Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Friday, March 12, 2004 The Big Day The moment I've been waiting for since July 21, 2003.
I'm wearing heels.
I'm not talking 4.5" spike Jimmy Choos here.
But.
Real, 2.5" heels nonetheless.
So rapt with anticipation about this day was I that I didn't even perform my usual balk at the sensible nature of these particular heels.
Yes.
They are sensible, sturdy 2.5" heels.
Supporting sensible, sturdy shoes.
Yeah. I know. A bit of a departure for me.
Still.
I'm pretty darned excited about it.
Though the catalyst hastening my move back into heels is not something I would wish on anyone.
I didn't think I was ready. I've been making futile attempts at home. I do not yet have the balance and confidence in my steps required to wear heels.
Then it happened.
A horrible thing happened to the parents of a very close friend and I needed to find shoes acceptable to wear to a memorial service for her parents.
And no. She wouldn't care what shoes I wear.
I hear you: How could you be so callous, so, so, what's the word? How could you think about shoe shopping when your dear friend's parents have died?
I didn't think about it.
At first.
But as I threw clothes into a suitcase, it hit me: I'm representing my friend.
Friend won't care what I'm wearing, least of all my shoes.
However.
This is a very small, conservative Southern town. Her parents were pillars and extremely well known and respected in the community.
Other people will notice. And some will care.
Apart from the convention, respect, decorum and good manners my parents instilled in me regarding these sort of events (all already well taken into consideration) it hit me that this was a very, very, very, very best clothes and personal presentation event. (And yes, of course, all memorials/funerals are, stay with me here.) I grew up in very small towns. I've heard about Southern small towns. I know how people are. I am going to be the only representative of Friend's friends. The entire town, or most of it, will likely be in attendance. And they will be scrutinizing Friend's friend. Checking me out, seeing if Friend is maintaining the respectable life her parents gave her. Upholding and honoring the family respectability. She did go off to those big cities. She did marry "that" man. She's had several jobs, you know. I heard she even (whisper whisper shocked but knowing furtive glance)!
Say whatever you want, tell yourself it doesn't matter, but hear me now, believe me later: People do notice. And, however wrongly, people do judge those sort of things at funerals. And no, what those sort of people think doesn't matter, really, but, out of respect for Friend, the very least I can do is try.
So I suddenly felt pressured and duty bound to turn out in the best, appropriate to the button clothes. And no, it's not as if I were throwing any old thing in the suitcase. It's just that I caught myself. I double checked everything I was packing. It was partially a diversionary tactic to take my mind off Friend's distress. Off the horrible tragedy. Away from facing that which nothing in life can prepare you. That I will admit. I was concentrating on small details instead of The Big Stuff. Small details I can manage. The Big Stuff of the tragedy, and more immediate and important: my friend's distress, well, that could wait to be sorted on the trip there.
Task at hand: What to pack? Ultra conservative. Ultra black (but not too black). Ultra "good" fabric. Ultra above reproach. Ultra something the richest and most uptight lady in town would wear to church. Skirt the exact appropriate unrevealing length: Check. Slit not too high? Check. Jacket not too figure enhancing: Check (Does she even have boobs?, people will wonder). Ultra good blouse: Check. (I know. When was the last time you wore a blouse under a suit? Me either. But I know it's de rigueur in certain circles in small towns. When in Rome.) Tasteful earrings: Check. Good coat: Check. Handkerchiefs Mum gave me when I was 12: Check. Good hat: Check. Minimizer bra: Check. Perfect shade of hose: Triple Check, two new pair, one worn once and still okay as back-up. 2" conservative black heels? Swut. No check. Surely somewhere in this apartment full of hundreds of pairs of shoes are a pair of black 2" heels I can wear long enough to get through the memorial service and post-service dinner.
I have them. Oh do I have them. But none I own have so far passed the "I can stand and walk in these!" test.
Mad dash at lunch the next day, mere hours before I had to leave, to procure something, anything, to wear that will pass as conservative heels but in which I won't fall trying to walk more than four steps.
I've been eying a pair of kitten heels (in black, of course, not red, sheesh, what were you thinking?). I thought maybe, maybe I could wear them. I've really been eying these, but they are completely wrong, completely, utterly wrong for this event. Not that it would have mattered.
It's been a while since I've worn kitten heels. They haven't exactly been "in" for a while. (Not that that has ever once stopped me from wearing anything. a-hem, is it hot in here? Or is it my faux Pashmina?)
I forgot the evil little game kitten heels play. They seduce women the world over with their low yet sexy heel. Luring us in, taunting us with practicality and comfort. Teasing us with their cute little spike. "We're low, but not your gran's Clarks!" they whisper.
They are: The Lolita of the shoe world. They're small, fresh, stylish and look oh so innocent.
But inside rage the dangerous untamed fires of grown-up sexuality.
You get taken in by their innocence, and then they show their real nature. When it's too late. And the damage is done.
I nearly re-broke my ankle and a few other body parts attempting those little numbers.
I forgot how unsturdy those heels are. I forgot how weird they feel. I forgot how there is absolutely nothing immediately under your heel. (if you've never worn kitten heels and have no clue what I'm talking about, zoom and pan in on the heel, where it is connected to the shoe. Notice how it abruptly curves in an inch or more, undulating to a tiny little spike of a point. The problem as I see it lies in the trigonometry of the design. If more shoe designers grasped basic trigonometry and physics principles we'd all be the better for it.) I forgot they are nearly impossible to walk in and maintain any sort of a regular, confident stride.
I lost my balance, my ankle buckling under the first step I took.
I was overconfident.
And over tired, and over emotionally wrought from conversations with beyond consolation friend. For the first time in my life, shoe shopping was a slap dash, "just give me whatever you've got" experience. All I cared about was getting something appropriate to wear of the funeral of my dear friend's parents and getting the swut out of there.
Fortunately I caught myself on the chair before any physical damage was done. The bitches who laughed at me, who didn't even attempt to stifle their giggles or ask if I was okay, the ones trying on these can get caught on all those straps, fall off those 4" heels and rot in Hell for all I care.
Pride goeth before a fall. Though it doesn't go as quickly as you'd like when you're falleth-ing trying on shoes in a shoe department full of on their lunch hour women.
But they're conservative enough for a memorial service. In a very small town. In the South. And they're heels. And they're mine. And I can wear them and walk in them. I'm sure someone in that small town, one or two women, probably the ones from the country club, will notice and comment that a more standard 2" heeled pump would have been in order. Perhaps even a kitten heel, dear.
To them I do say, perched atop my sensible shoes: "Like it matters, you small town, small minded, shallow... There's been a terrible tragedy. Two people have died. Your friends have died. Their daughter, my Friend is suffering here, suffering. I'll wear lime green trimmed Polo poseur sneakers if I swutting feel like it."
Coming Clean Thursday Confessional
I did a bad, bad thing.
I'm generally good about not doing bad, bad things.
I know by avoiding bad, bad things I will avoid a lot of problems and hassle in my life.
I have good on-board instincts and intuition.
I generally pay attention to them.
And don't do bad, bad things.
My instincts and intuition have never once steered me wrong.
Never.
In fact, they've always steered me right. Especially in hind-site.
"Thank the Universe for my instinct on that one! Saved myself a lot of hassle and problems!" I will say to no one in particular, smugly patting myself on the back.
My instincts and intuition, coupled with a pretty darned good set of perception tools, have also benefited friends and family, steered a few hapless souls back onto the highway and even kept them from detouring in the first place.
Yeah, thanks, you're welcome, but really, it's a gift, and I'm happy to share it.
Just so you know I'm only human after all, I'm admitting to the Universe I did a Bad, Bad Thing.
Because when it comes to a certain someone, I am deaf, mute and blind to my instincts and intuition.
Stupid, too.
I was going to stay quiet about this, out of embarrassment for being so stupid, and also to spare the Universe another bout of "this." (Feel free to say, "Oh swut, not "this" again.)
Perhaps someone out there will benefit from my wayward ways.
Because in the end, that's what I do: Observe and report. Put myself through a lot of really stupid things so you don't have to.
You're welcome.
And also because I deserve the biggest, loudest, hands on hips, eyes rolling, "oh not again" sighing, "I TOLD YOU SO YOU BELGIUMING JUJUFLUB!" you and the Universe can yell at me. (yes, bold, italic and ALL CAPS are completely necessary in this case. That's how strongly, emphatically I deserve this.)
Maybe next time, if there is a next time, because I am stupid when it comes to a certain someone, a someone who's name shall not be spoken, I will always do a Bad, Bad Thing, but maybe next time that screaming "I TOLD YOU SO YOU BELGIUMING JUJUFLUB" will still be echoing somewhere in my inner ears and I will at least hesitate, not be as deaf to my instincts and intuition.
Does it matter that I admit I am weak and stupid?
Yeah. I know. Probably not. It mattered way back when, when a certain someone first lured me in then treated me like last week's compost. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on Trillian.
When I do Bad, Bad Things, and problems arise, I know I have no one to blame but myself. And I don't go looking for pity or solutions. I know I must look within myself for the answers, for the way back to the highway.
Which is what I am trying to do now.
Bear with me here.
As most of you know, I am the reigning Queen of Being Hit When I'm Down, so I will just throw this on the heap of other things I'm dealing with right now. A little angst in the mix will add an interesting flavor. This is just another major personal crisis with HWNMNBS. Oh swut. Excuse me while I go sob for a few minutes.
Back. Sorry. This one's big. I can't even type his swutting acronym without crying.
All completely and totally my fault.
He's proven he cannot be trusted.
But this time seemed different.
I know.
It always seems different.
It never is you pathetic loser.
Chump.
Sucker.
This time it really did, okay?
Just like the last time it seemed different? And the time before that?
Look, you don't know us. You don't know all the subtle intricacies. Cut me a little slack.
Whatever. You're beyond Oprah and sliding toward Jerry Springer. Just so you know. Even Dr. Phil won't touch you now. You clearly don't want to help yourself.
And that is the lesson you can learn from my intuition and instinct detour off the galactic highway: Second chances, new beginnings, fresh starts, do overs...whatever you want to call them, can, indeed work out. I have seen it happen. I know this to be true.
But.
Do not let the triumphs of other people's situations cloud your vision of the truth of your personal situation. Particularly if it involves you doing something you know, even in your most deaf, mute, blind and stupid moments, is a Bad, Bad Thing.
You will go into it thinking, "What the swut, I can't hurt any more than I already do, what have I got to lose?"
I fell prey to this logic.
Beware.
It's a trap.
A black hole.
Quickly steer away. There's a nice little pub just up there on the left. The far left of that big swirling black hole from which you are steering away.
You have more to lose than you can ever realize. That type of "what have I got to lose" logic is skewed.
But you can't know that, that's why I'm telling you. That logic is logic from Normal World, from the safety of Before the Bad, Bad, Thing.
Because that black hole is deeper than you can imagine.
It will take you millions of miles out of your way.
That is if you are even able to find your way back.
If you do, you will be changed, altered in ways not necessarily for the better. You'll be you, sort of, but a different version. You: V. 2.1
(or in my case, Trillian: V. 6.66, the doomed and damned because she did a bad, bad thing)
You will try to hide it, try to cover for yourself (anyone ever see The Astronaut's Wife?) but everyone will notice. They won't all realize what it is, some may ask if you got your hair cut or if you've lost weight or hey, are those new shoes?, but they'll know. Especially your friends and family.
Some of them will be too kind, too compassionate about "your little situation" to come right out and say, "Enough already, I told you so! How many times are you going to allow him to do this to you? When are you going to wake up and face this situation for what it is? HOPELESS! How many months, years of your life are you going to devote to this? Because let me tell you, you're getting old, you don't have that many good years left. You might be able to salvage something if you Stop. This. Right. Now. Today. Otherwise, you're lost, forever."
Which is what your really good friends will say to you. They will say this because they are fed up, tired and sick of hearing about it, or even knowing that it's going on. (They know. Your silence and "sly" faking it aren't fooling anyone.) They will say this because it's for your own good. Because unlike a certain someone, they really care about you.
Don't get mad at them.
You probably won't.
Because that's what happens in that black hole. The newly emerged version of you comes with self loathing and contempt upgrades. And whole new guilt and humility components. There are also acute self awareness, shame and isolation downloads. You will sit there, fully agreeing with your most caring friends and family, but knowing you are deep in it, that there is no way you are able to Stop. This. Right. Now. Today. Even though you know that's exactly what you should do. And because you will feel stupid, pathetic and weak because you can't Stop. This. Right. Now. Today. you will be ashamed to face your friends.
And you will sit, in the fetal position, night after night, rocking, and wondering why, why, why must you suffer, why did you do that Bad, Bad Thing? Why was I so stupid?
You will think about how you came to your decision, you will knowingly shake your head replaying the moment of decision when you thought, "I can't hurt any more than I already do, I've got nothing to lose."
You will look back on that moment, that decision, those days before the Bad, Bad Thing when you thought you couldn't hurt anymore, as being filled with relative mirth and enlightenment.
This black hole leaves micro particulated cosmic dust in your pores. It burns and stings and the more you try to wash it off you, the deeper into you it gets.
Oh.
And.
The Universe will mock you with deep and profound irony. Irony the likes of which you cannot imagine. Irony so ironic it's ironic irony.
And the forest will echo with laughter.
Just observing and reporting here, folks.
And warning you, for your own good, do not do that bad, bad thing.
If I can spare even one of you from the after effects, it will have been worth it. Stay safely in your relative Normal World, in the safety of The Days Before The Bad, Bad Thing.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004 Reality Wednesday
Promotion!
(part II)
Scene opens with The Employee and The New Boss in the New Boss' office.
New Boss:
"So, yeah, see, here's the deal. Human Resources Director finally got sick of me nagging him and has approved your promotion. Congratulations."
"I, um, don't know what to say," The Employee says rather offhandedly, "after waiting all these years this moment seems rather anticlimactic." (to the camera: Of course I know what to say, but trying to maintain dignity and more decorum than this moron, I kept my mouth shut. Because what could I say? Especially when prefaced HR Director finally got sick of being nagged. Couldn't she have at least lied and said something like, 'I'm sorry this took so long, but after all these years your patience, which we appreciate, has paid off, your efforts, creative genius and hard work have not gone unnoticed, your promotion has been approved.' How easy would it be to spit out some standard HR pabulum?! But no! This woman credits her nagging personality as the reason for my promotion. Doesn't exactly instill me with gratitude and motivation...
"It's been a long wait for you. And that new office in the new building when we move will be so nice!" New Boss enthuses.
"Yeah, that'll be great. I can really use more space. As you know I've been lobbying for new equipment, we need to upgrade just about everything before The Big Projects next month. " The Employee tries to sound excited, steering the topic away from the very long, years long, wait for her promotion, a wait that when she allows herself to think about it, insults her deeply.
"Oh yes!" New Boss enthuses even more enthusiastically, "I signed off on those requests, they have been accepted!"
"No 'challenges' with the expense? That's a lot of money to spend - especially those G-5's." The Employee ponders out loud.
"None at all, Senior Manager supports all new technology requests. He knows how important it is for us to have the most current technology. Have to stay current!" New Boss, enthuses even more, on the apparent verge of orgasm.
A bit afraid of a enthusiasm overload, The Employee changes the subject, "So, is my title the same or was it revised?"
To the camera The Employee explains, I don't give a swut about my title. Titles mean nothing to me. What I really want to know is what sort of pay increase I'm looking at with this promotion. But I thought it would be a good idea to gently steer the conversation in that direction.
"Oh yes! You are now Senior Creative Driving Force and Manager! I wrote that!" New Boss proudly exclaims.
"Okay. Let me just make a note of that so I get it write when I order my new business cards." The Employee says dryly.
To the camera, She wrote that? What the swut does that mean? 'I wrote that...' I'm already the only Creative Driving Force of the Company, there is no junior Creative Driving Force of the Company. And manager of what or whom? I manage a few people, in that I administer their reviews, but what say we spell out what and/or whom it is I manage in my official title? This is why I hate titles. They are always ambiguous, open ended HR babble speak. They never, ever mean anything and rarely imply what a person actually does all day.
New Boss, hedging, slightly, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, "Now, of course there will be no pay increase involved with this, it's viewed as a lateral promotion. We're doing this to keep your grade level competitive to the industry..."
"Whoa. Hold on there. Wait a minute. It is a grade level promotion, correct?" The Employee, now re-focusing on the real issue and not the ambiguous job title.
"Oh yes, yes! A whole grade level promotion!" New Boss exclaims, very proudly.
"So it's not lateral." The Employee confirms, trying to sort out the illogic of what she's been told.
"No, it's viewed as a lateral promotion. Your not changing, your position is." New Boss explains, as if she's speaking to a 3-year-old.
"'Lateral promotion' is an oxymoron. It's either a lateral, meaning sideways, no change, move, or a promotion, meaning upward, big change move. One or the other. Not both at the same time. The terms are diametric opposites." The Employee somewhat sarcastically counter explains, holding back her speaking to a 3-year-old tone. "And if my position has been changed, and I'm expected to change with that position, it sounds like I'm changing right along with the position."
"Well, no, not really, you'll basically be doing the same things you always do. This is just to make the position competitive with the industry outside of The Company." New Boss, now taking on a more shrill, I really can't be bothered with this tone.
"Just so we're both clear: My position is getting a grade level 'advancement' which is being viewed as a lateral move for me, the actual person in the position being promoted, and therefore, I will not be receiving an increase in pay." The Employee sarcastically spells out to New Boss.
"That's right! Exactly!" New Boss enthuses, completely missing The Employee's sarcasm.
To the camera, The Employee further explains, This exact maneuver happened to a friend of mine here at The Company a few years ago. What this grade level position jockeying does is pave the way for the next person in the position to be hired at an industry competitive salary. It gives The Company hiring power, salary negotiation wiggle room to entice a potential employee into the position. This of course means the existing employee in that position has quit. Probably because they weren't making an industry competitive salary. So my position got a big fat juicy promotion and pay raise should The Company need to hire someone to replace me. While I, an existing employee, get nothing except an ambiguous title. Oh, and in my case a slightly larger office when The Company moves in a few months. And yes, that will be nice, because I need the extra space for new equipment...get that irony - she has no problem, The Company has no problem spending thousands of dollars on new equipment, which, let's face it, would be really nice but not completely necessary for another year or two, and yet they can't cough up even an extra $20 a pay check for an employee's promotion. Oh yeah. The Employee hasn't been promoted, her position has. And about that office: I happen to know the coordinator for the move, and I happen to know they have a surplus of higher grade level sized offices and not enough lower grade level sized offices. I can't help but find the timing of my position's promotion suspicious.
"You know," New Boss conspiratorially summons The Employee, "this happened to me once, I got a promotion and no extra money."
"So then you know how angry I am!" The Employee herself enthuses, thinking finally some logic will prevail.
"Well, there are intrinsic benefits, higher esteem, and that bigger office..." New Boss tries to enthuse.
"So, uh, how long did you stay in that job, after you were promoted without a pay increase?" The Employee asks, trying to sound innocent.
"Oh not long, a few months, until I could find another job." New Boss openly admits, falling straight into The Employee's trap.
"So the intrinsic benefits, the higher esteem, weren't enough to keep you in the new position?" The Employee further prods, taking on a more innocent tone.
Sensing something askew but not sure what, New Boss answers, "I wasn't happy there anyway, it was time for me to move on, even if I had got more pay I wouldn't have stayed."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," The Employee agrees. "Well. Thanks. It's been a long wait. Four years. I can't believe my position finally got that promotion. All my hard work, long hours and creativity finally paid off for my position."
New Boss chuckles, "And your sense of humor!"
The Employee gets up to leave New Boss' office.
New Boss, while popping a piece of gum in her mouth, holds up a hand in "Stop!" motion.
Mumbling over her newly inserted piece of gum, chewing it with her mouth wide open (what is that gum? Didn't they quit making Bubble Yum 20 years ago?) "Amout chore mew moffice. Mares no murniture."
"I'm sorry, what?" The Employee asks, baffled, thinking she heard 'there's no furniture.'
Chomping and sucking her gum, "They ordered the furniture (chomp suck chomp) last year. Your position hadn't been upgraded so they didn't (suck suck chomp) order furniture for it."
"Well, I guess I don't mind, I actually like my current desk and chair anyway." The Employee sincerely admits.
"That's the problem. You were going to get new furniture (chomp chomp) in your old new office, so they already sold your current furniture. They aren't ordering new furniture for two years." New Boss explains.
"So, what does this mean, exactly? That I have an empty, but larger office?" The Employee asks.
"Yeah! Isn't that a scream!" New Boss enthuses.
"A veritable riot," The Employee deadpans, figuring what's coming next.
"So you might have to just sit in the old new office until they get furniture in your new new office." New Boss quickly relays The Employee's premonition.
"Right then. After waiting four years, I got a 'lateral promotion' which means not a penny more money for me, though My position got a raise, I have a new job title which doesn't actually say what I do, the only perk in any of this for me is that since my position gets a larger office I get to go along for the ride. However, there is no furniture for the new larger office, so I'll be sitting in a lower grade level office until there is furniture, which might be two years from now. So basically, I'm getting nothing out of this promotion except some as yet undefined intrinsic benefits. This is quite a day!" The Employee, really, really angry, says, no longer concealing her sarcasm or hostility, and walks out of New Boss' office without waiting for a response.
She returns to her office and closes her door. Something she rarely does. She doesn't like the signal it sends, she likes to be seen as "available" to anyone who might need her help or expertise. She is not available right now, in any sense of the word.
"I really could cry over this. I am almost in tears. Not because I had any real expectations of more money or long deserved credit for what I do around here, but because I find all of it insulting. I would have been far better off without a promotion, to have just gone on waiting, because now I am incredibly demoralized, something I already fight every day. I want to care about my job, I really do, but this is just ridiculous. It's a farce, with me as the butt of the joke. There's really no other way to view this. 'Intrinsic benefits' are not going to pay my rent, feed the cat or pay for my broken tooth. Oh swut, I just remembered, I have to call payroll, something about my insurance deductions."
HR manager.
"We got through that one - just barely! Good old 'lateral promotion,' gets 'em every time. We very nearly had to cough up some extra money with that deal. The old position tactic played out well, too. Ironically, our benefits administrator just told me there was a glitch with The Employee's payroll deductions, she hasn't paid for any of her insurance for three pay periods! I hope she hasn't had any medical expenses in the past six weeks, she hasn't been covered!"
More Hurdles for The Employee! Benefits Manager
Cut to another office in Human Resources. "Look, it's not my fault. I coordinate employee benefits. Insurance, 401K, rental car discounts... That's what I do. I don't handle payroll. But if the Payroll department makes a mistake with benefit deductions, all of a sudden it's my problem."
Cut to the Payroll department, a woman on the telephone looks up from her desk, "Yeah, I'm on hold. Have a seat. The Employee? There's an interesting case. Her senior manager didn't get his First of the Year payroll statement in on time, so we couldn't calculate the new year payroll with the rest of The Company. Because it was two weeks late, that department's payroll for the new year had to be done the old fashioned way, on the old system. Caused a lot of work and challenges. The Employee's benefit deductions appeared to be taken from her check, but in reality, were not. Complicating the issue is that she changed her health insurance provider, so she had different deductions this year. Basically it came to our attention we did not deduct her health and dental and disability insurance payments from her paycheck for three pay periods. No big deal, we're just going to take all the back payments from her next check, that will bring her current. It's going to be a big bite out of her paycheck. And of course technically she hasn't had benefits for six weeks. But I don't handle that, I don't know anything about that. I don't do benefits. I manage payroll."
Cut back to The Employee's office. She is on the phone. We hear her side of the conversation.
"What do you mean I haven't had insurance for six weeks! It doesn't matter that I've got it now, I just spent a night in hospital! I had a bunch of tests! OH SWUT! I had major dental work done two weeks ago! Does this mean those claims will be denied?! Do I have to pay for the hospital and dental bills I accrued during the past six weeks?!"
Cut to the Benefits Coordinator.
"Yes, technically the benefits portion of this is our fault. I've talked to The Employee's insurance providers, told them what happened, straightened out the whole thing. There might be some paperwork and lapse in communication, The Employee might receive some staggering bills, but she doesn't have to worry about them. I've got it all straightened out with her insurance providers."
Watching this on a replay, The Employee says, "Yeah, like I trust her or anything she says, she's the one who dropped my insurance because Payroll didn't make the deductions. She's the one in HR, seems like something like missing payroll deductions would set off a signal or two to check into it on the employee's behalf. Yes. I should have been more diligent with my pay stubs. And I was watching them. They were different amounts every paycheck. I knew things were going to change with my new insurance, so I figured that was the extra amount in my check. My new insurance isn't as good, doesn't cover as much. I thought my payroll deduction would be less, and that's why I thought my paychecks were higher.
"And no, it's not a ton of money, I guess...but to have all the back payments taken out of one check, well, it adds up! It's going to be a lean couple of weeks around my place. Even more lean than usual. Turns out my new insurance costs more than my old, better coverage insurance. Go figure. My biggest concern is that I'll get stuck paying for my dental and hospital bills. I wish I could laugh at the coincidence and irony that I've never had one dental problem, and the day I get a major dental problem I find out I have no dental insurance. Ditto my bout of pneumonia. Tell me I'm not cursed. Or damned. Try to prove to me I'm not. Because right now that's the only explanation I can see for any of this."
We close on The Employee, on the phone with the Human Resources Manager. As we fade out we hear her say, "Am I the first employee you know of who has been given a promotion and actually had money taken out of her paycheck?"
Right. Moving on, in sports, The Indy Ice have a new player. Somehow, Ms. Harding and Indiana seem made for each other...
Tonya Harding back on the ice
It's girls like Tonya who give the rest of us female hockey players a bad rep. Still, what with her experience in masterminding the "sticking" of Nancy Kerrigan she might be well suited to the rough and tumble less than professional minor hockey league. The "my skate is laced wrong" excuse, however, will never fly with the boys.
But her arrival has sparked a lot of office politics and petty infighting.
I think she is oblivious to the gossip and ill-will she has created.
Which is good. Like I said, she seems okay to me.
It's not her fault my (insert new negative adjective) Boss made up a job, title and description in order to hire the New Girl.
It's not her fault her mother is best friends with (insert new negative adjective) Boss.
It's not her fault we had several other vacancies which needed urgent filling before even contemplating hiring someone for a completely new position.
It's not her fault my office is staffed with people who never emotionally or socially advanced past grade 7.
The "problem" as I see it?
She's cool.
We know this because on her first day of work she was invited to sit with the other cool kids at the cool table at lunch in the corner conference room.
This is a huge signal to the rest of my office that there's trouble a brewin'.
The cool lunch table group has bothered me since I began working here.
This little lunch click, invades and takes over the small corner conference room every day from 12:15 - 2:00. Even the convene times are secret, it's slightly different every day.
The weird thing, well, one of the weird things, and the thing that bothers me about the cool lunch table group is that everyone in the office abides and respects the cool kids lunch in the corner conference room.
To the point there have been bona fide meetings held in lesser, inferior conference rooms to accommodate the cool kids' lunch schedule. Meetings that should have been held in the nice corner conference room but were relegated to that stuffy interior conference room that smells like stale fish if the doors are left closed for too long. All because of the cool kids' lunch routine.
The cool kids themselves are, in my eyes, a pathetic bunch of middle aged has beens who never were. Losers. I am quite certain these kids were never at the cool table when they were in school. And apparently they have been carrying issues over this for a lot of years and are trying to compensate for it by forming a little unspoken, secret handshake, secret code, secret convene time lunch clique.
I have laughed at this little group. Made jokes about them. (some of them pretty darned funny, if I do say so myself) And thoroughly dismissed all of them and their little lunch thing as an utter joke.
But other people in my office feel differently. I think maybe they, too, have some unresolved lunch table issues. That these cool kids, with their secret convene times, their shared jokes, their just a little too loud (and annoying) laughter, represent social acceptance.
A few years ago, mustering up all her courage and social fortitude, one brave woman dared to join the group. She laid in wait with her Subway sub. When she saw the cool kids convening, she pulled a very clever manoeuvre. "Oh, are you guys eating now? I'm taking a late lunch, I was going to slip into the conference room..." she said, trying to sound as innocent and nonchalant as possible to one of the coolest kids. (Sadly, I saw and overheard this pathetic attempt at social ladder climbing.)
The cool kid was put on the spot. This was a first. No one had ever tried to infiltrate, interlope, or interfere, uninvited, with the cool lunch group. No one ever dared to use the conference room between 12:15 - 2:00.
NO ONE.
Until that day.
The cool kid didn't say anything, just kept walking. So the two, the cool kid and the infiltrator, were walking side by side into the conference room. Infiltrator sat down and spread out her Subway. The cool kid hemmed and hawed. Two other cool kids appeared. They were taken aback to see the infiltrator. Looks were exchanged. It was too late to change the time: Food had been microwaved. The other cool kids were already on their way.
And so, that one day, a not very cool kid infiltrated the cool kids' lunch.
She doesn't talk about it much. Everyone badgered her for details.
"What's it like in there at lunch? I bet the view is really great about 1:00. Is it? Huh, is it a really great view at 1:00?"
"What do they eat?"
"I bet it's really cool food, really expensive stuff, like from Fox and Obel."
"Yeah, or leftovers from really great restaurants. Were there any neato leftovers? They're always better the next day. What'd they have, huh? Where was it from?"
"Did anyone have a Lean Cuisine or anything like that?"
"Is Tina doing Atkins? Did she eat a lot of meat and cheese?"
"What do they talk about? Did they talk about us?"
"Do you think they'll let you sit with them again? Are you one of them now?"
Infiltrator has never gone back.
I think it's because she knows she had her chance. You only get one go at something like that. She tried to prove she could be cool, showed them what she had, and now she's quietly, patiently waiting for her invitation to permanently join the cool kids lunch group.
Which is why she is the most hurt and vocal about New Girl being accepted and invited into the inner cool circle ON HER VERY FIRST DAY AT WORK.
Even more disconcerting to those who care, New Girl was invited, happily joined, a birthday celebration lunch, held at a secret location, for one of the cool kids lunch group.
These birthday events sometimes allow for special one time only invites. If one of the cool kids has people who work for them, for instance, some of those employees may (or may not, there are no guarantees) be invited to join at the off site lunch venue. These events are kept hush-hush, the only way to know they are taking place is to realize the corner conference room is empty from 12:15 - 2:00 PM. Oh. And. They make a huge production upon returning to the office. They are jubilant from their off site celebration. Usually a bit boisterous. Frequently drunk.
New Girl, her second week of work, and firmly established as a cool kid, was naturally part of a birthday lunch celebration for a cool kid.
The issue? Two of the birthday girl's employees were NOT invited. One of whom WAS invited last year. New Girl does not work for the birthday girl cool lunch kid, not even remotely affiliated by function. (though no one is actually certain what New Girl's job function is, so that could be debated) And yet, she went to the birthday celebration while last year's cool kid for day employee of the birthday girl was not invited.
The rebuffed birthday girl staffer and The Infiltrator don't understand the cool kid lunch table concept. You've got it or you don't. They are doomed to spend her life unfulfilled because they don't get it. They think there's a queue, a system of acceptance. They thought they were next in line to be invited to permanently join the cool kids because they proved her worthiness.
Or so they thought.
Now they're confused. And hurt. They think perhaps they were deemed unworthy, after all. Or, easier on their egos, that New Girl is a shiny new toy the cool kids wanted to be the first to play with, and so she was moved ahead in the queue, that she took their place in line, their spot at the cool kids' table.
Because now, there are no more empty seats a the cool kids' lunch table in the "nice" corner conference room. Someone will have to quit, be fired or die before anyone new will have a chance at joining the cool kids' lunch clique.
There is already talk murmuring around the office, among the lower, uncool kids ranks.
Talk about our new office.
Our company is moving in May.
There's talk that there are more and bigger conference rooms.
This could change the cool lunch kids' dynamic.
Or not.
Me? I don't care. I merely observe and report. I've never sat with the cool kids. Never wanted to, never will. I'm not a joiner. I am loathe to these sort of gatherings if for no other reason than I don't want to explain what I'm eating. Tofu and veggie burgers are difficult concepts for devout carnivores to comprehend. And I don't want to have to see and smell various animals dressed up in various disguises and consumed. Particularly when the disguise is Tuna Surprise (I'll clue you in: The surprise is that most tuna is not, in fact, dolphin safe, and most of it contains enough mercury to kill a small colony of lab rats.) Besides, I've always been a bit of a rebel that way. I have no unfulfilled lunch clique issues. I find it sad that other people do.
Particularly because the cool kids are losers. No one who aspires to their lunch group actually likes them.
But that's always the way it is with cool lunch table kids.
Take them out of the lunch room, away from their clique, and they're not interesting. Not people one would seek out for friendship or insight. (To wit: one guy wears blue jeans styled like dress slacks. I suspect there are elastic inserts in the sides of the waistband. And they never fade. They're that kind of denim that maintains the exact hue it had when purchased 12 years ago. He also wears those Rockport sneakers posing as dress shoes. Yes. He's a casual day poseur. 'Nuff said. Except: He also has an annoying laugh. (a unifying theme among the cool lunch table kids))
New Girl doesn't seem like the cool lunch table kind of person. I think she unwittingly joined in when she was invited, thinking it the polite thing to do. But now that she's there she seems to be settling in nicely.
There is one thing about her that bothers me. She's one of those people who, instead of laughing, says "That's so funny." I have an innate distrust for people who don't laugh. An even deeper distrust of people who don't laugh but instead say, "That's so funny."
If you thinks it's so funny, why aren't you laughing?
Are you in fact lying? Do you think it's not funny but are giving a condescending reply? Can you not even form a fake laugh? No one's asking for an out and out guffaw, a titter or giggle would suffice.
I suspect soon the cool kids ways will work their craft on New Girl. She'll cultivate an annoying laugh.
Her fate is sealed. She'll be spending the next 20 or 30 years having lunch with these people and the others who will replace the older members.
Seen in that perspective, it's easier to pity the cool lunch table kids.
Unfortunately most of the rest of my office doesn't see that perspective. They want to be the ones spending the next 20 -30 years of lunch at the cool kids' table. That for them spells success.
7:48 AM
Monday, March 08, 2004
What is this, Opera Idol? Stop the insanity.
Snoop Dog v. James Caviezel. Give Me Huggy Bear. Yesterday I took brave steps out of the apartment. What with the whole pneumonia thing I haven't been out much lately.
Several months ago, Bone, Arthur and I promised each other, made a solid date, for this weekend. Nothing, not even pneumonia, a broken tooth (and subsequent very painful dental rehabbing), a painful ankle, and all the medication those ailments entail, could make me cancel this date.
Bone and Arthur were willing to postpone. But I would have no part of that. A date's a date. Plans are plans.
And so it was that we found ourselves at a suburban mega-multi-plex on a cold, windy, March Sunday afternoon.
Starsky and Hutch.
If you are a devoteé of the original show, I can say, head held high, with all possible marks of encouragement, you will enjoy this movie. If you've seen one or two episodes of the original show, that's probably enough to get most of the inside jokes which make this movie funny. If you've never seen the original show, I'm not sure you'll enjoy the movie. There were plenty of kids in the theatre, but they didn't seem to be enraptured, giggling or even really enjoying the show. Based on that I'd say if you're under the age of 25 this is probably a rental.
I don't typically devote my blog to movie reviews and I won't start now.
But.
It was a fun, hilarious Gran Torino ride through the 70's.
Snoop Dog in the role he was born to play.
What scared/concerned/surprised me is how much Ben Stiller resembles Paul Michael Glaser.
The soundtrack is great, that is if you like really cheesy 70's music. I'm 50/50 on it. All the songs they chose are perfect for the moment in the movie, however some of them were best left on 8-track tapes collecting dust and mould in basements around the world.
Starland Vocal Band, this means you.
Spoiler alert, I will mention this because it caused much conversation and pondering on the ride home from the mega-multi-plex, so don't read this paragraph if you haven't seen the movie: Arthur, Bone and I were the only ones in the theatre doubled over in our seats laughing at Owen Wilson, as Hutch, singing Don't Give Up On Us, Baby. Do we have less evolved senses of humor, or were our fellow movie-viewers deaf to the multi-levels of irony and humor of this? Also, foil spoiler: There is a little "surprise" at the end die hard S & H fans will love.
Okay, that's the review and happy portion of today's blog.
Onto the task at hand: Mel Gibson's The Passion.
I have refrained from mentioning this. Because I don't generally blog movie reviews and I have strict rules about blogging about celebrities and industry mega-hype. I'll not be part of that machine.
However, I can't help but openly wonder about a few things.
Lined up at the mega-multi-plex were hundreds, and I'm not exaggerating, there were hundreds, of people lined up waiting for a lottery-type drawing to get a number which would allow them to purchase two, yes, only two, tickets for one of the hourly showings of The Passion. This particular mega-multi-plex is showing the movie on three screens. Every hour, all day there are three screens lit up with The Passion.(including special early and late shows to "accommodate the Passion's overwhelming public interest") And still they have to hold lottery-style drawings to purchase tickets.
Maybe I'm completely misguided. In fact, I know I am somewhat misguided (any regular reader has figured that out by now), BUT, what the...?
As ever, I've got questions, concerns and a lot of confusion.
Anyone who's spent an hour in a Christian church or read one of those billboards knows Jesus (Christ, that is) died a very violent, horrible death for our (yes, that means your, yes your personal) sins. Even if a person hasn't spent a lot of time in church or reading the Bible, it's not a very big leap to figure out it was a pretty awful thing. Crucifixion. Crucified. The words themselves sound awful. Even when I was a kid and didn't fully understand what it all meant, I knew, when I heard those words, that it wasn't good. They have painful onomatopoeia.
I have spent more than one hour in a Christian church. I did go to Sunday school. I was taught the whole Jesus Christ story.
It's a good one.
Even for atheists, Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, whomever...really. I endorse the story. For a guy who died young (37-38 years old) he did a lot in his life. Kind of humbles a person to consider all he did and what little the rest of us do with our time here. Jesus did a lot of really interesting stuff. Nothing shy of a miracle now and then. And some rather mundane every day stuff. So there are a lot of lessons to be learned. Whether you believe or not. Taking a moment to read and honestly reflect on a passage or two of Jesus' life can't help but re-align a person's mindset. Regardless of personal beliefs, really, is it such a bad way to strive to live? Call me blasphemous (and I'm sure many do and will), but I don't think one needs to give over completely to Jesus to come away with a lesson or two learned from his story. Seems to me Jesus would respect and honor other religious ideas. (What's that joke? Jesus, Muhammad and Buddha go into a bar...) And yes. The same can be said for a lot of other prophets in other religions. Which I fully endorse as well. But we're talking about Passion and Jesus here and I'm trying to stay on topic.
The topic is Jesus, the man, the myth, the legend. And all the swell stuff he did.
I started to list off all the cool stuff in the Jesus story.
It got really long.
And sounded like I was thumping a bible for the Lord. Or writing for PAX. Which kind of surprised me.
Not the point here.
The Jesus (Christ, that is) story is a long and good one. He helped people. He made mistakes. He learned lessons. He taught lessons. He was human, you know, like us. Except his dad was God. That's a lot of pressure on a kid. (and Joseph, poor surrogate step-dad Joseph)
My dad is really strict. When I was young and very impressionable and had really (seemingly) bad news to break to my parents, I took great comfort in the fact that I was not, in fact, Jesus, and I didn't have to report a bad maths test score to God. "What's this?! Apparently you haven't been studying as much as you said you were. This sort of grade is not university level. If you weren't university material I wouldn't be upset, but you, young lady, are university material and more than capable of much better test scores that this! (thunder and lightening strikes) There'll be no walking on water for you this weekend young lady! And don't think I don't know you're making wine for your friends. They're not friends, you know. Anyone who makes you do things you know are wrong are not friends. You should know that by now. Has nothing I've taught you all these years gotten through that head of yours? It's that Judas boy, isn't it? No good will come from him. I don't want you hanging around him anymore. Honestly, I try to teach you right from wrong, put clothes on your back, a roof over your head, send you to the best schools, and this is the thanks I get. I've really had it this time. You bring up that maths grade or else!" (thunder, lightening, earthquake, plague of locusts)
Now there's a movie: My Father, My God!
Somehow after envisioning how bad it could be if I were in fact, you know, Jesus, facing my parents with a sub-par math test grade was easier.
I know Christ died a violent horrible death. I read the book.
I have a functioning brain. I can put two and two together. Stoning. Crucifixion. It sounds bad.
It is bad.
It was bad.
But if I were Jesus, I don't think I'd want the horrible, violent intricacies of my death played out on the big screen like a scene from Reservoir Dogs.
But then I've never got on board with the whole Passion play idea. And parades, of all things, a parade! Celebrating the crucifixion?! You should see the turnout they get down there on the Sout side of Chicago for the annual Passion parade. What the...?
It seems disrespectful.
It seems humiliating
It seems like glorifying the type of violence Jesus spent his life trying to end.
It seems like pandering to the lowest common Hollywood denominator.
I don't need a blow by blow reenactment.
I don't think anyone, even the most agnostic/atheist/insert not Christian religion here needs to see a reenactment.
Or rather, Mel Gibson's version of a reenactment.
Mel Gibson. A mere mortal.
A mere mortal who brought us the fine Lethal Weapon franchise.
Yes, Road Warrior and Mad Max are good (but violent) movies. Good-ish. But then, on the third try, he created Beyond Thunderdome.
Braveheart, well, my friends, this is all the further proof anyone should need to know Mel is twisting and envisioning history to suit his bank account and Hollywood cred.
Check out a few history books for more accurate, historically correct accounts of Falkirk and Mr. Wallace. Start here. Then go here.
And I keep quiet about Braveheart. I do. I really do. It's a movie. Period.
But Passion is different. We're talking religion here. Jesus. Christ.
I'm not sure I need to or should plunk down money to see a mere mortal's version of a reenactment.
Especially when that mortal is Mel Gibson.
Then who? You ask. I'm not sure. I can't think of anyone who should make the Jesus movie. Because we're mortals. Making movies. And a lot of money. A lot of money.
Money and religion have gone hand in hand since the beginning of organized religion. I know this. And it bothers me.
If Mr. Gibson truly, honestly, no cooked books or hidden accounts, gives every penny earned from Passion to, say, charities, missions, a center for theology and religious education for all people and religions of the world, to feeding the masses, in short to perform every day miracles for people right here, right now, then I might be able to justify Jesus as a box office draw.
Oh. And. Mel would have to decline any award for his Passion, too.
Because that's what Jesus would do.
But that, my friends, will never happen. Because Mel is a mortal. A Hollywood mortal. Driven by ego and the almighty dollar.
Jesus died for our sins, so, um, shouldn't we be kind of humble about his life, times and especially death?
If you're interested in seeing a violent movie, see Kill Bill. Tarantino does violence like no one else. He's a master.
If you're interested in learning more about Jesus, read the New Testament.
Ask yourself WWJD?
Then donate the $10 you would have spent on The Passion to a charity.
Or go see Starsky and Hutch at a matineé and give $5 to a charity.
Ever wonder what it's like to live la vida Christian? NeoTheo(b)log recently pointed out this article written my by Walter Kirn for GQ. (I read it for the articles, too, Neo, wink wink nudge nudge)
8:14 AM
