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, September 30, 2004 I'll Just be in the Darkest Corner of My Bedroom Closet if Anyone Needs Me
When was the last time you were so embarrassed you wanted to turn the world backwards on its axis to reverse time, be skilled in the art of hypnosis or just simply evaporate?
It’s been a while for me. Well. It’s been a while since I’ve been hiding in shame and embarrassment over stupid words which came out of my mouth. I try to watch what I say in uncharted company. I’ve learned to not trust my mouth. I am not a natural gossip so fortunately I don’t have to worry about that. But it’s easy to say the wrong thing when you have a cynical, sarcastic nature. I’ve learned to leash my mouth in potentially dangerous speaking situations. Other embarrassing situations happen to me so frequently they’re not really so much embarrassments as a way of life. I’m so accustomed to bumping into things, tripping over nothing and generally making a physical buffoon of myself that sort of thing has long since stopped embarrassing me. Fallen on a date? Done it. Three times in the past year. Skirt tucked into pantyhose? Done it. Lived to tell and laugh. Bumped into a display of crystal glasses and knocked them over in a crashing scene? Last holiday shopping season, Bloomingdales, Michigan Avenue.
Live long enough, make a fool of yourself enough, and eventually embarrassment doesn’t come as quickly or easily.
For me it now generally only happens in front of people who matter to me on either a professional or personal level. I would be embarrassed to give a client work which I know is inferior. I would be embarrassed to say something which would inadvertently hurt a friend’s feelings. I would be embarrassed for my parents to find out I...ahem.
Right.
You get the picture.
So there I was at a swanky, hip bar after wrapping up work. Out of town. I was with a colleague, whom I (fortunately) know quite well (and who does not work in my office), and two hangers on of our client, one of whom was very attractive and witty and seemingly in possession of half a brain, and oh, yeah, a hetero male in approximately my age range, and apparently single...
You get the picture.
Me, a coworker, a very interesting man and another woman were standing at a cool bar.
The Color Theory version of But Not Tonight began playing. (It’s San Francisco. Color Theory is cool in San Francisco. When in Rome...)
Colleague said, “Isn’t this a Depeche Mode song?” with a screwy face as if he knows something's not quite right about the song but can't figure out what.
I said, “It’s that Color Theory cover of But Not Tonight.” (Note the restraint and tact I used. I did not say, nor did I intend to imply, “It’s that crappy cover by lame airport motel lounge meets gay dance club darling Color Theory of the drippy Depeche Mode song But Not Tonight.” Which is exactly what I was thinking. See? I can be good at socializing and trying to fit in.)
Hanger on other woman said, “I love that song. I had a friend in college who had a serious drinking problem and this song saved her life.”
Attractive guy hanger on said, “(chuckle chuckle) Too bad it didn’t work the same magic for Depeche Mode.”
Yeah. I told you this guy had potential. A biting double entendre which could be sarcastic but passed off as friendly humor and conversation.
“Hmmmmmm,” thought I. “We’ve got a live one here.”
I laughed. Colleague laughed. Other woman laughed but then got all serious. “Yeah, those guys were into some serious trouble with drugs.”
Me, slightly confused, kept my mouth shut.
I was not confused about Depeche Mode’s collective substance problems. Or that I think attractive guy actually meant saving Depeche Mode’s career and musical sales life.
No, I was slightly confused because for all these years, until that very moment when she said the words “trouble with drugs,” it never once occurred to me the song could be about the freedom of breaking out of an addiction.
This was not exactly a startling, life changing revelation, however, it was an ill timed revelation.
Because all these years, all those dance clubs, all this time, I assumed it was about, um, you know...
...being the master of your domain...
Self, um, well...
...masturbation, okay?
No. I don’t have a dirty mind. I’m not one of those people who reads those things into lyrics. In my defense, let the evidence stand: The first words are "Oh God," there’s that “My pleasure at being So wet/Here on my own/All on my own/How good it feels to be alone/Tonight” “filling me up with new life” business and all the ooooooh oooooohs and ahhhhh ahhhhhs at the end, I mean, I know I’m not the only one who thinks this song is about finding pleasure within, um, yourself. Alone.
No. I didn’t share this with the group. But I wish this new But Not Tonight angle would have been revealed to me at some other time in my life.
I just stood there trying to hide my surprise at the revelation that the song could be about something other than well, that, and trying to be cool and fit in with the group. Something which obviously doesn’t come easily or naturally for me. eHarmony will point out all the ways in which I don’t fit in and am not cool.
Colleague said, “I used to secretly like Depeche Mode, I listened to them in my car and hid the cds because I didn’t want my rock and roll friends to know I liked them. (pause) I like this cover, (he would, roll of eyes implied) who is it again, Trillian?”
“Jerking off.”
Yes.
I said “Jerking off” loudly and clearly and assuredly as if that were in fact the name of the band.
I was trying so hard to not say anything to do with that, naturally the only words which would come out of my mouth were “jerking off.” That, or now along with all my other problems I have Tourette Syndrome.
The really bizarre part of this? I don’t use the term jerking off or jacking off. Those words have left my mouth no more than six or seven times in my entire life. (I don’t even like Prince’s Jack Off song) I’m not the sort of person who is able to throw vulgarities or slang into my vocabulary and have it sound anything other than stupid. Unless I’m really, really angry or very, very dead pan sarcastic. But even then I sound stupid and out of character. For the record, I’m not offended by vulgarities or slang, it’s just not my milieux.
Fortunately, other woman thought I was making a joke, referencing a joke meaning to the song. She gave me a sympathetic and condescending, “Ha Ha Ha, yeah, The Jerk Offs. Here on my own, all on my own! Ha ha ha.” ("Oh grow up, will you?" implied)
I, now wanting to reverse time, stop time, something, anything to just make this all stop, stood there trying to figure out if the best course of action was to go along as if I meant it as a joke or try to climb out of the flaming pit of my cheeks and say something about Color Theory to try to put this all back on course and maybe everyone would just forget it.
But no.
Attractive guy said, either thoughtfully or disgustedly, I’m not sure which because there was no inflection, no emotion in his tone, “I never thought of that.”
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Everyone looking at me.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Everyone still looking at me.
“Color Theory.” were the words my mouth chose to use to break the silence.
Momentarily.
Everyone looking at me with rapt anticipation.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Me wondering what everyone else is thinking.
Silence.
Me wondering if they’re thinking about jerking off.
Silence.
Me wondering if they’re wondering if I’m thinking about them jerking off.
Silence.
Me wondering if they’re wondering if I jerk off.
Silence.
Me wondering if they’re wondering if I go around thinking about jerking off all the time.
Silence.
Me wanting to desperately think of something other than jerking off.
Silence.
Me hating the term jerking off and wondering why I said it.
Silence.
Me worrying that I have Tourette’s Syndrome.
Silence.
Me realizing attractive guy has very nice hair.
Silence.
Me realizing there is a speck of lint on my blouse which I must pick at now.
Silence.
Me wondering just how red I am in this light.
Silence.
Me wondering if I can use the “oh would you look at the time” excuse to get away from here.
Silence.
“Anyone want another drink?” I said to the group who all had full glasses. “No? I think I’m going to try the Cabernet. Excuse me.”
And that my friends is how I have managed to stay single all these years.
Well, that and I’m ugly.
And why I write all these words instead of trusting my mouth to do the work for me.
If you turn your browser to eHarmony, login: trilliansweird, password guide42, and refer to the overview section, you will see, there, in the first bullet point, the reason why this happened to me.
During times of stress or tension, you may withdraw inside yourself and appear as somewhat cool and aloof. You need to be alone when thinking through projects, problems or solutions.
That’s one of my characteristics eHarmony nailed perfectly. I know this about myself. But what eHarmony doesn’t offer is a solution for overcoming this when it’s not possible to be alone during times of stress or tension. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe the only solution for me is the one I have perfected: Make the first excuse I can and get the swut out of there, run to the first safe, dark, quiet place I can find to sit rocking in a fetal position, withdrawn inside myself and alone. Because I cannot be trusted in public.
This is Tomorrow Callin' Yesterday I got an email from Tomorrow.
Yes.
Tomorrow sent me an email. Yesterday.
Thinking it may be a message from my future sent to my present, (now past) to warn me about something or someone, you know, as all lame space adventure/time travel stories use as their convenient way to end the show on time and under budget, I thought I better open it, take the Quantum Leap, as it were. (is? will be?)
Hey. When Tomorrow writes with the subject: "Be ready," I read it. Nonplussedly, mind you, but I read it before trashing it.
wavy dream like effect and big echo chamber voice over
“Theorizing that one could time travel within her own lifetime, Trillian stepped into the Quantum Leap accelerator, otherwise known as a Mac G4 PowerBook, and vanished...She woke to find herself trapped in the past, facing mirror images that were not her own and driven by an unknown force to change history for the better. Her only guide on this journey is Tomorrow, an observer from her own time or past or future or something which will be hinted at on season cliffhangers and revealed on the show finale that only Trillian can see, hear or read. And so Trillian finds herself leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong and hoping each time that her next leap will be the leap home and that she doesn’t wake up with Patrick Duffy in her bed or shower.”
I was hoping for something like that. Alarming clarity jolt. Instead I got the ominous message from Tomorrow:
Subject: Be ready.
(Christian Science/Dianetics type graphic.)
“You won’t believe what might happen to you tomorrow!” (emphasis added)
“Oh yeah,” I said out loud to no one, “try me. I bet I can see your unbelievable happenstance and raise you an end of days revelation.” And took the challenge.
Hey. I’m on the road. I’m lonely and bored. Besides, this is tomorrow calling, and not being one to resist the lure of possible humor in a prophecy of doom, I took the spam bait.
I didn't think I should ignore Tomorrow. That is unless there’s a download involved. There was. Of course. Because there is always a download or credit card involved. I also read the fine print. Because there’s always fine print. Tomorrow apparently works at or channels through Coastal Vibe’s server.
I get a lot of spam from Coastal Vibe. I do not like the folks at Coastal Vibe. I don’t even like the name Coastal Vibe. Their "About Us", should you choose to not venture to their site (I wouldn't), reads, "Coastal Vibe is an industry leader in performance based online marketing. We work with product marketers and acquisition specialists to ensure maximum return on your advertising dollar. For high CPM returns and targeted campaign deployment contact Coastal Vibe today." Yes. They are spammers. They can pretty up their mission statement any way they want, but they are still spammers.
Delete.
"Sorry Tomorrow," thought I, "I’ll just have to be surprised and wait like everyone else to find out what frightening thing I need to be ready for tomorrow. Erm. Today."
Of course Tomorrow left me muzaking in my mind one of my all time favorite Ferry songs, This is Tomorrow Calling. And realizing there was a poignancy and irony to the timing of Tomorrow’s email.
Because I am laying in a hotel room. Feelin’ ceilin’ blues.
What would Tomorrow tell me I don’t already know? What would tomorrow warn me to not do, or do? Remember, I’ve lost my inner voice and HWNMNBS, my parents are on holiday and I’m miles away from home and Furry Creature. I’m rudderless here. That’s another way of saying mindless and meandering aimlessly. Loitering without intent. And maybe I’ve had a bit more alcohol than would be advisable. Maybe I haven’t had enough.
I would like Tomorrow to tell me it's just another day and not HWNMNBS's birthday. I would like Tomorrow to tell me what the swut I’m supposed to do with my life and if there’s any reason for me to bother with tomorrow or the next day or next month. But I’m sure Tomorrow could only refer me to another department. Tomorrow probably only handles tomorrow. Not the day after tomorrow or next month. Tomorrow would tell me to wait for an email from October. Or The Day After Tomorrow. Whichever comes first. I suspect Tomorrow is a short term thinker, doesn’t really grasp or care about the big picture or, well, anything beyond tomorrow. Because anything beyond tomorrow is of no concern to Tomorrow. What a lovely place that must be to live.
I soon found out what Tomorrow was trying to tell me. Sooner than tomorrow, in fact. Not so much tomorrow as a few hours later. From now. Then. Whatever. Had I downloaded and installed the software Tomorrow told me to use, I would have been told: Get out. Leave San Francisco. Get out of the state of California. Drive. Run. Fly. Swim. No wait, don’t swim. The End of Days is near and the Apocalypse will commence shortly. Last Saturday when your iPod slid 6 inches across the floor and your ankle felt unsteady? Yeah. That was me trying to warn you. Well. It was actually a tectonic plate trying to warn you and everyone else to Get Out. What? Do I have to spell it out in dripping blood on a mirror before you’ll pay attention? (Tomorrow’s got a bitter sarcastic and impatient streak, by the way.) Get out. You’re not going to like what happens next. You’ve seen fire and you’ve seen rain. You’ve seen lonely times when you could not find a friend. But baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. (Tomorrow apparently listens to a lot of 70s music. Which is odd. I would have pegged Tomorrow as more of the Fischerspooner or at least Tangerine Dream sort.)
This was not my first earthquake. But. It was my first on my own sitting in a hotel room feverishly trying to get some work done on a break from work. Things didn’t rattle and shake like they do in movies. But then they tell me the area felt only mild tremors, nothing to worry about here. Um. Okay. But, see, the thing is, all my stuff fell off the bathroom vanity and my suitcase is now on the other side of the closet from where it was before the “mild tremor.” And is that a crack in the wall? Built to strict standards and specifications, you say? From where I’m sitting, 11 floors up, looking out at the tall buildings around me, I’m wondering just how strict those standards and specifications are. And do they have better building inspectors enforcing these standards than they do in Chicago? Are there any Daleys in San Francisco?
Back to Tomorrow. Because this was only a “mild tremor” apparently Tomorrow was not sending a message for me to tidy up my affairs and say my good-byes. Which is a little disappointing. You know. After the fact.
I don’t mind dying as part of a statistic. eHarmony can’t find a statistical niche for me, but in death like a plane crash or fire or earthquake, being part of the final fatality tally doesn’t bother me. It bothers other people. I know several people who have made comments about not wanting to be remembered for dying with a bunch of other people. It’s ironic because every one of these people are outgoing, social, group loving sorts. Seems like since they enjoy the company of others so much they would rather go with a group than on their own. The irony continues with my own outlook on this: I’m a bit of a loner. Okay, a lot of a loner. One would think I would be adverse to dying as part of a group since I eschewed groups and crowds while I was alive. But it doesn’t bother me to be just one of a group in death. Funny, that.
Last year I ruled out plane crash as a preferred method of death. Not because of, well, the crash, but because I do not want the last thing I see on this mortal coil to be the terrified faces of strangers knowing they are going to die. Based on that, again, one might think I wouldn’t want to go in group. But as long as I don’t have to see their terror stricken faces, I don’t mind going with a bunch of otherpeople.
I can feel the editorial board breathing over my shoulder.
Telephone is ringin’. Maybe it’s Tomorrow calling. Reminding me it's HWNMNBS's birthday. As if I need reminding. Miss. Him. So. Much. Want. To. Die.
Tune your Pod's to radio Ferry:
Here in the hush of evenin´
On a night in June
Overhearin´ conversations
Bayin´ at the moon
Suddenly a voice i´m hearin´s
Sweet to my ear
This is tomorrow´s callin´
Wishin` you were here
Layin´ in my hotel bedroom
Feelin´ ceilin´ blues
Wall to wall a tv´s twitchin´
Clearly not a muse
Then flashin´ through the interference
Beams a thousand tunes
This is tomorrow callin´
What have I to lose?
Truckin´ by the railway station
I´m on the road again
Steerin´ clear of all temptation
Unto the point of pain
When steamin´ through on cue
I hear that wailin´ whistle blow
If this is tomorrow callin´
Oh what a way to go!
Day to day you live old fashioned
Hi-toned, fancy free
A double take, an image-spittin´
Tailored to a t
While history is tellin´ you
The same old thing
This is tomorrow callin´
Let´s stick a new oar in
This is tomorrow callin´
Y´all ´n
Come on in 8:56 AM
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Press conference at the Ramada Inn. At the front of the room, Life(?) of Trillian representative giving a statement to the press corps.
Let's join the session in progress.
If you have landed here for the first time by way of search engine hit, there's a site search over there on the left, in the sidebar. Type in what you're looking for and you'll find the scintillating post to which it pertains.
What you, and some long time readers have before you is, well. Trillian's Life. It's a blog. Its intention was never to be a diary or journal blog, or a rant blog, or well, anything. It's a blog about nothing. Well. That's not quite right, either. It's words she has to get out of her head. It's everything Trillian would say if she had the courage, nerve, time, or opportunity to say it out loud.
Which apparently has become a lot of unresolved feelings about her ex fiancé and loathing and contempt for the people with whom she works.
Trillian never meant for anyone to read this blog. She first posted it publicly, way back when, in the early days of Blogspot, because she just plain didn't pay attention to the privacy settings. She's kind of dumb that way sometimes. We spoke to her manager about it. But by then it was too late. For some unknowable, unexplainable, stand back and scratch your head and wonder why reason, people were reading this swutting thing.
People Trillian didn't know. People who also have a proclivity for observing and reporting and relaxing and enjoying their shoes and have been known to hoist a gargle blaster or two.
What to do, what to do.
Trillian, brave, sarcastic, cynical, stupid Trillian, kept on publicly posting. Observing and reporting.
H8ers discovered her.
Things got ugly.
The blog evolved.
And moved hosts a few times.
Trillian and all those words just wouldn't go away.
She landed back at Blogger, here at Life (?) of Trillian and found it to be a mostly friendly stop in the Universe.
The Guide gives it high marks for it's signs of intelligent, witty, caring life and community spirit.
She got very comfy. She let a few things slip she shouldn't have. She didn't care. She was among mostly friends. Middle management and marketing department were alerted to her deviances but because they were mostly harmless they let them them stand with stern reprimand about such things in the future to Ms. McMillian.
She then suffered temporarily crippling incident and had to spend a lot of time off her feet. Boy did she have a lot of words then. She suffered with that broken ankle more than she let on. And she let on quite a bit so you can imagine what you didn't hear about must have been pretty bad. She found a lot of support and kindness via the blog through those months. She posted updates on her condition and travails because people wanted to know about them.
The blog took on a diary feel.
Trillian was at sixes and sevens about this as was middle management and the marketing department. Trillian is not a diarist and doesn't want to become one. Her life is not an open book for anyone to just drop in on whenever they want.
Now just quiet down a minute. I know that sounds like a bold faced lie put out by the marketing department in accordance to Homeland Security Policy.
But believe us. Trillian is a very keep to herself kind of person.
Yes really.
You don't know her like we do. You would never believe the things she does and which happen to her which she doesn't post on the blog.
She is not comfortable laying her soul to bear, especially in front of complete strangers. She's the sort of person people know for years and never have a clue about certain hobbies and habits she keeps. (Very much like serial killers and postal workers.)
She let a big nasty cat out of her life's bag. Quality control didn't catch it until it was too late (again with that too late thing...we did speak to her manager)
Recently, a certain someone hurt Trillian very, very badly.
Someone she let into her life and heart. Someone, the only someone, she let see all her hobbies, habits and quirks. The only someone she wasn't inhibited or shy around. The only one who got her. The one who was responsible for the blog in the first place. (He was the one who suggested she write, put all those words somewhere. Yes, blame him. We'll give you his email address.) He went on to do a bad, bad thing. She forgave him.
He did it again.
And now Trillian finds herself knowing she has to do the one and only thing she doesn't want to do. She knows she cannot let him hurt her again. She knows that, okay? So stop writing to tell her she was a fool to let him into her life again and that she deserves everything she gets. She's not answering her phones or emails from him, okay?
Brave Trillian. Strong Trillian. Wracked with sorrow Trillian. Suicidal Trillian.
Trillian is no Eleanor Roosevelt. (Nor does she want to be, you know, really. Truth be told.)
However. Trillian feels herself changing. For the first time in her life, Trillian isn't hearing her inner voice. And while Trillian is very relieved to stop hearing at least one of the voices in her head, she is a bit lost without her guide. The only voices Trillian has ever fully trusted are: Her parents, HWNMNBS and her inner voice. Okay, she's got a few issues. You read this blog, you know that by now.
The point is that Trillian can't hear her inner voice and she's losing her way and she doesn't want to have a nervous breakdown in public.
She'd like to keep her psychosis to herself, thank you very much.
What's that? Speak up, I can't quite hear you.
What the tall, honey blonde highlighted, large breasted, tearful woman in nice shoes in the back asked is, "Is this good-bye?"
Much as it may sound like good-bye, much as you may all wish it were, it's probably not.
But until Ms. McMillian can get herself sorted and hears her inner voice again, we think it's best that she try to work out her personal issues privately. Her words will be reviewed by a full board before being publicly posted. This is for her own good. We know many of you care about Trillian and want her to get back on track. Any track. So do we. Censorship may seem a harsh and, well, drastic measure, and we really don't like to use that word around here, we prefer to think of it as editing, it really is the best thing for Trillian right now. She has some very difficult days ahead of her. Things will get worse before they get better. It's for her own good. It's not you, it's her.
Trillian insisted that we alert the public that if things seem a bit off at Life (?) of Trillian it's because of the review board.
Trillian appreciates your support and kind words more than she can express without sounding like she's giving an Academy Award speech. She would like to extend her deepest gratitude and thanks to everyone who has given her support, advice, an email to cry on and a lot of laughs. You can never know how much it means to her to have complete strangers reach out and show sincere concern for her. She considers each and every one of you a dear friend, even though it weirds her out a little to think she is very close to people whom she has never met face to face. She promises to try to observe and report enough to get through the censorship, erm, editing board.
We regret any inconvenience this may cause. Trillian reads a lot of blogs. Drop her an email outlining a few interests and why you like her blog and she'll promptly send you a list of blogs she thinks you might enjoy more than hers now that she's being censored, erm, edited. She would also like to note that she is filling the voids in her life with shoes and will attempt to keep CHIWTSYS updated. Devout Trillian followers (yes, we regret to inform you there are a few) should find relevant clues to what she's up to, where she is and what her mood is by the photos on CHIWTSYS. Please check in at Life (?) of Trillian, as it is our sincere hope she will be posting her many (censored, erm, edited) words.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004 Well This Explains a Few Things...
This is so swutting typical. Several of you suggested I try eHarmony, the better way to meet people. Thank you. I appreciate the idea.
I read their claims. I agreed with their philosophy. I thought, "hmm, yeah, maybe this is a better way...I've got a few drinks in me, I'll try it!"
I was honest. Oh was I honest. I believe in honesty. Especially when meeting a potential spouse.
And eHarmony, in return, was honest with me. I respect and appreciate that. Unlike other online dating sites, they are not asking for my credit card knowing full well there's not a sinner's chance in Hell there is a man for me in the world let alone their database.
Based on their candor and honesty to me, I give them high marks. I cannot vouch for the type of person you will meet on eHarmony, but at the very least you know it won't be someone like me. eHarmony is doing their bit to thin the herd by keeping people like me out of the gene pool.
Thanks eHarmony, from the future of the species human.
Here is the note they sent me:
eHarmony is based upon a complex matching system developed through extensive testing of married individuals. One of the requirements for it to work successfully is for participants to fall into our rigorously defined profiles. If we aren't able to match a user well using these profiles, the most considerate approach is to inform them early in the process.
We are so convinced of the importance of creating compatible matches to help people establish and enjoy happy, lasting relationships that we choose not to provide service rather than risk an uncertain match.
Unfortunately, we are not able to make our profiles work for you. Our matching system is not suitable for about 20% of potential users, so 1 in 5 people simply would not benefit from our service. We hope that you understand that we regret our inability to provide service for you at this time.
You can still receive your free personality profile by clicking here. (To see my actual profile, login as me: Trilliansweird, password: guide42.
In other words, I am so complicated, so messed up, so bizarre, even their "complex matching system" of "rigorously defined profiles" can't catagorize me let alone find me a man.
If eHarmony can't do it, then why would I ever think I could do it?
As for the "accuracy" of the personality profile, I would consider it to be about 75% - 80% accurate. Which, for an online dating site, is pretty good. There are some areas in which they are just dead wrong, laughably wrong, but in all cases they redeem themselves 2:1 with other areas which are spookily accurate and insightful. (see the "communication" page as an example of "Wow. They nailed it perfectly.")
What I gleaned from this is that my expectations (demands) of a mate are too high. I need things, things men are just not capable of, I guess. Like a supportive, objective emotional environment and a safe place to live (you know, smoke detectors and the like). While I, on the other hand, offer a man high standards and values, detail orientation and reality based solutions. Right. A picky, nit picking, even, shrew who holds people to unreasonably high standards and values. So there you have it. Why HWNMNBS and no other man on the planet wants me. Oh yeah. That and I'm ugly.
I'll be stopping at the cat shelter on my way home tonight.
And while I'm picking up all the cat food and litter I'll be needing, I'll also load up on bird seed for the pigeons I'll be feeding in the park.
Post-It Note:
Okay, I'll share...I did write eHarmony a letter in the comments area provided at the end of their rejection letter.
Dear eHarmony,
Thank you for your honesty and business integrity. You could have taken my credit card like all the other online dating sites, all the while knowing there is not a man on this planet who is a good match for me. But you claim to be different, and in that regard, you are.
Thank you for rejecting me like every man I've ever dated. Yours was one of the most thoughtful and well written Dear Jane letters I've ever received. You really went the extra mile in showing your concern for my well being by providing detailed, albeit conflicting, reasons as to my incompatibility not only with you, but men, and apparently the entire human race. The reports will come in handy as I once again search my soul and heart for answers to why I am single, unlovable and unworthy. Rejection is painful, and leaves people questioning and trying to change and rebuild themselves. Having your shortcomings and negative personality traits detailed in the rejection letter is a nice, caring touch to a normally callous process.
As you are probably aware, people often turn to online dating sites after "conventional" methods of meeting dates and potential mates fail them. Often, people using online dating sites are wary, if not a little fraile, because of past rejection, loneliness and just not being able to find the right person. Your honest rejection of not only their money, but their personalities, will restore their confidence in online service retailing and affirm their doubts about themselves.
Don't take my family's liable suit over my suicide personally. 20% of dating sites, 1 in 5, have liability charges brought against them every week.
Since you can't recommend a man for me, perhaps you could recommend a good therapist or the proper way to make a suicide look like an accident for insurance purposes.
Thank you for your candor and honesty. I very much appreciate that you are not taking money from sad, lonely people who are normally taken advantage of on dating sites.
Trillian
Yes. That is an exact copy of the comment I sent them.
Okay, not the usual programming format today. I'm super busy and have, um, well, been drinking a bit lately, and well, um...yeah. My dog ate it?
For anyone who's hanging in suspense, DAD has taken a copy of the complaint to a lawyer. The lawyer is reviewing the complaint but at first glance thinks those of us named in the complaint have nothing to worry about personally. Unless our company decides to take disciplinary action against us. Not exactly comforting words. Expensive, not comforting words. So far I've been fleeced of $125 for those words.
UM gave birth to a girl last week and is now on official maternity leave, so we can legally hire a temp to do her work while she's on maternity leave. There is much rejoicing.
HEM continues to discuss intimate parts of her anatomy and how they are changing during her pregnancy in intricate detail with anyone. "Morning, Hem" someone will innocently say.
"The weirdest and most wonderful thing is happening to my asshole! I've got hemorrhoids!" she will respond.
IPD is still hugely pregnant and hugely bitchy.
HUH? just tries to keep a low profile and remain nonplussed.
8:42 AM
Drivin' and Cryin'
Want to feel old, ugly, out of place and worthless?
Go to your cousin's kid's wedding.
Alone.
I guarantee within 20 minutes of arriving you will feel like the biggest loser ever to roam the planet.
You will be socially outcast.
You will wonder why you agreed to attend this thing in the first place.
You will find the first excuse you can to beat a hasty retreat back to your alarmingly overpriced room at the Ramada Inn before the DJ spins Proud Mary.
(Because this is a small town, because this is a Proud Mary wedding. Because there will be a DJ. There is always a DJ at Proud Mary weddings. And there will be the perfect Proud Mary moment when the opening strains hit the airwaves. (The CCR version, of course, this is a small Northern town, after all.) And everyone, everyone, young, old, will hit the dance floor. The bride and groom will boogie down. Aunt Marge will take this opportunity to show off her new hip replacement. 19 year old cousins Brent and Brandon will air guitar. Uncle Les will almost lose his toupee while dancing with little 4-year-old Emily. The bride's father will dance with the groom's mother, making mock inappropriate moves. The groom's father will dance with the bride's mother and attempt actual inappropriate moves. Bridesmaids in their matching gawdawful dresses with shoes dyed to match and dumb hair don'ts will perform a line dance/striptease. Groomsmen will return from their pot smoking session out back by the dumpster to watch the bridesmaids. Someone, someone not from around here, someone related only by marriage or dentist, someone very bored and very drunk, will attempt a Tina Turner shakin' it move and scream out WOOOOOOOO! a little too loud and a little too soulfully.)
Why leave before all that fun begins?
Because you are in a small, married town to attend a wedding and you are single and live in a big city and are not accustomed to the small, married town way of life.
Oh sure, at first people, mainly relatives, will be pleasant enough. They'll make small talk about your job ("You still working at the same place? Still living in the same place? Still have that cat?"), about your parents ("Shame your folks couldn't make it. Golly, they're so busy since they retired..."), your ever so much more successful (and married, and childbearing) siblings ("Your brother's gonna get the Pulitzer this year, I bet. And isn't his daughter just the cutest, smartest little thing?" "Sounds like the divorce was the best thing to happen to your sister, heh heh heh, she always did have more boyfriends than she could handle and isn't that something about that cool new job of hers?") and bring up one or two "cute" stories of your youth. ("No one will ever forget the time you threw up on cousin Kay's wedding dress har har har!" (I was four, I was deathly ill, I was forced to be a flower girl, and I was nervous. Okay?) But the small talk will be strained as it becomes obvious nothing in your life has changed, that you are the loser of the family, the one destined to be the spinster, the one they are all concerned about because none of them wants to end up being the one having to "look after you" when you're older and still alone and unable to care for yourself and your sure to be hundreds of cats anymore. The one who will throw up on the bride.
They will make polite excuses to go visit with other people, have drinks with other people and go outside for a smoke with other people. Occasionally whispering and nodding in your direction. They might be saying, "Wow, great shoes she's got there!" but more likely they are saying, "She's the one who's fiancé dumped her. She's the one no one wants. She's never going to find a man. Waited too long. She didn't have a much going for her but youth, but she's lost that now, too." Okay, so maybe not all of them are saying that but I am certain they are thinking it.
Yep. I have the esteemed position of being the only one in my generation on both sides of my family to have never been married and who has not borne children. Many of my cousins are on second and third marriages. Most of my cousins' children are getting married. One of those children has already married, had two children, divorced and re-married. He's younger than me.
Yes, to be fair to myself, I am the youngest of my generation by a long span of years. I am closer in age to most of my cousins' children than I am to my cousins.
But still.
There I am. Still unmarried. Still childless. Still at that job. Still renting. Still that too shy, too awkward, too cynical girl who can't get her life together and is perilously close to vomiting on the bride.
Even my cousin Sarah who went off to California and got knocked up out of wedlock by a guy of a very different race is more accepted in this group than I am. (Keep in mind these are the very same people who consider me (and my brother and sister) to be of mixed race, and consequently inferior, because my mother is (in whispered voice) you know, Scottish, or British or one of those countries.)
Sarah gained re-acceptance because she had a child (and then two more by other men of various ethnicity much more divergent than Scottish or British) and finally settled down and has a "career." (She eventually married a guy anyone who's ever been in a town with a population greater than 500 knows is gay. They sell new age crap at weekend flea markets. (For the record I'm not judging, I like Sarah, and the fathers of her children, and their ethnicities, and her gay husband, and her kids, and I am glad Sarah left Hicksville and lived life. I only state all of this because Sarah is accepted, adored, embraced and taken in at these family functions solely because she achieved small town family acceptance nirvana: She reproduced and eventually married. Whereas I am thrown some polite small talk, cast to the corner and left at the Ramada Inn.))
Why did I do this to myself, now of all times?
Because my parents are busy and couldn't make the schlep to my father's familial enclave in Norway West and someone needed to represent our branch of the family tree at this thing. Because none of our branch has made it to any of these gigs in the past two years. Because I live closest to Norway West and am single and have nothing to tie me down or any other viable excuse for not going so: Tag. I was it.
Just say no!
Oh let me tell you. I said no. I have said no. And no one pressured me to go. Really. Well. I mean, not really. My dad just sort of gave me that tone and reminded me of the time I stayed with one of my cousins. Apparently that two night stay came with a lifetime of obligation to attend family functions around the globe. Had I known I would have opted for the youth hostel or Ramada Inn.
I could have just not gone. I am busy at work. I have to go out of town this week. I could have made polite excuses.
But. (Insert wavy dream sequence lines here)
I had this vague notion that it would be fun. (Insert clip of me happily singing as I drive on backwoods roads, deer and squirrels stopping and looking up and smiling at me as I pass by them.) That a change of scenery would be good for me. (Insert clip of me sitting in an Adirondack chair outside a cabin as early morning sun streams through trees, birds resting on my shoulder.) That getting back to nature would get me touch with things that really matter. (Insert clip of me lolling in a row boat on a lake in the middle of nowhere with a sublime look on my face.) That being in the loving embrace of family...(insert scratch of record here, harsh jolt out of the dream sequence)
My father's family is, well. I mean, you know, they're nice and everything... Minnesota Nice.
If you don't know what Minnesota Nice is, well, come with me to my next family get together. Which now that I think of it, will be never. So read this blog instead.
It's another term, a polite term, for: Passive aggressive.
Small towns are small towns the world over. Everyone knows everyone else's business. But because small town people generally don't leave or even move across town, they've got to live and deal with each other. Small town have an inbred knowledge of how to keep their mouths shut but still make their conflicting/superior/moral point of view known. They've got to live next door to these people, go to church with them, see them at the grocery and football games. The real uncomfortable or nasty thing cannot be said in the interest of community well being. But let me tell you: No one does backhand compliments and passive aggressive like people in small towns. There it is elevated to an art form. And thus the term Minnesota Nice was born. They would never, never say what they really think in public. That's just not polite and it's darned mean, too. But get them behind closed doors, brew a pot of coffee and just sit back and listen. You'll get an earful about the neighbors, their in-laws, the new minister and the gal from downstate Earl is seeing. It's that public persona, the polite, nice, well wishing attitude people not from around there mistake for a gentler way of life, friendliness and even naiveté. But, as in Fargo, scratch the surface a little bit, spend a few hours in the kitchen (or out back by the wood chipper) and you'll see these people are not always polite, nice, well wishing, friendly and certainly not naive.
But they are different from their larger town and city counterparts. The standards by which success is judged and graded are very different from larger towns and especially cities.
In small towns, very small towns, there are certain benchmarks by which all people are judged. a) High school athletic prowess, b) size of truck, c) reproduction. These benchmarks remain throughout life. What you did on the football field in high school, the size of your truck and the number of children you produce are lifetime gauges of success. They will be discussed at your: wedding, children's baptisms, Rotary meetings, retirement and funeral. This is how you and your life will be measured for final analysis.
In very small towns, college scholarships are cause for suspicion. The kids who get out on a scholarship often do not return. If they do return, they're not the same. They're never quite the same... Military duty is lauded, but also eyed with suspicion if it becomes a career. One stint, right out of high school is favored, expected and patriotic. A re-up after the first stint is frowned upon and just weird.
If a person has not reproduced by the age of 25 (with or without the benefit of a shotgun at the marriage) there is widespread concern. Females in particular will be shuttled to social events, church functions and weddings at breakneck pace as the 25th birthday of an unmarried, childless woman approaches. The shuttling to these events is an all out war on spinsterhood. "Find her a man! Any man!" is the battle cry shouted behind her back. The invitations to other weddings are a ploy to get the idea planted in the unmarried girl's mind. Just in case she's been entertaining any big ideas about going off and having a career. Apparently the idea is that if she sees other girls (especially younger girls) getting married in a big fancy wedding with a reception down at the hall by the lake, she'll want one, too. It's true in all walks of life around the globe: Weddings breed weddings. And occasionally babies.
Most of my family, or at least those in my generation, the children of my father's contemporaries, all got out. Heck. My father and his siblings got out. Heck, my father's parents left, too. But since my grandmother and one of my uncles returned, no one talks about them in disparaging tones. My grandmother and uncle redeemed our branch of the family. In small towns, it's all about redemption. Unspoken and otherwise.
The rest of us are expected to return. I often ponder if I could return even though I was never really there. That's the thing about small towns. If you're not from there you are always an outsider. Unless you have family there. In that case, by default and blood, you may eventually be accepted and considered from there. Once you reproduce, that is. Nothing ups small town status like having a child in the school district.
The irony in all of this is that my father and his siblings and their cousins are all first generation Americans. The family's roots in that neck of the woods are only 70-80 years deep. (There is one branch of the family, the first to pioneer, the pathfinders, who settled there just before the turn of the century. The descendents of that couple are the undisputed royalty of the family.) The fact that their parents left not only their tiny little towns, but their country, which had been their family's home for centuries and never looked back seems to escape them.
The only thing that matters, the only tales in family lore, is that they got on boats and made their way to the mythical land they'd heard about called Minnesota, built homes next to other ex pats from their homeland and called themselves happy.
Goshdarnit.
And we should all be reverent and happy to have them as our forebears who gave us this happy life. And never leave. The blood of the undisputed travelers and explorers (and yes, plunderers, users and rapers) of history, the Vikings, runs in our veins, and yet we're supposed to be content to stay in some podunk town in the middle of nowhere with a big truck, children and a football trophy? Another thing about small towns: They can cause people to lose their view of the big picture. And a sane grip on reality.
My mum, in a very out of character angry tirade, once summed it up best after one particularly difficult get together with my father's family wherein my father was made to feel guilty and bad and useless because he left, married not only outside the clan but outside of "his people" and never returned to live there: "Where do they get the cheek to condemn you for leaving this Godforsaken place? Who wouldn't leave?"
It is rather Godforsaken, but it is pretty. A nice place to visit. Minnesota Nice.
Kari, my cousin's daughter and the bride of the weekend, is a nice girl. Not even Minnesota nice. Real, sincere nice. She's adorable. She was pursued by Budweiser to be a Bud Girl. She refused a) because she hates Budweiser, and b) Because she didn't want to promote the women as sex objects selling stuff mentality. (Yeah, I like her.) But from her veiled blushing cheek to white satin toes, her very being oozed smugness. I don't think she meant to be smug, really. Well. In the case of a few of the bridesmaids (and their burgundy ill fitting dresses) I suspect Kari meant to beam her smug marital success at them. Still. I don't think she meant to aim it at me. Kari dreams of moving to Chicago or maybe New York. She's hoping her new husband can get enough saved ahead so they can move to Chicago and consequently Kari is trying to keep in my good graces. She also knows her best gifts from this hitching came from me and my parents. But just by being a bride, actually making it to the altar with a groom waiting there for her, I am in her direct line of fire.
Anyone who's ever suffered a broken engagement knows exactly what I mean. We were so close. We thought we had it. We had the dress, the church, the band...but most of all we had the perfect groom. And that's what this is about: Proving to those small town relatives and the rest of the world who don't want to admit it out loud but really do think that way too, that we've made it. We're successful at least at finding a man to marry us. And I'm talking about big weddings, small weddings, elopements...any legal union of two people where gifts and cards are appropriate. Nothing says success quite as loudly as a traditional wedding. And nothing makes single people, particularly single people who were once engaged, who almost made it, feel more useless, unsuccessful, and just plain bad about themselves like a traditional wedding. Especially the wedding of someone younger.
It's not Kari's fault our family are small town, small minded throwbacks to 1950. I don't blame her. I wish her years of marital bliss and happiness. I mean it. But you try consoling yourself, alone, in your room at the Ramada Inn, after attending your cousin's daughter's wedding and being the only single, never married, never had children, dumped by her fiancé (twice) woman within 100 miles of the place.
It's a long drive from upper Minnesota to Chicago. A very long drive.
I cried the entire trip.
Sobbed would be the more appropriate term.
I've learned a lot about myself since I met HWNMNBS. I've learned that "true love" of poetry, literature and song does in fact exist. I've learned that I am in fact capable of loving and allowing someone to get close enough to me to love me. I've learned about sacrifice and compromise. I've learned not only can I cry, but I can sob. (I was never much of a crier and certainly not a sobber.) I've also learned I have an ugly bitter streak in me. I have learned that it was just I thought, I am ugly. I have learned that no matter what people say, what lofty ideals we all proclaim, looks do matter. I have learned that I am the ugly old spinster of the family no one wants to talk to. I have learned that I am so weak that I can allow one person to change me and my entire life. I have learned I have qualities which I hate in other people. I have learned that in fact, I don't like myself very much at all. I have learned that I have the ability to recognize all of this about myself and remain unable or unwilling to change.
I have learned that missing HWNMNBS is a way of life for me. Missing him, that empty feeling, is not something that fades or can be calmed, repressed, with a busy work schedule, friends, family, hobbies or road trips. It's part of my state of being. I just miss him.
It's my own fault. I trusted him. I let him in there in the first place. My instincts and intuition were wrong. He's way out of my league. He's not even playing the same game. I should have known that, should have seen it. He's right, what would a guy like him see in a girl like me? It's taken me a long time, years, to recognize that, to see us on the surface level, see us as the world sees us, just two people. I was so wrapped up in the other aspects, (and to be fair, he seemed to be, too, which is why I trusted him in the first place) everything except what he or I look like, that I never stopped to consider it as a deciding factor.
Thursday, September 16, 2004 I don't know, she was fine one minute, and the next she went off all Kierkegaard on us!
Irony is a disciplinarian feared only by those who do not know it, but cherished by those who do. He who does not understand irony and has no ear for its whispering lacks what might be called the absolute beginning of the personal life. He lacks what at moments is indispensable for the personal life, lacks both the regeneration and rejuvenation, the cleaning baptism of irony that redeems the soul from having its life in finitude though living boldly and energetically in finitude.
Which explains, among other things, why my blog has been the "Next Blog" to this one on several random occasions in the past few weeks. (Porn-o-phobes do not click that link.) Three completely unrelated people on two different continents have pointed this out to me, and I have now witnessed the phenomenon for myself. One random time is funny. Four apparently not so random times is painful. Nothing like kicking yourself when you're already splattered on the pavement. Apparently not only God and the Universe have a sick sense of ironic humor, but so does the blogger mainframe "random" Next Blog generator, as well.
Hal, I know you're in there and I'm sorry for the jokes I made about you. In the future, please "Next Blog" me to a miserable, bad poetry writing 16-year-old who plays Dungeons and Dragons and posts the weekly standings on his blog along with Gwar lyrics and photos of his Robot Wars entry. Thank you.
Hell is other people.
More irony in the Life of Trillian.
I know you're all just dying to hear about my lunch "date."
Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.
He is indeed tall. He is indeed an architect. He is indeed lonely. His haircut wasn't bad. Not good, but not bad. He does indeed like car racing.
As for anything else...well, I don't know. The rich thing was never a factor. The rugby thing wasn't a factor. The divorced thing wasn't a factor.
The car racing thing, though...
No. Not an issue because he doesn't spend every weekend watching or attending car races.
So cut to the chase, Trillian, what's wrong with this one?
Nothing, really, per se, I guess, you know, whatever...
So are you going to see him again?
No. Let's just say there wasn't a love connection. He's nice. Well. I thought he was nice. Yes. He is. I mean, he can be nice. But he has no sense of humor to call his own. And that's important to me. He laughs, he gets humor, he mentioned seeing a humorous movie (though he's never seen Clerks, knows nothing of the pending sequel, he seemed eager to see it after I filled him in on it, so yes, he's open to stuff and that's cool. I like that about him.) But he's not witty or funny or apparently much of an observer of the condition human. And if a guy's going to spend any time with me, he's going to have to get used to irony, embrace it and joke about it.
Maybe you should see him again before you write him off completely.
I'm not sure he's interested in me. And that's okay. I don't care. Which says everything that needs to be said.
But of course this is me, so there is more to be said. Much more. More to be said post-date than about the actual date.
There is post-date revelation which will prevent me from ever seeing him again.
One of two things happened: I was duped by him or by MAF, (or both working in concert) or, more likely, and the option I am choosing to believe because I trust MAF and think he would have told me about, well, you'll read it, is: Life is strange and weird and ironic and you have to laugh or you'll kill yourself.
We didn't need MAF to set us up. Lunch date pursued me back during the beginning of 50 First Dates.
Huh?! You mean MAF showed him your profile and didn't tell you?
That's what I wonder, too. But I don't think so. I think MAF would have told me. Besides, one thing I didn't tell you about MAF: He's a computer-phobe. He uses his partner's computer for email, but he'd rather pick up the phone. He has me do anything he needs beyond email. He certainly doesn't surf, and barely knows the major online dating sites. The chances of him finding my profile and bothering to forward it to Lunch Date are slim. Even slimmer that he wouldn't mention it to me. I think.
What I think is that by some weird fluke Lunch Date just happens to know MAF and months later MAF set us up. Chicago's not as big as it may seem. And dating here stinks. There's a very small pool of available, hetero men. Sooner or later this sort of thing is bound to happen.
How do you know it's the same guy?
I didn't. I didn't recognize him. I thought he looked familiar-ish but couldn't place him. The only reason I discovered this bizarro twist of irony is because during lunch we talked about how hard it is to meet people. We both admitted to trying internet dating sites. We talked about really awful profiles we've seen. (Hey, I did write the rules on this...) He offered his screen name on one dating site for me to look at and wanted me to offer suggestions.
A ha!
Right. He either has no clue it's me, or he wants me to know he knows. I'm not entirely sure which but am leaning toward the former because I don't want to deal with the implications of the latter.
Okay, so he gave you his screen name. Then what?
I checked out his profile. The second it loaded it all came flooding back. I recognized him instantly.
Okay, so what? Is this really such a big deal? Even if MAF and Lunch Date set it all up in an elaborate ploy to get you to have lunch with him?
Yes. Here's why:
Way back then, when I was an online dating trollop, he sent me two emails, the first of which was okay, interesting enough for me to look at his profile and his photos. Where I thought, "okay, nothing in common here, this guy won't like me and I don't think I'd like him."
I thought you were going out with anyone who asked?
Okay, okay. The real issue with him back then? In four of his ten (yes ten) photos posted he is shirtless and in one he appears to be wearing a swimsuit of the Speedo persuasion - in an "artfully" shot photo with private parts pixel blurred out like on network television. I took the "artfully" blurred Speedo shot to mean: he knows Speedos are a no no, but he loved the photo of his Speedo-ed body so much he couldn't resist sharing it with, you know, the world on a dating site and tried to hide the Speedo-like suit. Or maybe he's so largely hung the dating site blurred it because they think it's offensive. Whatever. I found it uncalled for and a huge window into his personality (monster sized ego) and decided "no." (Remember my policies on photos posted in dating profiles.)
I sent him a short, polite, thanks but no thanks email. I was very kind and encouraging, but the answer was no. And that's obviously all he read.
Because he replied in a not so short, polite manner. He was mean. Rude. Vulgar. Didn't take it well. Called me names. Mean names. And told me I'm "never going to find a man because I don't see a good one when he's right in front of me" and that "no man would want a bitch like me."
I blocked him and forgot about him, never gave him another thought.
And then, because this if Life of Trillian, because I am the laughing stock of the Universe, yesterday I had lunch with him.
Trillian, are you sure it's the same guy?
Oh yes.
How? Did you see him shirtless or "artfully" naked? Did he show up in a Speedo?
No. I pulled up the old emails, and yes, it's the same screen name, the same guy.
When I first saw him, when we first met, I thought he looked familiar, but he's one of those people who looks like a lot of other people, so I dismissed it.
Now I know why he looked familiar. And why I couldn't place where I'd met him. I wasn't used to seeing him wearing clothes. Or not swearing and calling me names.
Swut, Trillian, what are you going to do now?
Hopefully nothing. It's a bit of a dilemma, and one from which you can all learn. Be honest about your online dating. If you are set up with or otherwise meet someone who has rejected you online, admit it, try to be pleasant and joke about it, or do not let on that you've met, and certainly do not give out your screen name. If a relationship develops, play it cool and bring it up when the time feels right.
So now the dilemma.
MAF is certainly going to want to know details. He left a message last night, I was thankfully out when he rang. But I can't (and don't want to) avoid him.
I do have that built in excuse (and truth) that I am just not ready to date, that my heart's just not open to meeting someone new yet.
The real truth is: I'm a little scared of Lunch Date. If he knows it's me, if he knows I now know "it's him," what's his next plan of action? He's proven himself to have a quick and nasty temper. He likes car racing.
And there are those photos...
Post-it note: Yes, the possibility exists MAF is an unwitting pawn in all of this. What's the point in asking or telling him? For the sake of harmony in his home, for now I think I should err on the side of caution and not tell him. Remember, Lunch Date is MAF's partner's brother.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004 Reality Wednesday
Knocked Up Smack Down
Contestants will attempt to fulfill their job responsibilities while dealing with three pregnant coworkers. Armed with doctors' orders in writing, federal maternity leave and care rights and the Americans with Disabilities Act, the pregnant coworkers will set up a series of challenges for their coworkers.
The contestants:
Ornery Curmudgeon (The OC). Status: Never married, no children. Job: Senior Editor.
Mother of Many (MOM) Status: Married, five children. Job: Executive Administrator
Divorced and Depressed (DAD) Status: Divorced, two children Job: Account Manager
Creative Driving Force of the Company (HUH?) Status: Never married, no children Job: Creative Driving Force of the Company
The Knocked Up:
Hippie Earth Mother (HEM): Status: Married, pregnant with second child Job: Writer Months Pregnant: Five
I'm Pregnant Dammit (IPD) Status: Married, pregnant with first child Job: General Counsel Months Pregnant: 9? 11? 20? She's been really pregnant a really long time...
Urban Mama (UM): Status: Never married, pregnant with third child. Job: Administrative Coordinator Months Pregnant: Seven.
Challenge One: Where'd She Go? Urban Mama doesn't show up for work for two weeks. She does not call or email.
The OC lets two days pass before trying to contact UM. Everyone in the office is worried about UM.
MOM explains, “She is not the most punctual or reliable employee, but she is nice and generally well liked in the office. Everyone cuts her a lot of slack because she is a single mother of two young children. We were all very concerned about her and the baby.”
"UM isn't the brightest star shining in our sky, but she's very nice. Really nice. Oh yeah, she's real nice." A young coworker explains in the interview room. "She's very popular. What's that? Her job? (pauses) I'm not exactly sure what she does. Something with the editorial group I think. Yeah. Something like that. She works for The OC so probably she does something with the editors. (dismissing the question) We all look forward to seeing her. She's got a nice smile and an easy manner."
At the end of the first week UM leaves a voice mail stating she is not feeling well and "will try to get back into the office next week."
By mid-week of the second week UM has not appeared in the office. Nor has she contacted anyone in the office.
The OC contacts Human Resources to find out how he should proceed. Work is piling up on UM's desk, some of it growing urgent. Human Resources advises him that he should delegate the urgent work to other people in the department, meanwhile the HR coordinator will contact UM. They cannot hire a temp until she is officially on maternity leave.
The OC relays this conversation to HUH?, MOM and DAD. He is holding several folders. HUH?, MOM and DAD exchange knowing looks.
"Let’s get busy. What do we have?" MOM asks, reaching for one of the folders while pushing up her sleeves.
The OC begins going over the urgent tasks. Within a half an hour UM's work is divided into stacks to be doled out mainly to HUH?, DAD, and two administrators not present.
Challenge Two: Who's in the BLEEEEEEEEPING Handicapped Stall? Cut to HUH? in the handicapped stall in the ladies room changing her clothes. She is naked to her undergear, standing on one leg removing her hose when the door to the ladies' room slams open and the sound of heels quickly scrapping across the floor can be heard. The sound of a body slamming into the stall door echoes around the bathroom. HUH? looks up confused and nearly topples over tripping on her half hosed leg.
The voice of IPD calls out from the other side of the stall door. "Who the BLEEEEEEP is using the BLEEEEPING handicapped stall? I'm BLEEEEEPING pregnant, I need the BLEEEPING handicapped stall. Get out or I'm going to BLEEEEEPING puke all over you."
HUH? is panic stricken. "I'm sorry! I'm changing my clothes, hang on just a second. I'm sorry! I'm sorry, omygosh, I'm sorry!" She is simultaneously trying to hop out of her hose and collect her belongings and open the stall door.
IPD raps on the door, "BLEEEEEPING hurry up! I'm BLEEEPING sick!"
HUH? tumbles out of the stall in her state of disrobe, "I'm so sorry, here! Go ahead! Can I get you anything?"
"Out of my BLEEEEPING way!" IPD yells as she lunges into the handicapped stall and commences being sick.
HUH? explains, "I ride my bike or walk to work so I change my clothes when I arrive and before I leave the office. I sometimes use the handicap stall. There's more space in there to do a complete change of clothes and shoes. This is not my normal way - I never use the handicapped stall in public restrooms. If I'm doing anything in there other than changing clothes, I would never, ever dream of using the handicapped stall. I do not park in handicapped parking spaces. I don't even use handicapped doors. Swut. Even when I was on crutches with a cast to my knee last year I didn't use handicapped stalls. To my knowledge there are no handicapped people on our floor. I arrive very early in the morning and leave late in the evenings. Nine times out of ten there is no one, least of all a handicapped person in the ladies' room. And lastly and most importantly, there are three other stalls, all of which were vacant at the time."
Challenge Three: Human Resources HUH? arrives in her office a few days later and checks her voice mail. We overhear the voicemail in that crackly, echoey audio reserved for the CIA and scary stalkers. “Hi HUH?, it’s HR Guy. How’s it going in your new office? Getting settled in? Look, HUH?, I need you to come to a little meeting tomorrow. There’s been a complaint filed and you and several others were named in the complaint. This doesn’t sound like you and I want to get to the bottom of all this. I’m having a meeting with everyone named in the complaint at 10:00. Let me know if you can’t make it, otherwise I’ll see you at 10:00.”
HUH? looks pale and stunned. Even more than usual. “I didn’t know what it was about. I had a conference call scheduled, but I changed it because I didn’t want to miss this meeting.”
10:00 The Next Day HUH?, The OC, MOM and DAD and three others have assembled in the HR office.
MOM is the first to speak. “Are you all here to meet with HR Guy at 10:00?”
Nods of agreement all around.
“Anyone know what it’s about?”
Shakes of heads all around.
HUH? offers: “I thought maybe it was over that IRA guy who was fired last March. But did any of you have problems with him?”
Shakes of heads all around.
They wait in silence. The clock ticks.
MOM asks DAD about his kids and how they are liking school so far. Doing well, Zara’s in junior high school this year. MOM groans. One of the others chimes in with “ugh. Junior high. My oldest started last year, I think it’s even worse than when we were that age.”
A conversation about school and “good” and “bad” ages ensues.
HR Guy emerges from his office and invites the group to a conference room.
He is cheerful and not the least bit foreboding.
The group settles into the lavishly appointed conference room.
Challenge Four: I'm Gonna Sue Your Sorry BLEEEEEEP HR Guy addresses the group. “Thank you all for being here on such short notice. I am glad to have you all here at the same time to discuss a complaint which has been filed against The Company. There are several cites in the complaint, mostly aimed at The Company as a whole entity. However there are specific incidents and issues cited which include specific people. You. And I am stating, for the record, this is the biggest joke and embarrassing law suit which has ever come across my desk. The Company’s legal department is already addressing the larger concerns. But we want, I want, you to all know what is going on and that you have been mentioned in the complaint.”
Shocked and scared, the group looks at each other.
HR Guy continues. “The complaint is that The Company is not upholding the rights of pregnant workers...”
Shocked and scared, the group turns incredulous.
The OC is the first to speak. “I’ve got an administrator who hasn’t shown up for work in five weeks, she doesn’t call, we have no idea what’s going on, we can’t hire a temp, and she’s got the nerve to file a complaint against us?!”
“We completely changed our deadlines in our department to accommodate HEM’s pregnancy. She comes in late, leaves early and takes an hour nap in the afternoon! What more are we supposed to do for her?” another of the group asks.
DAD continues, “Yeah, HUH? and MOM and I have been doing UM’s work while UM is gone. Can we file a complaint?”
HR Guy patiently listens to several similar stories and then says, “The whole thing is ridiculous. Of all the people in The Company, I know each of you are the least likely to do anything less than accommodating for our pregnant colleagues. But IPD is a lawyer. A pregnant lawyer. And she got the other women to join the complaint. A few of their issues are valid and we’re addressing them. We’re going to designate a special room for nursing mothers. We’re going to offer reduced schedules without reduced salaries to pregnant women. We’re reviewing our paternity leave policy and will be adjusting the time allowed out prior to the birth of the child. We’re taking action and hoping these steps will be enough for IPD, HEM and UM to drop the complaint. Taken individually, the cites you have each been named in are not enough to provide just cause for a complaint. We’re confident once the complaint is dropped none of you will face personal complaints.
Challenge Five: And You Better Treat Me Right “Now I have to say something, you know, for the record. You have each been named for specific incidents. I’m sure there were extenuating circumstances or very good reasons for what happened. But you need to be extra considerate to our pregnant colleagues.”
MOM stands up. “Are you kidding me? I’ve had five pregnancies. I know what it’s like. I go out of my way for pregnant women in this company. I didn’t get extra hours off, or a nursing room or extra consideration! Which is why I bend over backward for these women. I am not going to take this. I want to the the complaint. We have rights, too.”
Dad stands up and agrees, “I know a good lawyer. We can have him look at the complaint on our behalf.”
“There’s no need to get a lawyer. We’re confident the complaint will be dropped. I just thought you should all be aware this has happened. I’ll be sure you each get a copy of the complaint.” HR Guy says, not so cheerful now, trying to calm the group.
The OC says, “DAD’s right. Us individuals named in the complaint should have a lawyer at least read the complaint. After all, we could end up being defendants in a courtroom over this.”
“It’s not going to court,“ HR Guy insists, sweating now.
One of the others yells, “How can you be sure? IPD is a really good lawyer. She got The Company out of...”
HR Guy cuts her off, “I know she’s a good lawyer but that’s not the point and that other issue is not open for public comment.”
Silence falls over the room.
MOM, DAD, The OC and one other storm out of the room.
HUH? and the two remaining with HR Guy look at each other.
Challenge Six: This Will Go Down on Your Permanent Record HR Guy is the first to speak. “The worst that will happen is that you’ll get a written complaint in your HR file. That’s the WORST. And remember, I’m on your side here. And I’m head of HR. What goes in and our of your file goes through me.”
“Somehow that doesn’t reassure me.” one of the others says as he gets up and leaves the room.
And now there are three. HUH? asks HR Guy, “Just tell me now. Am I being named because I’m doing UM’s work, or because of an incident in the bathroom a few weeks ago?”
“Both.” was his apologetic response.
“This is insane and you know it. I’m sympathetic to your position in this, HR Guy, but this is ridiculous. Is it our fault they’re pregnant? It’s bad enough there’s an unwritten, unspoken code that those of us without children get more work dumped on us than our child rearing counterparts, and we’re expected to work late and weekends when others have child responsibilities and can’t work past 4:30 or on weekends. And now this? Do you have any idea the hours two of us worked when DAD was going through the divorce and took off days at time to be with his kids? We were happy to help, but come on, when do the childless get a break? What about unmaternal rights?” HUH? states and leaves the room.
Challenge Six: You'll Be Hearing from Our Lawyer The next day an ominous “confidential” package arrives for everyone named in the complaint.
It is a tome filled with pages of legalese and rhetoric.
MOM, DAD, The OC and HUH? clandestinely meet in a conference room on another floor to look at it together.
MOM proclaims, “None of us are even named until page 39!”
DAD adds, “It all reads very broad and general. Except for the specific complaints against us, HUH? that bathroom thing, what happened?!”
“I used the handicapped stall to change clothes! That’s it! I got out of there, half naked, as soon as she came busting in there puking. There are three other stalls in there she could have used.”
“But she’s pregnant and they’re too small.” MOM adds.
“I understand, but come on, does that really make me an abuser of pregnant women? I felt horrible about it, I felt really bad for her. What about the abuse she hurled at me? I offered to help and she swore at me.”
“Hormones’ll do that to you.” MOM sympathetically offers.
“So we’re supposed to happily suffer verbal abuse while she has nine months of PMS?” HUH? implores.
The OC and DAD flinch at the term PMS.
“It’s not, PMS guys. But if we’re going to make hormone excuses for bad behavior and not doing your job, why stop at pregnancy?” HUH? asks.
MOM dismisses the question and says, “DAD, did you really ask HEM about her breasts?”
“No! Not unsolicited! She was in the break room and I asked her how she was feeling. She said her breasts hurt. I was embarrassed, but it IS HEM, and I remember when my ex wife was pregnant she had a lot of problems with that...so I told her my ex wife found wearing a sports bra helped.”
The other three break out in laughter.
MOM screams, “I’ve never seen HEM wear a bra!”
The men are blushing.
DAD quietly says, “I know, I didn’t think about that until after I said it. I was only trying to help. Now I’m wondering if she’s mad because she thinks I think she should wear a bra, you know, in general.”
“She should!” the other three reply in unison.
“Just wait til she starts breast feeding. She’s going to have those things out all over the place. Word of warning, I wouldn’t go into the break room without taking a good look first.” MOM advises.
“That’s the sort of thinking that got you in trouble, MOM.” HUH? says.
“I’ve had five babies. HEM asked me if I breast pumped at work. And that time with IPD, I mean, she’s the one who ran to catch the elevator. Her baby was bouncing all over the place. I was joking. How many times a day do you think she hears ‘still haven’t had that baby?’ or ‘I hope the elevator doesn’t get stuck again, you don’t want to have that baby in here!’ When is she due, anyway?”
“No kidding, hasn’t she been pregnant for a year or more?” HUH? asks.
The OC interjects. “I think we were singled out because we’re doing UM’s job while she’s out. IPD has obviously been working on this complaint against The Company a long time. Once she found out that we want to hire someone to do UM’s job, and then that we’re doing her job while UM’s gone, she asked HEM and UM about us specifically and turned the incidents to fit her purposes with the complaint.”
“I completely agree. If you ask anyone they’ll tell you IPD has been barking at everyone, and HEM’s been annoying everyone with details of water birthing and flapping those enormous boobs all over the place. We can’t be the only ones who’ve made innocent comments or jokes to them.” MOM offers.
“So what do we do? Is it stupid to get a lawyer? Or should we cover our behinds now before it goes any further?” HUH? asks.
“HR Guy didn’t call us all in and tell us about this just to be fair. I am certain it was a cloaked warning.” The OC says.
“I thought the very same thing.” agrees DAD.
“You really think so? Why are you certain?” HUH? asks.
“Because there’s no reason to mention it if it were all handled and dealt with ‘on a company’ level.” The OC conspiratorally responds.
DAD slams his hand on the table. “That’s it. I’m taking a copy to a lawyer.”
“I’ll pay part of the fee.” MOM offers.
“Me too.” The OC joins.
“Erm, how much do you think we’re talking about? What’s the fee for something like that?” HUH? asks.
“Probably a couple hundred to read it.” DAD guesses.
“Okay, if it’s a couple hundred I’m in. I can’t afford much more than that, though.” HUH? agrees.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Did everyone get their semiautomatic yesterday?
Continuing on the Friends theme...
I saw a friend, yes an at least 10 qualifying points friend, last week.
He is a musician (a real, regular gigs, talented, honest musician). He also happens to be the best makeup artist I've ever seen. His talent is nothing shy of special effects genius. At another job, in another life, when we were both younger, he was the make up guy my agency used exclusively.
If you’ve never been on a photo shoot, I can sum it up thusly: Huge pain in the rump.
Forget everything you've seen on television, in movies or magazines. It's not what you think it is. It's not what the televison, film and publishing industries would have you believe. They make the background stuff look and sound and seem cool or fun or glamorous because they need to feed their egos. With a few notable exceptions, the behind the scenes of photo shoots are tedious, boring, tiring, sagas filled with egos that make Zaphod look humble and down to Earth.
There are two groups of people at photo shoots: Those for whom it is a job, and those for whom it is an Ego on Display fest.
I think you can figure out in which category I fall, and I think you can figure out where my Makeup Artist Friend (MAF) falls.
I’m not makeup challenged, I experiment, I know what works, what doesn’t, what’s worth the money and time and what isn’t, and what’s appropriate for the situation and what is not. (I also have been known to spend entire weekends in no more than sheer gloss and mascara.)
MAF didn’t see me as a “before” or a challenge.
Here is one way to make a friend.
At one of the many long, hot, boring, tedious down times on the shoot when the model was being dressed and the photographer was having a hissy fit, MAF, whom I did not know at the time, and I were sitting on the floor of a dingey studio in a really bad part of town. Everyone else not involved with the dressing or hissy fit were chain smoking or stroking their egos. (Doesn't that sound fun and glamorous?) MAF and I sat there silently. After a really long time he looked up at me and deadpanned, “That Lancome Smoke looks great on you.” and continued on boredly looking at his knee.
And with that a friendship was launched.
When he was broke I’d buy him dinner, drinks, and talk him up to anyone I knew who might need an extraordinary makeup guru. When I had a date or a crisis of spirit, he’d magically appear with his cases of makeup and would give me the pre-release or only to the trade products which were right for me. When he needed a model to try a new technique or color or whatever, I obliged and brought food or alcohol or both.
When he went through a nasty break-up, the death of his mother and loss of a job (and work visa) all within five weeks, he stayed with me. He was miserable. He got through it. Barely.
Here is how friendships fade.
I took a different job. He moved to pursue his music full time. I moved. We kept in touch. He moved. I moved. We fell out of touch.
Here is how fate, destiny and friendship survives.
A few jobs and moves and countries later, I moved here.
We needed a makeup artist for a shoot.
I made the usual calls.
Everyone was busy or not interested, especially at the low rate we were offering.
A colleague said she knew a guy who’d been on tour with a band, just moved here and was looking for some day work to build his book and earn a reputation in this town. She claimed he was a miracle worker who at one of her recent shoots transformed the sunken eyed, drugged out model who showed up late and barely able to walk or speak into a fresh faced glowing girl next door. She gave me his name and number.
You guessed it: MAF.
Imagine the reunion.
It was swell.
We’d both just moved here. Neither of us knew many people here. We were both making changes in our careers and lives. I missed the friends I'd left behind in the move. So did he. We were good for each other at a time when we both really needed a good, local friend.
He very quickly established himself as The Guy to Call for makeup artistry. And got himself signed to regular bookings at a very cool club where he is the musician everyone goes to see.
I, well, I met HWNMNBS and had my job. Not as glamorous or cool as MAF, but still time consuming.
He’s busy. I’m busy.
We see each other every couple of months. Ish.
That's what friends are for.
Sometimes I go to his regular gig without telling him. I come in late, sit in the back and leave early. Just to see him, hear him, support his work without interfering. Sometimes I think he knows I'm there, other times he doesn't. I don't care. I'm there to see him perform, not to be all, "hey, look at me, I'm so cool, I know MAF." I watch and listen to the audience so I can later report to MAF how much they love him or what they didn't respond to well.
When I was showing at a gallery he'd do the same for me.
We used to be each other's date when we were not dating anyone. He owns a few tuxes and some "cool" clothes. I own some swanky dresses and can throw together a "cool" outfit if the issue is forced. Without trying, we act like and appear to be a couple. We both had/have jobs which dictate said attire and dates at certain functions. We're not going to embarrass each other, and we're not going to let the other embarrass themselves. And really, sometimes, that's what these functions come down to: Getting through the evening without embarrassing yourself . Or your company. Or your client. But since he met (his partner) and is all the cute, settled cozy couple he doesn't need me in that capacity as often as he used to. He'll still do it for me, but, well, you know how it is when your friends are coupled up. You could ask, they'd be happy to oblige, but you don't want to impose on their relationship or time with their boy/girlfriend/spouse. Besides, they're an established couple, regularly appearing together in photos in magazines and newspapers and websites. MAF being "seen" out with me at this point would just look like what it is: I couldn't get a date so he took pity on me and obliged to be my escort. Sure, he'd be happy to do it, but for the sake of his own reputatiion I don't ask.
He brings me great makeup and does my makeup for me. “You need to do something about that blush...” and out comes the brush and what I think is the perfect shade I would never have access to if it weren’t for him. (my blush is his life's work. His Cistine Chapel. He's never completely satisfied or happy with it) I allow him the comfort to be the sarcastic, morose, Dorito and cheap gin, goofball from the wrong side of town he is under all those expensive cool clothes and hair.
Friends tell you the thing you don’t want to hear but need to know.
Last week we went for drinks. I did my makeup, really did it, for the first time since The, Ahem, Little Situation. I mean, this was MAF after all. The only man I care about bothering with it all other than HWNMNBS. After a few drinks, a lot of tears, a lot of "why me, why do I have to be so ugly, I’m so sad and lonely and scared," MAF took my hand, looked deep and thoughtfully into my eyes, and said, “Trillian, I love you. You’re too good for him. He’s a fool. You’re beautiful. You shouldn’t change anything. Except....(pause, searching for the right tenderness...) Except your lipstick. It’s time to throw away the Capricious.”
“But...you...I...it’s...” I stammered, stunned and confused by the suggestion.
“I know, I know,” he gently patted me, squeezed my hand tighter, “I know. Sweetie, I know. But it’s time to move on. You can still be friends. You can still wear it sometimes. But it’s time for something new as your regular, day to day color. We always say change is good, right? Well. Change is good, Trillian, and it’s time for you to change. Oh, and I want to fix you up with (his partner’s) brother. He’s tall, rich, an architect and lonely.”
“Whoa, hang on a minute, I’m in no shape for that. A date maybe, but new lip color? No way.”
“Trillian, I’ve been wanting to set you up with him for a long time. (MAF gets me and doesn't get all tripped up on my wit or sarcasm, unike a certain New Girl in the office who is not my friend) No one’s saying you’re both going to fall in love or get married, but I think you two might at least like each other. He’s been hurt, too, he had a nasty divorce a few years ago and took it really hard. I told him about you before, you know, back when you were dating anyone you could find. He was interested in meeting you then. I’ll tell him what you’re going through now so he can decide if he wants to deal with your baggage or not. Just be open to meeting him. Have lunch or drinks or take a walk.”
“Would you date him?” I asked.
“That’s not fair. Don't play that game.” he said way too defensively.
“A ha!” I pointed a suspicious finger at him.
“He’s (his partner’s) brother! He’s hetero! I don’t want to think of him like that!”
“But if he weren’t, if you just met him and he wasn’t (partner’s) brother, would you date him?”
(Sighs deeply) “He’s too butch for me, too much of a guy. He likes rugby and car racing and doesn’t always have a great haircut. But he’s nice and funny and smart and artsy sometimes, too.”
“Sometimes?”
“Yes, sometimes. And sometimes you like baseball and hockey. Need I remind you?”
“Yeah, but not as a way of life.”
“Trillian. Just meet him.”
"I don't think so. I'm not ready.You see me, you've been listening to me for an hour and a half, you know this is a bad idea."
"I know you need to meet some new people. Single people with no kids who don't live in the suburbs."
"I can't argue that. Fine. Ask him. But tell him everything so he can make an informed decision."
Friends take control when you are not able.
Yesterday MAF gave me a totally new palette of makeup, the works. And the phone number of the tall, butch, rich, lonely architect with a bad haircut who likes rugby and who apparently doesn’t care that I am emotionally crippled and not interested in attempting a rebound.
When I got home, all hopped up high on my fabulous new fall look, I thought, “Okay. Fine. I’ll call the guy. I’ll try. I’ll make efforts. I know I’m not ready, I know this isn’t the time for me to be doing this. It’s just a phone call. No one says we have to even meet in person. It’s just a phone call. MAF told him about The, Ahem, Little Situation and he’s okay with it. He knows I’m as is, damaged goods, no warranty, past the sell-by date, a demo model, out of the package, no box and no instructions. Buyer beware.”
I called him. He wasn’t home. I left a message. He returned my call an hour later.
We talked about very surface stuff, very briefly.
We’re having lunch tomorrow.
There.
Happy? I’m trying. Against my better judgment, I’m meeting a new guy, I’m getting out, I’m trying.
Because of a friend.
Painted on smile. Literally and figuratively.
(Print and carefully cut out around edges, tape or glue to your face when you need to paste on a smile, too! Or test my new lip color on yourself! If you like it, write for the recipe and how to!)
Monday, September 13, 2004 Record Straightening, Seeking Redemption
I didn't mean to offend anyone or start a big controversy about "What is a friend?"
I realize there are people who go through life completely unscathed, without angst, sadness, job loss, children issues, parent issues, pet issues, partner issues, financial issues, orthodontics...they have friends and they are friends. Just because their lives and their friends' lives are one long prozac moment and they never need each other for anything other than companionship at the cookout or a teammate on the bowling league doesn't mean they're any less of a friend.
The point was: Would you, if the need arose, spring into friend action without thought or hesitation? Do you know someone who would do that for you? There's a difference between people you know casually and friends.
Friend is not a term which should be thrown around without thought of what it means. That's all I was trying to say.
And the bigger issue. I was remiss and I apologize to many of you. I am really, really sorry for what may have seemed like neglect of a very important facet of life: E friends and the blog community.
People belong to web rings, user groups, online forums, chat rooms...and are making connections and good friends there. Yes, most times they never meet face to face, but they're sharing a common interest or conversation or recipes or whatever and yes, yes, YES they're friends.
Many of you have been tremendously kind and supportive of me not only with the current HWNMNBS crisis, but with your funny, wise, insightful, inspired comments on my posts or completely unrelated subjects prior to That, Ahem, Little Situation.
If you take a look at the list of friend qualifiers many of you will realize that I can easily and without hesitation answer "Yes, I know someone who has done this for me" because of you.
E friends and blog people, well, that's a whole other blog. In the years I've been blogging I have been enriched and humored and educated and entertained by some incredible people I would have otherwise never met if it weren't for blogs. We have that instant "click" I was talking about.
And the people who read this, apart from the H8ers, well, I mean, you're all really swell and I would be honored to call you a friend. I would never presume to do as much, to take that liberty, (see yesterday's post for why) but you, and you know who you are (or are not) can call me a friend and call upon me for any of the mentioned friend qualifiers. It will be difficult for me to, you know, come to your aid with food, alcohol, medication, a really ugly dress and matching shoes or a shoulder to cry on, but I will be there in spirit. And honestly? If you really needed me, I would come to your aid with any of the aforementioned live, in person. Those are not just pretty words. As much as I keep things nice and anonymous so nobody gets hurt, I would break that Rule of the Blog for you. Yes. I do care about you and it would be fantastic if we could all get together and have some drinks (pop for the under 18's, I'm your friend but I'm not doing time, sorry). Maybe someday. Until then, yes, your friend, your pal, your can't get her swut together friend with an ironic (but artistic) black cloud following her around is thankful and appreciative for every one of you. (Even the H8ers in their own weird way.)
I hope that clears up any misconceptions, puts me back in good graces and serves as redemption for my friendly soul.
