, I Lewinsky-ed it. And it is as gross as it sounds. It was one of the most disgusting things I've ever put in my mouth. There. Now leave me alone about this and Haggis, too. Neither one of these things is my fault or my responsibility.
I've got two words for you unScottish palate snobs, especially those of you in New York: Fried Twinkies.
8:35 AM
Thursday, December 16, 2004
As the creative driving force of the company, I am frequently asked by co-workers to "help" with personal projects. Children's' birthday party invitations. Engagement party invitations. Office party decorations.
In the past three months (yes, the very same past three most chaotic, busy, emotionally draining and trying of my life months which some of you have painfully endured with me) I have been the one person decoration crew for: Two retirement parties, one baby shower, one "we just landed a huge client" party, a sales drive kick-off (this is a bi-monthly requirement of mine, apparently. The sales manager is one of those people who uses themes and "awards" and kick-off parties to motivate the sales staff. There is a plethora of Successories items in their office. Natch.), four birthday posters and (so far) three holiday parties. I have also designed and coded several webpages in conjunction with these and other events ("as long as you've already got the graphics, you can just post it, too." Want to say: "Post this you swutting inconsiderate jujuflub!" Instead say: "Yeah okay." because yes, I will already have the graphics and what's a little coding and posting and I just want this person out of my office and life as quickly as possible.)
I could almost understand/expect to be crowned Queen of all things Festively Decorated if these soirees were in my own department, among/involving my immediate co-workers. But with the exception of the baby shower and one of the holiday office parties, I was asked/imposed upon/threatened/blackmailed to come up with a theme, design and produce decorations for parties for people and departments in which I do not work and barely know the people involved. Simply because I am the driving creative force of the company. Which apparently leads people to feel free to impose, I mean ask, me to manage the design, decor, theme and production of party related paraphernalia. (Word spreads. If I'd said no the first time, had my former boss not "cleared it" I wouldn't be in this situation, with this reputation today.)
I could almost, sort of, kind of understand being asked to "help" with work related functions, or at least functions taking place in the office or for people who work in my company. But more often than not, the office party, co-worker roasting poster, party invitation is for someone I do not directly work with, and most often do not even know. And even more often than that, these requests are for parties/people completely unrelated to anything to do with work. Children's parties. A sister's friend's engagement. A father's retirement.
Sometimes these are truly fun projects. A chance to get all wacky creative and do things I don't normally get to do with projects at work. The birthday posters and retirement/leaving party invitations have become a particular specialty of mine, I'm sort of known for them, and given enough time, I actually enjoy them.
Unfortunately, I don't like most of my co-workers. So no matter how much devilish fun I could have with their personal projects these requests are always a huge imposition.
Wait, back up a minute. Regardless of the status of co-workers, no matter how happy and peaceful and friendly your office is, these requests are always impositions.
Because I have an actual job. Projects. Deadlines. Things to do, people to see. A paycheck to earn.
But people, people who need favors, are the neediest people in the world.
They will beg, whine, pout and threaten to "clear it" with my boss.
I always wonder how these conversations go. I cannot even comprehend the act of going to someone's boss and requesting a personal favor. I wish I had nerve like that. I wish I had no conscience like that. I wish was as stupid as that. I wish I had a set of balls like that.
Obnoxious Moron at Work (OMAW): "Hi Creative Driving Force's boss. How are you? Did you catch that game/movie on Lifetime last night?"
Boss of Creative Driving Force (BOCDF): "Yeah, wasn't it too bad they lost/sad when she died?"
OMAW: "Really a shame. Say. You know what be more of a shame?"
OMAW: "Yes. A terrible shame. So I spoke with Creative Driving Force and she said she's too busy to do this for me and something about abusing company resources. Very uncooperative, she was, not much of a team player. I told her I'd clear it with you."
BOCDF: "Yeah. She can be that way. I'm sure it wasn't anything personal. She's just a bitch. I'll have a chat with her and be sure she understands she needs to make your kid's birthday party/engagement party/funeral notice an award winning design. Consider it cleared. Because I am God to her. My commands are non negotiable. Because I am her boss. And she must obey me. No matter how unethical or inappropriate the command. She. Must. Obey."
OMAW: "Thanks, I knew you'd understand."
BOCDF: "Don't mention it. Really. Don't mention it to anyone. Ya goin' to Margie's party tomorrow?"
OMAW: "Of course!"
BOCDF: "Me too! See you there!"
OMAW then, chest puffed up all snarky like, marches (yes, marches) back to my office and says, "I cleared it with your boss. I want something with (an officially licensed and copyrighted character), a photo of my kid/fiancé/e/dead person, here are the hand written and barely legible details and I need 73 copies by tomorrow afternoon. Your boss said it was okay to use any time and company resources necessary."
"Oh. Okay. But. See. There are copyright issues, you can just go around using the likeness of licensed characters all willy nilly."
"Oh come off it. It's my kid's birthday party/engagement party/funeral notice. No one's going to see it. It's not as if we're making money on this."
"No but, I mean, Darby Conley might not like Bucky or Satchel's likenesses affiliated with your engagement. He might find it offensive. In fact, he'd probably find you offensive for even considering using his characters for your invitations. It's beyond copyright infringement. It's about personal ethics. How would you like it if some complete stranger used the likeness of something you created for their kid's birthday party?"
"I wouldn't care." (They never do. Never. Not ever. No one would care if their licensed and copyrighted characters were used without permission. I find this very difficult to believe. Hence a large portion of my distrust of the human race.)
"Look, I'll do something cute/nice/clever okay?"
"Okay. But I need them tomorrow. And make them look as good as those ones you did for (other co-worker)."
"I'm on a deadline, I mean, I'll try, maybe day after tomorrow?"
"No, they gotta be in the mail day after tomorrow. Tomorrow. I need them tomorrow. I cleared it with your boss."
(Strike me down now, please. Just let me die a quick but violent and messy death right here in my office, in front of this audacious, inconsiderate moron. Let that be on their conscience. Let the image of me simultaneously combusting, heart still beating as it bursts out of my chest, head blowing up a la Scanners and then bursting into flames be the vision they carry with them throughout the rest of their long and miserable life.)
Ahem.
Just a little fantasy I've been harboring for a while.
Silly really, because...
My Job Rocks. Part III
Holiday madness is now in full swing. I don't like the holidays. I really, really do not like the holidays. I don't even like the term "the holidays." I really, really do not like "the holidays" this year. Single, alone, sick and struggling mum, friends everywhere but near, trying to finalize moving house across town, dead mice...things are not all festive and jolly in Trillville.
Not that they ever really were. Well. I mean. There were a few years there, The HWNMNBS Years, those were festive and jolly and full of hope. And there were some holidays when I was a kid which where great.
But since hitting adulthood, apart from The HWNMNBS Years, Trillville is not the place to be for happy holidays.
I am begging you, pleading with you, those of you who love "the holidays" and are happy and festive and merry and bright, to please, please be considerate and understanding that not everyone shares your enthusiasm for "the holidays." We are not mean people. We are not Grinches. We are not Scrooges or any other holiday spoiler character. We are happy for your spirit and happiness over "the holidays." Sometimes you even make us smile or laugh. (But some of you just make us nauseous and annoy the bile out of us.) We mean you no harm or ill will. We'd just like it if you'd show us the same respect and not shove "the holidays" down our throats.
It doesn't mean we're depressed, bitter or Jewish.
We just don't like the over commercialization and insane marketing of the industry which has become "the holidays."
Maybe some of us are depressed, bitter or Jewish. So show a little swutting respect and compassion.
If you know the creative driving force of the company (or anyone else) has been going through a lot of personal crisis' lately, maybe it's not the year to beg them to design your personal Christmas cards. I saw some very cool cards at MCA gift shop. Maybe someone else in the office can handle the decorations for the office holiday potluck and gift swap for a change. Maybe, just maybe, they're too swutting busy with their actual job to do any of this.
I've heard there are departments and even entire companies which slow down and even nearly stop working during "the holidays." I cannot even imagine such a place. My mind goes completely blank at the thought of not having much work to do because it's "the holidays." So apart from being a huge professional and ethical imposition, requests for personally designed items and decorations are also huge personal impositions, particularly during "the holidays." Creative driving forces have to do all the same things as everyone else: Shop, attend stupid but required functions, send holiday greetings...
Maybe, if anyone paid any attention at all, someone might realize The Creative Driving Force has been in the office earlier than everyone and leaving later than everyone lately except for weekends when they trek five hours to help take care of their sick mother. And maybe then it might occur to someone that they're too busy and don't even care about your stupid holiday cards and the inane office party and gift swap in the first place.
But no. No one will notice these things. Or care about them. And if the Creative Driving Force mentions any of these issues, someone will just march over and "clear it" with their boss.
I always assume I get a lot of personal favors begged of me at work because people are oblivious. So I'm going to enlighten those of you who might not otherwise realize that Creative Driving Forces are not magicians. Invitations, decorations, posters, websites and whatever other creative thing you need take time and thought to design and produce. We make it look easy because we're good at our jobs. We're like Olympians. If we're even moderately okay designers and have semi-current technology at our disposal, we can make it seem effortless and even fun. What you don't see are the rejected ideas, the stumped thoughts, the 1 AM moment of Eureka!, the paper jams, the cyan toner cartridge which is new but the printer says is empty...just because "creative" is in the job title doesn't mean it's just one big inspired thrill a minute. We're mortals, too. We have to think and work and fight with office equipment just like you.
Just in case anyone out there is unaware, designers charge money for these sorts of things. Many designers charge a lot of money for these sort of things. My company charges other companies a lot of money for my work. Of which I get paid an infinitesimal fraction so just wipe that snarl of jealousy off your face. I'm poor. I am grossly underpaid. I am: The Company Whore. My talent, creativity and time is sold on the streets. My pimp is the company, and they're doing quite well for themselves. Like all whores, I am expected to look and behave as if I am earning all or at least a fair cut of the profit so the clients don't feel guilty or wrong for using me. The Company likes to parade me (and/or my talent) around like an exotic seductress, a siren of creativity and good taste. But the harsh reality, when the clients aren't around, is that I am grossly underpaid and barely surviving while my pimp is having a grand time with the money I earn for them. They rape me of my talent, sell it and turn a nice profit for themselves. (This is especially true for people in the recording industry, too, by the way. And a lot of other industries, too. It's called capitalism. But on a personal level, if you're only taking home a small fraction of the money earned off your talent or skills or hard work, if the income balance is tipped unfairly against you, sorry to tell you: You're a whore for your employer. Don't be bitter and resentful (like me) just realize this is going on and don't be so quick to be so understanding when your boss tells you there won't be any salary increase for you this year.)
I'm not chastising anyone, per se, I'm just taking a minute to ask you to keep in mind, when you beg that favor from the creative driving force of your company, even if they oblige with a smile and eager willingness, even if you don't have to stoop to the "clearing it" level, that if you were to have the same professional quality work done by someone other than the person you are begging the work from, you would be paying a lot of money, or at least some money, for their services and time.
The person in your office might turn down the offer of money or even be embarrassed by the mention of money (creative driving forces, especially the young ones who are not yet jaded, are nice this way and "wouldn't dream of charging a friend or colleague for their services") but you should offer a token of appreciation.
At the very least a piece of cake from the event the person helped decorate.
The offer of "I'll buy you a drink/take you to lunch" is rarely appropriate. Sorry. I know this sounds ungrateful. But. These are almost always shallow, vague offers which both parties know will never be taken. And even if there are genuine, specific offers made, chances are you and the creative driving force don't know each other very well for very good reasons. You probably won't have much to talk about and will probably discover you don't like each other that much. If you've "cleared" anything with their boss, they hate you and the last thing they want to do is share alcohol or food and time with you.
To be fair, I have received a few tokens of appreciation which were really nice: A certificate to a shoe store (top of the list of thoughtful, personal, obviously from someone who actually cared gift of thanks); cookie/candy basket; flowers (this is really nice but be sure they're not a big bouquet of roses which will just look a little weird and send a very wrong message to a) the creative driving force and b) the rest of their office); a bottle of booze (and for swut sake, at least take the time to find out what they like, or if they even drink (most creative driving forces drink. heavily. and just about anything. "Here Trill, do you like Armagnac?" offering a two litre bottle, "I do now!")) It's okay to re-gift, in this case, but for swut sake don't let on that it's a re-gift. Yes, someone had the nerve to say to me, this is an exact quote, preserved here for posterity and for all the world to read as the most tacky token of appreciation ever offered: "Thanks for the decorations for our office holiday party. (your welcome, what's your name again?) It looked great. You're amazing. (Thanks, tell HWNMNBS that, will you?) You should do this professionally. (erm, um, I do do this professionally) Everyone loved it. I cannot believe what you were able to pull off with just two days notice. (good thing you "cleared it" with my boss) It was the best party our department has ever had. I can't wait to see what you come up with for us next year. I won this gift certificate for ($20 at the city's most expensive restaurant, that $20 won't cover the coat check) at my wife's company party. We'll never go there. (Like I would? You're in Cost Analysis you know I'm the company whore and earn no money, you imbecile.) I'd like you to have it in appreciation for all your efforts." Guy in Cost Analysis, I hope you are reading this, recognize yourself and are embarrassed and ashamed. Nothing, zero recognition, would have been more appropriate than that feebly offered useless re-gift.
More proof that people, as a species, are obnoxious, rude, inconsiderate, selfish, loud mouthed co-workers who use those traits to get their way. All the time. No matter what. They always get what they want. And if they want the creative driving force of the company to design and print and hand embellish their holiday cards, then that is what they will get. Let it be written, let it be law. "Cleared" and everything.
My job is so cool and so much fun that I not only get to deal with high maintenance clients, inept and rude co-workers, unrealistic deadlines, vendors who don't deliver as promised, all on time and under budget, I also get to design everyone's personal projects and decorations for every party. Now that's a fun job.
1:15 PM
Wednesday, December 15, 2004 Y'all have been asking about Reality Wednesday, sorry, Trillian's Life has been ?able and far too real lately. But today, A Very Special Reality Wednesday...
Chicago Retailer Marshall Fields Hires Clay Aiken to Work Christmas Windows Clay Aiken, American Idol sensation, seen here resurrecting Snow White, has been hired to work the holiday windows at Marshall Fields' flagship State Street store.
"I wanted to pick up a little extra holiday cash, and I'm contractually obligated to live my life in the public eye as a recording industry puppet, so I thought this would be a good way to do both. It's working out real well. I'm naturally very wooden, I have real bad fake looking hair, I'm small and gawky, I don't really have much of a social life, so it's a good fit for me." Aiken commented during a late night break while the windows were being cleaned and dusted. "It's just a seasonal job, but who knows? Maybe if I work real hard and things work out okay they'll keep me on after the holidays."
Snow White, who is daily resurrected from an evil witch's spell by Mr. Aiken's kiss, remarked, "I just assumed he was gay, not that there's anything wrong with that, you know, whatever."
Ms. White is excited about working with the American Idol has been sensation, "He broke that bitch's spell, so it's all good. After this window gig is over I'm going to have the Queer Eye guys pull an intervention on his hair. I myself am reviewing some offers, Survivor: Fairy Tales, Who Wants to Marry the Fairest of them All? and I'm a Window Dummy, Get Me Out of Here! have all expressed interest in me, I'm sure due to Clay's appearance with me. I owe him a lot, he's really given us small wooden animatronic people with bad hair the sort of exposure we need to crossover into the mainstream. He's not only America's idol, he's our idol, too. He's right in here with us. Sometimes I'd swear he's a small wooden animatronic person. He's giving us small wooden animatronic people great exposure."
Responding to questions about the term "dummy," Ms. White and Mr. Aiken agreed the term of choice is small wooden animatronic person, or SWAP. "The D word, I mean, it's just so cruel. I mean, where I'm from we all called each other dummies, but for us to go forward, to eliminate bias against small wooden animatronic people, as a group, there's no gray area. So we've got to stand for zero tolerance of the D word. They, we, I prefer to be known as small wooden animatronic people, or SWAPs, as the government classifies them, us." Mr. Aiken explained. "There's a lot more SWAPS out there than you might realize," he continued. "Most of the people you see on reality television programs are actually SWAPs. For professional purposes, you know, to get work, to be accepted, they hide their background. Some of the richer SWAPs, like over at Saks and Niemans, have work done on their hair so you can't hardly tell they're small wooden animatronic people."
Mr. Aiken's father has been the subject of much speculation and public ridicule from Clay himself. Rumors about his genetics have been making the rounds in gossip columns, credible sources have revealed Mr. Aiken's father is half SWAP. Mr. Aiken addressed those rumors at a press conference held to kick off his tenure in the Marshall Fields' holiday windows: "Y'all know I've got issues with my father. I barely know the man. It's possible he is half SWAP, and that's okay with me. I don't have an issue with his heritage. I'd be proud and honored to find out I'm part SWAP. I identify with small wooden animatronic people, so, you know, who knows? Maybe I am part SWAP. All the more reason for me to make the SWAP agenda my agenda."
"See what I mean? He's got the heart of a dummy under all that stiff, bad hair." Snow White jokingly chastised, then gets her fingers caught in his hair while attempting to give him a jockular tossle of the locks.
Number Five, one of the "little men" in this year's Snow White themed windows, commented further, "Clay's the real deal. When he's in that window, he's one of us. Solid, wooden, jerky, bad hair - a true professional. I've been workin' these windows a lotta years now. I've seen a lot of celebrities come and go. They just can't take the long hours and boring repetition and monotony of the gig. But Clay, he's a good kid. He's used to monotonous boring repetition. The other American Idol also rans all want the hip in your face stuff like Old Navy. Look at them, across the street there (pointing to the Chicago branch of the teen emporium) it's all so flash. That's just not Clay. He truly is the measure of a man. A small, wooden animatronic man." Wiping a tear away, Number Five clears his throat and whistles a jaunty toon and heads back to his window.
Snow White, taking a long drag on a cigarette and checking the clock, "Break's almost up, Clay. I gotta call my agent. You got change for the phone?"
"Sorry Snow, pay day's not 'til Friday." Clay jokingly chides Ms. White as he tosses her two quarters.
The other "little men" laugh and Clay falls in line with them as they hi ho off whistling to their window stations.
More photos of Clay Aiken's holiday window debut here.
Potentially slutty photo of Trillian here.
6:13 AM
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
The holiday greetings are arriving in bulk. Apparently a lot of people have been really busy and eager to send their yearly greetings.
Not my friends and family, mind you. Fortunately, everyone except my way too much time on his hands cousin who works in a think tank at MegaComputer Corporation who will one day rule the Universe, is as busy, slacky and apathetic as I am about holiday greetings. The exception is my mum, but of course this year things are a little different for her.
Sorry. Just had to take a break to go sob in the ladies' room. Doing better with that - I'm able to pull myself out of a choking sob fit in less than 15 minutes now.
Yeah. It's a swutting wonderful life.
My mum is the sort who orders six different types of cards to fit different types of people and religions ("generic is so impersonal...these are our friends and family, we can't send some blanket one message-does-all message to the people we're meant to care about most") and then hand writes a very personal, heartfelt letter to each recipient. She somehow manages to get this accomplished by her personal deadline: December 15. The cards were ordered pre-incident, so she's got the cards. But the personal, heartfelt messages are going unwritten this year.
Sorry. That one took a little longer to get over.
Ahem.
Right. So far the greetings which have been rolling in en masse are business greetings. Nice, generic, sometimes funny, rarely clever, often tacky holiday greetings from business associates. Mostly sales people.
A cool and fun job. Part II. Last night I was in my office late, trying to catch up on office stuff and going through two days of mail. Loaded with holiday greetings. Kind of a nice way to end a long day.
Until I opened a card from a sales person whom I have worked with once. I had all but forgotten about him. It took me a few minutes to remember who he is and how I know him. Oh yeah. I ordered one thing from his company, a unique and last minute order for one of our clients who had a fund raiser going on and needed a give away. The sales guy was pleasant enough, he gave me a "good deal" ish, and that was that. I will never have a need for his product again. We both know this. But he sent me a holiday greeting. Which is not unusual and mighty swell of him.
If it had ended there.
But no.
This man wrote me the sort of heartfelt personal messages my mother writes to her close friends and family. (Well, as you will soon read, my mother does a much better job of it) A very detailed letter about him and his family. Not even news of his company. (I get a lot of those sort of letters, form holiday greetings from companies which are lifted straight from their annual reports.) No, this man was apparently so taken with me, or so desperate for another sale, or completely confusing me with someone else, instead of the usual scrawled signature on a generic Winter scene card, he gave me a detailed, month-by-month review of his 2004.
Call me evil. I had to laugh at the absurdity of this. Here's a man I never even met face to face, talked on the phone about his product exactly four times in a span of three weeks last Spring. That's it. End of story.
But I found myself sucked into his year in review. Strangely compelled to read his holiday greeting. By the end of the letter I felt a little naughty. Like I'd been a voyeur with a holiday greeting intended for someone else.
We'll call him Bob. 2004 was quite a year for Bob. First, he won the North Central District Division leadership challenge cup, a nail biter, apparently. From there it was onto the regional leadership challenge where he faced many stellar colleagues and associates vying for the Midwest regional title. Bob came in second in the Midwest division. (Maybe next year Bob, maybe next year) But as Bob says, there are no losers at the leadership forums. Everyone there is a winner. (So true Bob, so true.) Bob's wife (we'll call her Sally) was apparently not feeling well at the Midwest regional finals. She was in her sixth month of pregnancy, and you know how women get in their sixth month! (I'm not making that up. This boob actually wrote that in a holiday greeting card. To a female client. Way to not win friends or influence sales, Bob.) (And by the way, No Bob, I don't. Most of my friends have started to feel better around their sixth month of pregnancy.) It was just as well that Bob came in second at the Midwest regionals, because precious twins Quanah and Bakli (Those names have not been changed to protect the innocent) Both(Imagine that!) were chosen for their soccer leagues under fives tournament of champions which kept the whole family busy on consecutive weekends for six weeks. The mighty Trojans won their regional title, Quanah and Bakli both scoring goals during the six week tournament. (Way to go kids! Trojans! Oi, oi, oi! Wooo hooo! Trojans rule! Wait a minute. This is an under five year old soccer team. Named The Trojans?) Meanwhile, Hialeah was making quite a sensation at her dance recitals. (Way to go again, Bob, giving your daughter a stripper name and enrolling her in dance classes!) She was honored to study under Michael Flatly for an afternoon session. (I cannot wait to see what artistic interpretations that will create when she's 21 and "paying her way through college.") Sally's parents arrived for a pre-birth visit, which helped out a lot with all the preparations for the new baby and managing the other three little rascals. Because "as these things always happen" Bob was really busy in the few weeks prior to Sally's due date. He was the company sales leader for that quarter. (Wooo hoo Bob! You've got next year's Midwestern regional all but in the bag!) Sally's parents were a tremendous help in the days leading up to the birth of Xuxa. (again, not a made up name) With everything happening all at once, the family would have crumbled if it weren't for the "glue called love" Sally's parents "poured all over everyone." (Gross metaphor, Bob. Laying it on a bit thick there, aren't you Bob? Come on, tell us what really happened...the old lady was mean and bitchy and ballooning up like a Zephyr and not giving you any not that you'd want any and then her parents showed up for an extended stay, her mother's worse than Sally on the rag and her dad's a drunk, and they were driving you insane, and that damn tap tap tapping of Hialeah's and the twins with their damn footie all over the place, you just had to get out and you're not a drinking man so you turned to your vice: Work. You sold the heck out of cheap crap promotional items to soothe the beast raging within you.) Xuxa arrived three days early, 7 pounds and a healthy set of lungs. (Har har. Keeping you up at night, Bob? Been thinking more about that vasectomy?) The annual Summer trip to Lake Minnebego was especially nice this year, the kids all had a good time, even though Quanah got poison ivy and Hialeah got stung by a bee. The kids are all doing well with their swimming, even little Xuxa got in on the fun, with Sally and Bob's help, of course! (Of course! Bob, of course!) They especially loved watching the Olympics and trying out all the different sports they saw on tv. Bakli (I wonder how old this kid will be when it is first nicknamed bakelite. Or bake me. Or Make me. Or Fake ly. Or shakey. Or Baclava. Or...ooops. I hope it's an adorable, intelligent child who grows into a devastatingly good looking, well adjusted adult.) Anyway, Bakli practiced shot putting with the croquet balls and, har har, nearly took out the neighbor's dog. (Perhaps Bakli is crying out for attention and help, Bob. It's not too late to change it's name. It hasn't started school. Jason or Jennifer are very popular and should quiet things down on the screaming out for attention and gender specification with damaging and violent acts of aggression, Bob.) Once Hialeah was back in school, and now feeling better "after birthing Xuxa" (after birthing? Bob? After birthing? You do realize there is an actual thing called after birth. An actual sort of gross thing. An actual sort of gross thing no one wants to think about. Especially while reading a holiday greeting. About your wife. After birthing, Bob? That's one for the books. Gotta hand it to you on that one Bob.) Sally resumed her scrapbooking business. (I should have guessed Sally is a crapbooker. It was so obvious. The weird kids' names. The husband in sales. The Irish dancing. The soccer. The vacation Upnorth. Yes. All the clues were there, I just didn't pick up on them. I'm tired and under a lot of stress right now.) If you want the best keepsake album your family will cherish for generations, give Sally a call, she's back in business and scrapping up a storm! (Anything to keep her off the streets, eh Bob? Wait, is this a holiday greeting or a sales flyer for Sally's crapbooking?) The holiday festivities are now in full swing. We are looking forward to Xuxa's first Christmas. We're staying home this year. Since we're the one with the new baby, all the grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins are coming to our house. My sister is expecting, (expecting what? a Fed Ex package? Chinese take out?) so next year we'll be spending the holidays with her new baby in Arizona. (Thanks for the heads up. I'll be sure to catch you before you leave town.) I want to take a moment to personally wish you and your colleagues and family a happy holiday season and thank you for your business past, present and future. (No. No Bob. Don't you dare evoke Dickens. No. It's just wrong. Bob, you're going straight to literary Hell for that "joke" in really horrible taste and sad attempt at a plea for business. That's gonna cost you the Midwest regionals, Bob.)
There was no photo enclosed (surprisingly) so I have no idea what gender any of his children are - with the exception of Hialeah whom I assume by the stripper name and the Michael Flatly dance thing is a girl. Also surprisingly, there was no cutely cut out card for Sally's crapbooking business.
Yes. My job is fun and interesting and there is never a dull moment. When my dysfunctional, mean, lazy coworkers or high maintenance, demanding clients fail to provide me with hours of entertainment and enlightenment, the vendors I use rush in to save the day.
10:18 AM
