Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Saturday, May 01, 2004
I am: Worker Bee.
I'm supposed to be some other bee. My business card doesn't say worker bee. My job description (new! improved! revised! now with more vagaries!) doesn't mention anything about worker bee-ing. Mid to senior level management position. Creative Driving Force of the Company. No, I don't see anything about worker bee mentioned there. In fact, by my job description, one could construe that I am the queen bee. That I have drones to do my bidding while I sit in my hive imbibing on nectar and getting it on with the choice-est drones. Let me state for the record: There is not one drone at this company with whom I would get it on. Now, imbibing nectar on the other hand...
But no. I am worker bee.
It's not even as if this hive is a flurry of activity on weekends. It's just me, worker bee, and another guy down the hall who comes into work to use the internet and escape his dreadful home life.
Oh sure, I could just not come into the office. Oh sure, I could just let all the things which need to be done go undone. I could let deadlines mean nothing. I could do a lot of things. Or rather, NOT do a lot of things.
But I have to live with myself.
Worse than having to live with me (which is something I wish even I didn't have to do), when the day of reckoning dawns, I'm the one accountable, I'm the one standing there having to answer for why deadlines were missed and things are not done. I have no one (well, no one plausible) to blame. And that's another thing: Even when I have had other people to blame, I didn't do it.
Because apparently I have integrity.
Which makes me be responsible for myself and my job.
Which makes me come into the office and toil away my hard earned weekends.
What bothers me is that (needs a new nickname) boss takes it as a given that I will be here, that I will be my responsible self and do this.
And she's right, of course I will.
And that bothers the swut out of me. If I were doing this just because of my personal integrity and responsible nature, that would be one thing. But that she (and a lot of other people) just assume I'll do this really irritating.
It's not even a matter of, "Trillian will do it." It's an unspoken matter of fact. The sky is blue, Michael Jackson's a freak, and I'll get everything which needs to be done finished well and on time.
If this were true for everyone in my office that would be one thing. But it's not. Everyone else gets lauded for the most inane accomplishments. "Look everyone, Boob Job sent an email to a listserv all by herself! Isn't that amazing! A listserv! Email! What a great idea!" I am really not kidding about that, that is an actual quote from my (needs a new nickname) boss. Well, apart from the fact that she didn't call her Boob Job. It's not that I need or want lauding (I do not) it's that I am held to a completely different set of standards. For me, just doing my job is literally just doing my job. For Boob Job (and several others) just doing their jobs is apparently a big, fat hairy stinking deal. To me this praise is like getting excited about a toddler being potty trained. Maybe at first it's good to give a lot of praise for performing a basic human function, but after a while it's completely unnecessary and kind of weird and stupid. By the time a kid is four (or five, I suppose in some cases) the "oooh, you went potty all by yourself" sort of comments are unheard. It's just assumed the kid has mastered basic human functions and has moved on with their life and personal development. But in my office, apparently that doesn't happen. Apparently there are people who feel certain other people still need praise for performing basic functions.
I don't know about you, but I'd be pretty darned embarrassed and more than a little concerned if my parents were still doling out praise for my ability to use the bathroom.
I am well aware Boob Job and the other on the receiving end of this type of praise probably don't ask for it and have not exhibited a need for it. I am aware it may be embarrassing for them. They don't have much choice other than to sit there, smile and nod.
Is there really anything wrong with recognizing the trivialities of a job?
Yes.
Here's why: When an employee is constantly praised for basic, assumed sets of tasks, at some point they dismiss it to the point they don't even hear the praise, OR, worse, they begin to believe they are operating at a genius level.
This may be good for their self esteem, but what happens when they decide they're such a genius they're ready for a new job? Let's say they GET that new job. And they are expected to perform their daily basic requirements as well as intuit and perform functions beyond the basic. They're so used to just doing what's required (if even that) and being praised as a genius, the fact that they are expected to do all that and then some, all by themselves, perhaps without praise at all, may come as a shattering blow.
Which is exactly the case of Sadie. She'd been praised for sub basic functions for so long, she believed she was invincible. She believed she was intelligent. She believed people liked her. Hopped up high on self esteem she applied for another job and (shockingly) got it. She didn't
last 6 months. She couldn't hack it. She didn't get that constant praise for inane activities, and further, she took no initiative to perform other tasks or projects. So she came back to her comfortable place. Where she gets the faint praise she apparently needs.
Is that so bad?
It is for those of us with more than half a functioning brain. It is for those of us who are constantly coming up with new! improved! better! ideas and ways of doing things. It is for those of us stuck working with these morons who think they are geniuses. It is for those of us spending long hours and weekends working far above the basic job functions while the others put in their 7.5 hours and no more, (if that) because that's their basic requirement and they get praised for that, too. When Sadie groveled her way back to our company, part of the reason for re-hiring her was, "She shows up for work every day." I'm not kidding. I realize there are a lot of people who do not show up for work every day, but still, it's just what you're supposed to do. Is it really a merit worthy characteristic for re-hiring a complete idiot who can't pass her licensing exam? Should it not go without saying that a person shows up for work every day?
Right. Must perform what are apparently my basic job functions. For which I will receive no praise or recognition. On a weekend.
8:38 AM
Friday, April 30, 2004 May Day! May Day! And speaking of stupid holidays...tonight, April 30th, at sunset, Beltane, the Celtic start of the summer season, begins.
Beltane means bright fire, and is the fire festival that begins the yearly spiritual cycle. Nine, the sacred number of endings was the basis of this festival in 19th century Scotland. Nine teams of nine married men gathered logs from the nine sacred trees of the Celts. At sunset all fires were extinguished, and at sunrise a new fire was kindled without the use of metal. All the people danced around the bonfire in a sunwise direction, and jumped over the flames and through the smoke, which purified and transformed their spirits. After the flames had died down, farm animals were driven over a path cleared through the smoking coals, to ensure their fertility. The people then danced around a Maypole that pierced the Earth as a phallic symbol of co-joining and fertilization. Dew was collected, and the people drank of it and washed their faces with it. The people then took coals home to re-kindle their hearth fires. They had partaken of all four elements, and the alchemical process was complete. The community was again whole and blessed by their divinities.
For an "interesting" photo and review of this event, go here.
See what you can learn online? And they say blogs are worthless. Ha.
I mention that little bit of Scottish weirdness in a delayed response to some of the outrage h8er mail I received when I ranted against St. Patrick's Day.
No. I do not think the English are perfect.
And a louder no! I do not think the Scots are the perfect people who will one day reign supreme in the Universe.
Swut.
We couldn't even keep our own little patch of rocky soil. Soil no one in their right mind would settle on and try to farm. Pretty soil, soil with gorgeous views, soil surrounding the most picturesque lochs and mountains in the world. (for my money anyway) Yeah, worth fighting for, now that I think of it. But what do we do? Send out Wallace and Rob Roy to fend off Lowlanders while the rest of the country was too busy dancing around a bonfire in a sunwise direction and a Maypole phallicly piercing the earth transforming our spirits and drinking dew.
Dew my blue painted arse, whiskey, more like.
William Wallace, Winter 1297
"Aw swut, Moray, have you seen the battle schedule? They've got us down for Falkirk first week of May."
"Swutting English. Eddie's done that on purpose. He knows swutting well we've got Beltane on the 1st. English. They have no respect for our culture."
"Erm, that's the point. That's what we're fighting for. The right to paint ourselves any color we choose, dance around bonfires in a sunwise direction and drink 'dew.' If we don't have Beltane, what have we got? I was really looking forward to Beltane this year, too. Gonna be a good one, big celebrations planned what with Stirling and all. "
"Swutting English. You know what it is, don't you? Edward's all hopped up high on that big win in France. As if that's something to brag about."
"Get Edward on the horn, let's see if we can reschedule this thing, July would be a lot better. Maybe we can get that Bruce bloke down to Falkirk by then, too."
A few hundred years later, in the MacGregor home...
Father to young Rob Roy, "You go handle those Lowlanders, lad, we've got Beltane next week."
"Aw man, do I have to? How come I always have to fight the Lowlanders? I was really looking forward to Beltane this year. Me and some of the lads have been practicing drums all Winter, we was gonna be Beastie Drummers!"
"Beastie Drummers?! No boy of mine is going to be a Beastie Drummer! You'll paint yourself blue. We MacGregors are blue men, boy, don't you forget it!"
"But I don't wanna be a blue man. I wanna be a beastie drummer!"
"No! I'll have no more talk of beastie drumming. I did'na spend 10 years in a draughty cell just to come home and find you a beastie drummer! You think Wallace was a beastie drummer? By swut he was not! He was a blue man, blue and proud! You'll paint yourself blue, go take care of those Lowlanders, then get yourself back here by sunset for the festival."
"Yes sir." kicking the dirt in exasperation, walking away mumbling. "Swutting Wallace, he always throws swutting Wallace in my face. My wife gets raped and all he can talk about is that swutting draughty cell and Wallace and blue men. Maybe I don't want to be a blue man. Maybe I like beastie drumming. Swutting Lowlanders. No respect for our culture."
(or, perhaps a more accurate versions here (Wallace) and here (Rob Roy))
I offer the above as proof that the Scots are, and always have been, a weird bunch of people. Look at that photo. May Queen, Blue Men, White Women Warriors, Green Man, Red Men, Beastie Drummers...this is what people mean when they say the Scots are a colorful lot.
It's one thing to have this as long ago history. In our defense, there were some weird goings on in a lot of other parts of the world several hundred years ago, too. Few cultures were immune to some "interesting" goings on. But not content to let these bizarre, if not embarrassing rituals stay buried in folklore, the Scots drag out the old ways, don the paint and dance around fires, flaunting it for all the world to see as if it's something to be proud of, some sort of cultural zenith.
Everybody needs a hobby, but what's wrong with needlepoint or woodworking?
And for the record, we owe the world a huge debt of shame for The Bay City Rollers, Sheena Easton and The Proclaimers.
On behalf of Scotland, I can offer no excuses, only a sincere apology for some truly dreadful music. I'm truly sorry. You know how when you're sort of drunk, and you think you can sing? And you think your friends can sing really well and you can't believe you never realized that before now? I think that's how it happens. The entire country of Scotland gets really drunk and every 10 years or so some band or singer cuts a record fast enough that it slips out of Scotland while everyone is still drunk and thinks it's a fantastic record. I bet S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y NIGHT! and Morning Train and I Would Walk 10,000 Miles were all released around May 1.
Sorry. Really sorry.
Let me offer you a drink to ease any long term pain those songs may have caused you. Have a Scottish martini (otherwise known as a Rob Roy) in hopes of peace:
Scottish Martini (Rob Roy)
3 ounces Scotch whisky
1 ounce sweet vermouth
2 dashes Angostura bitters
5 or 6 ice cubes
Twist orange or lemon peel
Combine all ingredients except the peel in a mixing glass and stir gently to chill as well as dilute the drink. Strain into a cocktail glass. Twist the peel over the drink to release the oil and then drop it in.
Happy Beltane. May your alchemical process be complete, and may your hearth be filled with fertile coals. 8:16 AM
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Why I love eBay, part II
If you haven't seen this, go. Now. It's the funniest swutting thing I've read in ages. Seriously, if you haven't seen this you really need to look at it. It is swutting hilarious. Don't just look at the photos, read the description. You will not be sorry for chasing down that link. Fine, here, cut and paste this into your browser if you don't want to follow the link. http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&category=63851&item=4146756343&rd=1
I know! It's unprecedented! It's scary! It's, it's, disconcerting and a little uncomfortable. Just relax, put on your rose colored glasses and see the lighter side of Trillian. She doesn't come out to play very often, so you should take advantage of her while you are able.
A very, very good thing happened yesterday.
I really good, big deal thing.
That I cannot share.
Because I am too busy skipping through fields of flowers, hopping over rainbows and generally being a really sappy greeting card.
Funny how one thing, just one really good thing, can make everything else bearable.
Ewww gross girl on the train! Good morning! How are you? Would you like a bagel? No? Staying away from carbs? You?! You're so thin and lithe! Whattcha reading? Is it good? Do you like it? Can I borrow it when you're done? What color lipstick is that? Is it MAC? I'm wearing Capricious. Do you like it? I love MAC lipstick.
Newspaper MAN! How are YOU today? I'd like a SUN TIMES and a TRIBUNE today, please. And you know WHAT? I'd like these MAGAZINES, too! Keep the CHANGE! Have a great DAY!
(needs a new nickname) boss? Here, have a twinkie! In fact, have an entire box of twinkies! That's a lovely tunic you're wearing! No, no, you just go eat your twinkies! I'll do my job and yours, too! No really, I love doing your job.
Boob Job! Good morning! You know, I've been meaning to tell you, I think it's just great you did this to yourself! You go girl! And you know what else? You didn't really get a proper celebration last week for Administrative Professionals day. Take tomorrow off. I know, I know, the really big project. I'll manage for a day without you. You run along and plan your long weekend. I'm sure you have lots of personal calls to make.
Stinky Coffee Woman! Here! I saw this hazelnut mocha mint berry flavored cream and of course I thought of you! Go get a fresh cup of coffee, pour it in, pull up a chair and sit in my office making small talk for as long as you'd like! I know you've got my home number, but I don't think you have my mobile number. Here it is, just in case you need to call me from your next holiday.
Uh oh. The network is slow. That could be trouble. Better call the tech guys. Steve! Hi! I've got a pokey network on my end. Is there a problem? Should I just re-boot? What about jiggling the cords, should I do that, too? You guys are so smart. We're so lucky to have you working for us. I hope Bill Gates doesn't come along and steal you from us!
Better check my email. Oh look, h8er mail! You know, with a little compassion and understanding, I'm sure I can help them resolve their issues with women. Dear h8er, please don't h8 me. I don't h8 u. I wish u liked me better. Y don't u like me? How can I change so that u will like me? I want you to like my blog. It's important 2 me that u like my blog. Because even tho u h8 it u read it every day and take the time to send me h8 mail. Do u have a girlfriend? Maybe if u had a girlfriend u wouldn't spend so much time h8ing me and my blog. OMG! I just thought of something. Do I remind u of a girl who won't go out with u? I'm sorry h8er. Rejection sucks. But get back out there and try, try again! Be cool! Stay in school! Just say no to drugs!
Funny Fuzzy Furry Creature needs food. I better stop at the grocery on the way home an get him some food! Oh goody! There's a line wrapped back to produce! I'll get to meet all sorts of interesting people while I wait in line! I love it when this happens! Hiya neighbor! I see you've got cumquats. I like cumquats, too. I'm never sure what to do with them, but they're cool looking and I love saying cumquat. Cumquat cumquat cumquat cumquat Kumquat cumquat cumquat. Do you spell it with a c or a k? I like it with a c. Some people like it with a k. Did you know that? I like it with a c better, though. Cumquat, cumquat I love you, yes I do, you and your cumquat pulp, oh whoa oh whoa oh, Hey! Did you know in Australia they glaze kangaroo rump with cumquat sauce? I know. I could never eat a cute bouncy kangaroo, either. Crazy Australians. They'll eat anything. Australia was a penal colony you know. I think that's why they're "different." They're all descended from penals. Teeny tiny cumquat, so orange, so small, so citrus, not like corn, -oh! Teeny tiny cumquat, if you see it spelled with a c it looks like porno! Hey look! PeopleandUs! Oh boy! Will you save my place in line and hold my box of tampons and 8 tins of cat food while I go get magazines to look at while we wait? No? Okay, I'll hold your cum-quats while you get the magazines.
Sheesh. Some people are just so mean and rude.
Good thing I've got my rose colored glasses on today!
You don't bother me really super cool guy with cumquats! I know you're probably just having a bad day. I have them too. Here, try my rose colored glasses for a minute, they should make you feel a lot better. See? I told you! Hey, you sing along to muzak really well!
Oh man. Yikes. HELP!!! I need them! Now, right now! That horrible self check overseer lady is looking at me! She thinks I'm stealing cat food! Dude, give me my glasses! I swutting mean it, give them to me!
Whew.
That was close.
I almost gave that woman with the six kids a dirty look. Whew. Good thing I pried my rose colored glasses off that guy. I wouldn't want to be full of contempt and loathing for that woman with the six dirty brats. Erm. Darling children. She can't help it she's got six kids. Oh. And another one on the way. It's her culture. Her church doesn't allow birth control. And besides, those kids are just adorable with their unkempt hair, dirty faces and sticky fingers grabbing at everything! Cute little guttersnipes! Puts me in the mood for Roman Polanski's Oliver Twist! Coming soon to a theatre near you! Never would have read Polanski as a Dickens fan, but hey! Rosemary's Baby, Tess, now Oliver Twist, young children...it's a natural! I thought he was more into prepubescent young girls, but apparently he's trying to grow, stretch his vision. Good for you Roman. You go, guy. Just because I wouldn't let my child within 100 miles of Roman doesn't mean other people have that sort of protective hang up. I love my rose colored glasses. Pedophilia and statutory rape don't bother me like they would if I weren't wearing them.
I'm gonna workout! Because with my rose colored glassed I am just high on life and feelin' fine! Hello Frau Komidant! Remember me? From the other day? I belong to this gym, remember? I came back the other day? Oh, okay, I'll just be working out, right in there. In there in the gym. Oh look! Jane's here! Yippee! Hiya Janey! Lookin' good! Want some water? Here, I'll get you one. Woo hoo! Check me out! Hopping and skipping around here as if nothing were ever wrong with my ankle! I'm gonna press 100 pounds! I rock! I am woman! Hear me roar! I am invincible! I am singing along to some 1000 beats per minute boy band song! Why do I know the words?! Who cares! Look! There's a hint of a bicep! Wowee! I'm not as soft as I feared I was! Jane, Jane, Jay eh ane, Janey, Janey, Janey, what's this game of cat and mouse? Don't you pretend you don't know what I'm talkin' about... I hate that song, too! But let's sing along anyway! Or! We could sing other lyrics to the tune! You know what? I've always thought Jane was just an uptempo, less trippier more obnoxious version of White Rabbit. Try it. When logic and proportion Have fallen four feet And the white knight's talking backwards And the Red Queen Says off with her head Remember what the dormouse said Feed your head Feed your head. I know, a lot of people think the lyric is free your head. It's not. Don't worry. Free your head is okay. It was the 60's. You can sing any lyrics you want. That's the great thing about music. You can just sing along any old way you want. That is when you're wearing your rose colored glasses. Hey ya! Want to watch my cat eat, hey ya...I know it's want you in my caddy, sheesh. Put on your glasses and relax, man.
Oooh, look! Here's some really, really good Universal advice. No matter what your personal beliefs, nonbeliefs or bents are, this is a bit of really, really good wisdom. Man, if I hadn't been wearing my rose colored glasses I might have ignored this.
All it takes is one unequal relationship to set the world out of balance. People with strong personalities should expect such things by now. Although you don't actively cause trouble, you're a big factor in its incubation. Wait a while before matching your wits with someone that makes you uneasy. Stick with the devil you know and seek out its angelic side. Repair begins with listening and sharing. Set these positive forces in motion, and healing can't be far behind. Forgive instead of being proud, and you're halfway there.
Deep. Wow. Does anyone have an mp3 of White Rabbit they can send me? Feed your head. Cumquat. Kumquat. Kangaroo rump. Hey! That's my new saying! "Oh kangaroo rump! My checking account is overdrawn!" "Oh! Kangaroo rump! My boss is an idiot!" "Oh! Kangaroo rump! I nearly fell in front of that oncoming bus!"
Don't worry, the jaded, cynical, sarcastic, embittered, contemptuous, loathesome observing and reporting will resume it's regularly scheduled posting tomorrow.
Very, very good thing. Good thing indeed. No more bad things! Think I'll go outside for a walk, now. The summer sun's calling my name, I hear it now. I just can't stay inside all day, I've got to get out, gimme some of those rays.
Everybody! Song along! You know the words!
Everybody's smiling (sunshine day),
Everybody's laughing (sunshine day),
9:00 AM
Wednesday, April 28, 2004 Ginger picked one up and it was slimy. Happy anniversary, happy anniversary, happy anniversary, HAA-PPY ANNI-VERS-ARY!
If you're in a Flintstones frame of mind now, you're welcome. You should experience earworm for approximately three days. You might feel a slight tingling sensation. Don't worry, that's just brain cells dying.
Today marks the one year anniversary of Life(?) of Trillian on blogspot.
What a year it's been.
(Where's one of those cheesy, sleazy TV host guys when you need one?)
Because I'm really busy at work and because I couldn't decide what bit of my reality to syndicate this week, and because today is the Life(?) blogspot anniversary, we're running a best of show today.
Yes, some of your favorite Trillian moments and quotes from the past year.
I know.
A lame attempt at special programming for sweeps week.
I hate "best of" shows, too. It's only a matter of time before they bring in special guest stars or an obnoxious precocious kid to boost falling ratings. Isn't Simon Cowell's "career" tanking yet? Seems like I could get him cheap.
"You're pathetic. You can't write, you bastardize the English and German languages, you mock our format, you have to find dates online...You are the worst blogger in the Universe."
"Yeah, but I love to make fun of Paula Abdul..."
"True enough. You're through to the next round."
"Great! Another year of blogging! Woo hoo!"
Back in the after performance area, "Trillian, Simon doesn't think much of your blog but put you through to the next round. What do you think about that?"
"I think Simon's an idiot, but I respect his opinion because after all, the FOX broadcasting network pays him lots of money for that little show of his."
"But he doesn't know anything about blogging."
"He doesn't know anything about music, either, but yet there he is..."
"You're going to face some stiff competition next year, how do you plan to deal with that?"
"I'm not in this for the competition. I'm just doing what I do, and if someone else likes it, that's great. There are lots of really good bloggers out there, really good. It's an honor just to take up blogspace. I'll keep doing what I've been doing, the only thing I know how to do, observe and report, rant and write about the stupid stuff I do and the dumb stuff that happens to me."
"You've got readers, do you have anything to say to them?"
"Thanks, readers. With the exception of the h8ers who are oddly compelled to read every post and send me nasty email and give me bad ratings, you're all really swell people. Thank you for all the kind words of support, encouragement and advice during this difficult past year. It means a lot to me."
"There you have it, Trillian, and her blog, going through to the next round."
What's a reality show without a re-cap?!
A year in the life of a blog.
I promise one thing: In reviewing my archives I realized I mention HWNMNBS far more than I thought I did. Since it's apparently been a year of HWNMNBS, I will give you a post free of HWNMNBS. (If he'd just marry me none of us would have to suffer these bouts of, um, well. You know. Everything would be fine if we were together.)
There will be a brief question and answer period at the end.
(Cue the jaunty up tempo music that puts you in a We Didn't Start the Fire frame of mind.)
Ah. April 2003. Spring in Chicago. Birds chirping. Trees budding. Flowers in bloom. And forced viewings of American Idol. That was the Spring of my discontent.
Ruben. Ah. Ruben. And Neil Sedaka. Of course. Why didn't I think of that? No wonder FOX won't hire me, I just don't have what it takes to think plucky young kids in 2004 singing Neil Sedaka songs from 30 - 40 years ago (and were lame then) is a good idea with mass market appeal.
"Of course there is the possibility that few people bothered to call in for Ruben. Or that, like me, his rendition of Breaking Up is Hard to Do put them in the mind of 2 AM last call at the local, alone and crying in your drink. Not exactly a "Man! That was awesome I am gonna call and vote for this guy" frame of mind. And to make it worse, he performed it again. Now yes, it was wonderful, and he is talented, and I hate that song and he made me forget how much I hate that song (the omission of the cumma cumma down doobie doo down down's was a wise choice and a positive move toward redemption for the song) but please, I beg you, stop! Enough! I have enough 2AM last call alone crying in my drink moments in my life since the breakup with HWNMNBS I. I tune into this show for some laughs and to see what the other marketing guys are doing. Not for buzz kill. Yes, of course, that's proof that Ruben's got the vocal goods, that he can reduce a grown woman to tears with a rendition of Breaking Up is Hard to Do. It's like I was there, man, he took me to that place. But that place is alone on a dingy bar stool at last call wondering where it all went wrong with HWNMNBS and what he's doing and who he's with and why, God, oh why, why, why?!"
And then I worked. A lot. And traveled. A lot. And didn't blog on Life(?) for a while. Just couldn't get my bearings on the new site. Busy. Depressed. Spent a lot of time on Miss Havisham.
Then It happened. The Incident. Trillian's broken ankle. And her trip to the Village of the Damned.
I was forced to ride two buses to work. A nightmare of proportions even I couldn't have imagined. Route 666. That swutting bus. Further sociological studies of bus riders, and still more here
And then there are the people with whom I work. The daily visits to a little place I call Hell. Looking back, this post is a good summary of my office. There may be a God for a few reasons posted here. Without a God, there is no Hell. And I know there's a Hell because I work there. Of course the possibility exists that I, Trillian, need to not be quite so impatient and uptight with these colleagues. That my expectations for individuals (and the entire human species) are just too high. Based on this focus group, I cannot even hypothesize how we managed to evolve beyond mono celled zygotes...because left to our own devices, our species would not mitote on their own. .
Right. Moving along through the year. The Great Blackout of 2003! Remember that?! Trillian's parents were powerless! If I ever, ever wax nostalgic about life in a small town, remind me of this.
Which gave way to the following week's installment of Reality Wednesday, Extremely Local Pub (reader favorite)
My improving mood was soured shortly thereafter when, while waiting for that swutting bus, I was again assailed. And offered danish.
Then, The Immobilizer came off, the crutches were no longer required, as Duane, the orthotics God/air steward/angel fit me in the sporty air cast. Which required shoes. New shoes. Finally, shoes! SHOES! Glorious shoes! And the blog hear 'round the world: True Confessions: Trillian Shops at Payless. (reader favorite) Those Payless shoes got me through a lot. We shared a lot together. (I was sad to see them go, but we had a good four months.) The best part about no more crutches? No more 666 bus! Back on the train for my daily commute. What a ride.
October. Those Cubs. Oh those Cubs. So close. So very close. And yet so far. Oh Swut! What if I have to make good on my promise and drink a case of Old Style?!
I took my mind off the ups and downs of the Cubs and adapting to my new, smaller, sportier cast by cleaning my closets and drawers. Who knew some of you would enjoy my Fall cleaning so much? Who knew so many of you have serious Brady Bunch issues? Good thing I had the sweaters out and ready for the Backstage Staging Zone!
Then it was off to England for a weekend, Trillian flies economy! Oh what fun it is to Travel with Trillian! Especially when she runs into a Former Person of Interest. What? You didn't know I ever dated anyone other than HWNBMBS?! Why yes, I did! And they have a way of re-entering my life! Made it through that little brush with my past with my dignity in place, but barely got through customs in Chicago.
And met Kimmie. Dear, sweet, annoying, Satanic Kimmie. Yeah. I'd forgotten about her, too. I only think about her in recurring nightmares. That's a "good" thing about blogging, if you review your archive you remember things electric shock therapy might otherwise erase from your memory. So horrible was physical therapy that I blogged blasphemic over it. And then she had the nerve to suggest that I work on my thighs and glutes! I had a broken ankle! Thighs and glutes?! Because what Kimmie said, went, I was introduced to The Special Bike. (another reader favorite.) But even dizzying speeds on The Special Bike couldn't get me into the dress I'd planned to wear to a friend's wedding. Stress eating. Swutting stress eating. Me. Stress eating. I don't stress eat. Well, I never stress ate before last Fall. So I worked out the formula for fitting into a dress. Returned from the wedding, back to physical therapy and The Special Bike, I met: Semper Fi Man. We met again, when I kicked elliptical butt in the race of the decade, well, year, well, week.
BUT, it ended on a happy note. I got to go to the dentist. I love the dentist. (later, I had another little dental adventure with Night Effects tooth whitener, read all about it in reader favorite White Teeth here.) Not content to leave the month well enough alone, I just had to rant about all the hullabaloo against Halloween. Okay, so maybe I went a little overboard by inferring that Jesus was a zombie. Jesus came back from the dead. On a literal level, does that not make him a zombie? Pretty much the best known zombie ever? In many ways, the resurrection is one of the greatest scary stories ever told. But since it's set to great catchy pop tune classics like "Christ the Lord is Risen Today" it's not as sinister as say, Night of the Living Dead. Oh swut. Did I really write that? I must have been really worked up about something. I wondered why I got so much email about that. At the time I thought people were overreacting. Now, with a few months of reflection, with the Passion changing everyone's lives I realize, THAT'S PRETTY SWUTTING FUNNY. Get a grip, people. Got a broken ankle/leg/foot? Need Halloween costume ideas? Of course I've got award winning ideas!
Right. October finally ended. And a very busy work, travel and holiday season began with a trip to a place more evil than physical therapy, more scary than my office...American Girl Place. It's frightening. Even scarier than a really awful flight. (Where I recall FOD, yet another Former Person of Interest)
But then, then, it happened. That guy got fired because of a photo posted on his blog. And people were scared blogless. Many blogs I enjoyed reading disappeared or were severely changed, censored, out of fear of being "caught." I was outraged. Annoyed. Sorry to see them go. Consequently, the post read and linked 'round the world, the post that started the Safe Blog campaign, It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You. (reader favorite)
The holidays. Thanksgoing. The true story of the Pilgrims, Trillian style. And just try to get through a big holiday meal when you're vegetarian. No holiday would be complete without a trip to Canada, now would it? Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places, led me to the St. Andrew Prayer-A-Thon. They'll quite happily drink and eat in my honor, bringing out the aged Oban, toasting me - but where does that get me? Thanks and everything, but it's been, like, 2000 years since I've had a drink. Sort of in poor taste to honor a dead guy with a drink when you know darned well he can't join in, don't you think? 'To St. Andrew.' Ha! you wanna toast St. Andrew? Give him a break with the prayers this year. Honestly, this saint thing is enough to give a guy a stress headache. And for what?! A few saved souls? A few re-affirmations? I don't see St. Bernard of Clairvaux putting in any overtime during the holidays. And the nerve of St. George. Every year it's the same thing, 'come on over on the 25th, they've got a big celebration going on for me again this year' as if he doesn't know how busy I am running around like crazy trying to grant the prayers of the pious who call upon me. Happy Christmas indeed. Could he lift a finger to help? Oh, he'll loudly pull the old 'we're joined at the Union Jack, mate!' shtick all year when the gang's around, carrying on like were grand old chums, but come November 30 I don't see harp nor halo of him. Bah. What's the use? Awe geeze. Now I've got some misguided woman asking me for...just what I need. Who does she think I am? As if I've got the power to give her that. She's not even Catholic, in fact, (adjusting his glasses) let's check the records, when was the last time she stepped into any church? And oh, what's this? A blasphemous blog about me? Yet she's got the nerve to pray to me? My limit. I am at my limit here, I really am. After this season I'm going to have a talk with the boss. Put in for a transfer." (raises his hands dismissively and walks away) Oh swut. There I went again. More Repent Now! email. More outraged readers. Not content to blasphemize the 23rd Psalm and Jesus, I moved right along to saints.
Apparently I was offered redemption, though, because I was granted a Christmas present the likes of which I never could have imagined or dared to dream. And then the final Prayer-A-Thon analysis, followed by an in-depth report. How to get through a holiday without a homicidal incident? Love your parents, hate your issues. A mantra for visits with parents. A Christmas Carol. My favorite. I'm an A Christmas Carol - o - phile. Want to know which versions are the best? Some ghosts of Christmas past are not Dickensian...some are, well, more, um, funny. (Female Reader Favorite, some of you guys liked it, too. Fun for the whole family.) The holidays are over, be good! Write your thank you notespromptly! What holiday would be complete without the Sho-Lo Awards? Or holiday photos?
2004: Well. Here it is. Hey! Here's a good idea which never took off! Why not? Huh. Search phrase mad libs. That was a good idea. Maybe I am brilliant, after all. The idea that's slowly taking off, or at least gaining momentum: Pink Stinks! (Want to join the Red Army? Go here! Forget Iraq, the war against white merlot needs you! Ask YOUR candidate where he stands on the white merlot issue.) More here!
The good thing about 2004 so far has been: The end of physical therapy and no more Kimmie. But of course, it ended not with a whimper but a bang. A big bang. These are the graphics which introduced many of you newer readers to my Life(?) WARNING! WARNING! I have been told I should have warned people reading/viewing this post may cause peeing of pants. If you are prone to incontinence problems, consider yourself warned. And then, finally, then, it was over. It was really over. No more Kimmie. There was much rejoicing.
Yet still My Life as Crippled Chick continued. Who knew changing a light bulb could be so much fun? Maybe a little retail therapy will help... In stores. I shop in stores, online. Not in the homes of friends, colleagues or family. Behold and beware: Pyramid Schemes.
Then I took a little, ahem, "break," a little mini vacation. The autopost didn't post. Many wondered if something else had happened to me. Thanks for all your concern. Something did happen to me, but I vowed to not mention HWNMNBS in this post, so here are a few thoughts on what taking a break from blogging can do to a person and offered a 12 Step Blogging Recovery Program.
But I returned home with a cold that I tried to deny. Sick? I'm not sick! Oh swut. Yes I was. Diary of a cold. And a broken tooth which I learned to repair requires a process, not an event. Still sick, and now with a very sore jaw, I retreated to movies at home for comfort and entertainment. (The Be Kind, Rewind guy blog) I lost a friend along the way...I saw it coming, been a while in the ending, but there it is, Funeral for a Friendship. The friendship wasn't the only thing clinging to life support. That cold wouldn't go away, it kept getting worse, so I decided to write my Obituary: 2004. Seriously, I was really sick. I told you I didn't feel well. No, even I didn't suspect double pneumonia...let alone SARS.
Once I felt better I realized: I have to do something about dating. Drastic measure time: I posted a dating ad on my own blog. Oh the shame of self promotion.
But there are people in worse shape than me. You guys need help. Lots of help. Okay. Fine. I'll help you. Women the Internet and You, Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites, Part I (Your Profile and Email), Women the Internet and You, Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites, Part II (Selecting a Potential Date), Women the Internet and You, Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites, Part III (Your First Date), Women the Internet and You, Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites, Part IV (After the First Date: Now What?)And 50 First Dates was publicly announced.
(50 First Dates Question and Answer Session)
Hilary Duff's Stuff. Disgusted and otherwise outraged at what I saw for little girls at Target, swutting Target of all places, made the anger and contempt rise and of course I blogged. But that outrage was nothing compared to what happened when I tried to vote. In a Chicago election. That was a bad week. It was also St. Patrick's Day. And then I turned into: Firedstarter
But hey, new shoes! Training wheels for my recovering ankle! Childhood secrets revealed! It's my mum's fault!
So yeah, those are a few highlights of the year in blog. Looks like I've settled into the new blogspot url. Looks like I'll be here a while. Thanks for reading.
Blog on.
I promised a question and answer session at the end, here we go.
Question and Answer Period at the End
Trillian, you post almost every day. A lot of words. How and why do you do this? Ah, the how and why question. I wish I could give you a good answer. Something insightful or even witty. Sadly, I cannot. I do not spend hours writing. In fact, as some of my posts testify, I am rather slap dash about it. I have a lot of words in my head and have to get them out of there as quickly as possible or else I risk a Scanners type explosion. Or at least a really bad headache.
I have written as long as I can remember, but only as a journal, correspondence with friends/family, school stuff or occasionally for work when the copywriters can't come up with anything new, original or good enough. I was coaxed into blogging several years ago, and, well, a bunch of posts, a lot of words and three sites later here I am. It's mainly a running dialog I have with myself - those words I have to get out of my head.
I am still shocked and amazed anyone reads my blog, that there are people who find something in these words compelling, interesting, funny or stupid enough to read regularly or even more than once. I do not sit at my keyboard thinking I am generating great prose or insight of a generation. I am merely getting these words out of my head, ridding my mind of them, so I can think clearly enough to do my job and live the rest of my life.
This is not a training exercise for "real" writing. I am not a wannabe author. I'm just a person who has a lot of weird and stupid stuff happen to her (or who puts herself in situations...), a person with a bunch of words in her head. And a near savant gift for really fast typing.
As for the how, I can't tell you how I do it - I don't know. I'm sorry. I wish I could deconstruct the process. Sadly, there is no actual process. It just "happens." And once it happens and the words are out of me, I feel relieved until more words fill my head and cause enough pressure that I have to release them. This can happen several times a day.
It is: Cathartic.
I don't go to therapy, I blog.
As for that typing thing - yes, I type really, really, really fast. Again, I can't say how or why. I learned when I was about 10, took to it very easily. Had the QWERTY system memorized and perfected within a few weeks, yes on my mum's clunky old Royal. Since I learned on that clunky, stiff thing, when I migrated to an actual keyboard, my fingers just flew over the keys. It's one of the few physical activities at which I excel. It's just really easy for me. Good thing because of all those words I have to get out of my head really fast. It's sort of a chicken-egg thing.
Do you write for a living or do you publish anything I might have read somewhere else? No. (I did write for various school newspapers, if that counts.)
Sometimes you mention other blogs. What are they and what are their urls? I Am Miss Havisham and Trillian's Guide. They are private blogs so even if I posted the url you'd need the secret code to access them. Sorry. But unless you've been dumped by your fianc?/e or are a really, really, really serious geek and really, really, really into Hitchhiker's Guide/Douglas Adams and spend way too much time online, there's nothing of interest for you on either blog.
So, how long are you going to pine away for HWNMNBS, and what's up with him, anyway? Next question.
Why don't you forget about HWNMNBS? I said next question.
But it's just that you seem like such a nice girl, why don't you just meet someone new? Look. I'm trying, okay? But the fact is I love HWNMNBS. There it is. Right out in the open. Is that what you wanted to hear? Happy now? I don't just stop loving people. I was going to marry the guy. He's my The One. Okay? Sheesh. You know, there are lots of other interesting things about me besides my love life or lack thereof.
Hey, you're the one who writes about him all the time. This is why I hate question and answer periods.
Are you and Kilgore Trout, you know, "involved?" Again with my love life? Kilgore is a really swell guy. And a fabulous writer. Kilgore is a serious writer. A real writer. And a funny, intelligent, insightful human being. (Very cute, too, even with those disgusting feet of his. Girls: Hubba hubba - GORGEOUS eyes. Non breeding women in Denver: Don't let this one get by! He will be your little Buttercup and then some.) Ahem. Right. Kilgore is one of the best things to happen to me via blogging. He is an example of why blogging is important and what is good about blogging, the internet and life in the 00's. I never would have met Kilgore had it not been for blogging. Because of my stupid blog and his kind email to me, we have developed a friendship and rapport which I find very difficult to, well, find in the real world. I ignore your question/implication and mention this not to gush about Kilgore (not that there's anything wrong with that, he is gush worthy) but to illustrate the good things that can come from blogging and why blogging is important. Making new, really good friends, like minds, kindred spirits, whom you would never otherwise know existed much less meet is a by product of blogging. And I think/hope the reason a lot of people blog.
When Kilgore Met Trillian: September 29, 2003 Trillian's Guide says: A very worthy outpost in the Universe. Stop in if you're in the neighborhood. Natives are friendly, insightful, witty and intelligent. Nightlife is questionable: Unusual interest in Hamms* beer and the natives appear to be celibate, which concerns us here at the Guide. This friendly little outpost may become extinct. So visit now while you still have the chance. Secret password: Aardvark.
Are you ever going to quit your job? Oh yes. Absolutely. But I am at the point in my career where I don't want to just go to another job because I don't like this one. It may come to that, but I am trying to make a smart, informed, forward stepping career move. Unfortunately, that requires me stepping up the last few rungs of the corporate ladder, rungs which are very difficult to traverse unless you've got a lot of certain credentials and know someone. I am working on both. It's a process not an event.
You are rather clandestine about your personal factoids - you, as in who you are, what it is you do - are cloaked in anonymity. We know you're a tall, large breasted woman with honey blonde highlights. Kilgore always refers to you as "the beautiful" Trillian...(what's up with that? How does he know?) You seem to work in marketing or the arts, but you have an encyclopedic knowledge of music. That's it, we can't paint a very good picture of you. We feel we know you, you seem to write from the heart, and that makes it unsettling - we feel we really know you but have no clue what you look like, what you do, who you are! Are you hiding something?
Safe blogging my friends. Anonymity and privacy are very important to me. I'm not hiding anything other than details which could jeopardize my personal safety or embarrass or hurt anyone. Because I rant about work and sometimes friends and family, I must maintain extreme anonymity. Much as I rage against my co-workers, I don't want hurt them or risk losing my job. Or worse: Scare my parents or angering my friends. Worse still: A reader approaching me on the train or at work or on the street. I know most of you are all really nice, swell people. I'd love to throw a big party and invite every one of you except the h8ers. I think we'd all get along really well and have a great time. I promise, if/when HWNMNBS and I get back together, if there's a wedding, every last one of you is invited, the booze is on me, and I don't want a single gift from any of you. But until then, I think it's best that I maintain anonymity. Protect the innocent. If you're reading my blog, and you like it, for whatever reason, does it matter what I look like? How old I am? Where I work? Have you read my personal ad?
Why don't you have a blogroll or links to other blogs? Two part answer: a) I read a lot of blogs. A lot. Not all are of interest to people here.
b) Longer time readers will remember I had a blogroll and loads of links on my old blog. And as you same readers will remember, it got ugly. Real ugly. In fact maybe I should turn this question over to some of the bloggers I used to link on my blog.
Huh? For a lot of reasons, most of which I cannot explain because I do not understand, a lot of h8ers find/visit my site. Very vocal, mean, ignorant h8ers. Blog Bullies. I can deal with them and delete, but I don't want to subject the mostly really swell bloggers I know to the ignorant h8ers who hang out on my blog. Posting links to other blogs is apparently a license for open season hunting to the bored 20 year old college Sophomores who thrive on being mean to me and then, by association, any blog I link to on my blog.
Oh. Is that why you don't have a comments area? Yep. Any long time readers want to share any of the stories of my comment area on the old blog? No? Me either.
Is that why you left your old site, too? It was a big factor in the move, yes.
Wow. That sounds bad. It was not pleasant. A lot of people suffered a lot of pointless abuse. Sure, we're all strong, confident people with delete abilities, sure, we all ignore and turn the other cheek, but after a while it really bothered me that these guys were harassing the really swell people and good bloggers I linked. This is supposed to be something fun, but these people turn it into a competitive, nasty bullying free for all. It's the ugly, dark side of blogging. Solicited, constructive criticism is one thing, unsolicited, ignorant, hateful bullying is another entirely.
Is your cat's name really Furry Creature? No.
What about Ford? Arthur? Frankie? Benjy? No. No. No. No.
Spanglish? Boob Job? No. No.
You don't blog about Furry Creature very often. Why not? It's not a cat blog. I am one of those cat women, but I also know how boring writing about pets can be to anyone other than the owner of said pet. It has happened a few times, though, here's one of his funnier moments.
What's Vernors? Loosely, it is ginger ale/ginger beer. But it's so much more than that. It's not just any ginger ale/beer, it is Fizzy Ginger Drink of the Gods. It can be difficult to find outside of the state of Michigan, though I've had reports of people finding it in some very far flung places. But only in cans. Yuck. Cans will do in a pinch, but bottles are the preferred container. If you are feeling adventurous, try to find it and heat it in the microwave. Yummy hot toddy! Drink it ice cold on a hot day. Yummy refreshing uncola! Plop a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a tall glass of Vernors. Yummy Vernors float and treat! It's kicky all on it's own, but add a little vodka to a glass of Vernors and you're good to go! There are people, people whom I will not discuss at length, who add rum to Vernors. Either warm or chilled. I will not speak to this method of imbibing, but if you want to try it, knock yourself out.
*Guide intoxicology note: Hamms is a beer so vile, so revolted in the Universe that our beer drinking reviewers feel this native fascination with Hamms may have a direct correlation to the celibacy dilemma facing the inhabitants at Chaotic Not Random . Trillian says, "Can it really be any worse than Old Style? And besides, they have that cute little bear trademark...and wasn't there a jingle?" To which the beer drinking reviewers told Trillian to shut up, forget about marketing for a minute, drink her bloody Old Style and leave the beer connoisseurship to them. Trillian happily obliged to all but drinking her bloody Old Style. Which she is putting off as long as possible.
Guide note: If you should find yourself in an office karaoke situation, go with a television theme. They're typically short, sometimes funny, everyone else is singing along and doesn't pay much attention to you, and no one expects them to be sung well. (well sung?) Another note to get through an event of this nature: Be sure to plan it during a 'crucial' sporting event. Half the office won't show, and of the half that does show up, half of them will be itching to leave or watch the game in the bar, and the remainder will be so drunk or enamored with the karaoke idea their enthusiasm will carry them to feats of unsurpassed embarrassment rendering you safe from scorn, ridicule or the need to find another job the next morning.
*Guide Note: If you've never been to Canada, and you like beer, you're in for a treat with this place . Even non beer drinkers may like the concept of The Beer Store. (don't tell them you don't like beer at the border or at customs, they might not let you in - or out. One of our non-beer drinking, in fact, beer hating reviewers once had a bit of an incident in which a few off duty Canadian cops (not Mounties) insisted she didn't like beer because she'd never had Canadian beer and told her they would detain her until she tried three different real Canadian beers. She obliged, and the reviewer now hates beer even more.) Beer liking/hating notwithstanding, we like the concept of a place called The Beer Store. So Canadian. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Direct and to the point. We like that. We here at the Guide would like to see the concept expanded to all retail outlets in Canada. We'd like to the see the entire country of Canada name everything by it's general noun. The Clothes Store. The Food Store. The Art Store. The Car Store. The Cruller and Coffee Store. The Cheese Curd Store. The Back Bacon Store. The Hockey Stick Store. Sure, it's a bit on the State run socialistic side, but it's Canada. For now, in Qu?bec, of course, it would be "le" everything. Which the rest of Canada might get a cynical chuckle out of because no matter what the store was selling, it would immediately conjure memories of Renault "le car." Try it: Le Beer Store. Le Clothes Store. Le Food Store. What are you thinking of right now? Beer, clothes or food? Or a 70's econobox car, probably brown with "le car" spelled out on the side in giant tan letters? Thought so.
Guide says: Enter if you dare. All things Mullet Faint of head and queasy of stomach are strongly cautioned. Only the bravest should enter, go to "Classifications" for encyclopedic descriptions and photos. Also check out "Picturebooks" then "Mulletfest 2001." For an interactive adventure.
You heard it here first, Trillian's plea to work with Richard Branson which is soon to be a reality show on FOX. Ha! And FOX said I didn't have what it takes to be on their team.
How FOX stole my idea: August 03, 2003, I wrote this for all the Universe to read: For my next job, I want to work with Richard Branson. And no, I don't mean slinging cd's at the Mega Store. I mean literally working with him, by his side, so to speak. I don't admire many business people, but, I like him. And it's not his renegade bad boy thing, either. My impression is that he's very shrewd but not an asshole, which is a very, very rare combination and so people don't know how to label him. (People like labels. It makes them feel safe, confident and superior) Then add in the whole daredevil renegade, wedding gown donning (hey, give him a break. As they say, the British are the first to put on a dress) thing and he's got that reputation. But I like the guy. I think we'd make a great professional teamFormulas only work in algebra and John Irving novels! Surely someone told Simon that?! Or should have...see? I need to be the "bounce the idea off" person. Someone should pay me for my insight and intuition. Richard, oh Richard Branson, yooo hooo are you reading this? Better snatch me up quick before Simon Cowell gets hold of my brain. . I truly think he needs me. It's just that he doesn't realize it because he hasn't had the opportunity to work with me.
And on August 25, regarding ihaventhadsexinthiscentury.com, Simon and Crew overshot the pretty young successful (?) woman looking for love angle. You're not giving us anything we can't see daily on Elimidate.
And then, on Sept. 3, Reality Wednesday, Office Idol! Featuring Richard Branson AND Donald Trump, months before either had their own reality television show, I scripted one out for them. Further reasons to be sure to get your creative commons license. Creative Commons license, try to end blog plagiarism.
November 17: Might there be a tidy sum of class action money in this for me? Mr. Branson? Yoooo hooo, paging Richard Branson...I need a job...your earphone left its condom in my ear...perhaps we can come to an "arrangement?"
Growing impatient and despondent over no job with Richard Branson, I included all possibilities in my obituary. Yes. Dick even made my obituary.
Don't feel like chasing down links? Here's the year in quotes.
Am I the only one who thought Neil Sedaka was dead?
I said happier place, not crappier place.
And what's good for Muppets is good for all of us.
"I don't remember much after that"...funny, that's always what people say. Right after: "It all happened so fast"...Sad to say, it's true. You think you'll be different. You think you're prepared. You think you're smart. You think you're able bodied. You think you'll at least get a good look at the assailant. Then it happens and you realize you're just like everyone else who gets assailed.
Oh yes, there's the problem. That appendage behind my neck isn't my hand after all. It's my left ankle and foot. Ah. That could be the problem. Yes. That's definitely going to be a problem.
Based on this focus group, I cannot even hypothesize how we managed to evolve beyond mono celled zygotes. Which when I think about it, makes a case for a God of some sort. Clearly we had to have some help, prodding, for mitosis to occur. Because left to our own devices, our species would not mitote on their own. "What? Split? Me? I don't think so. Why should I go through mitosis if you're not going to pay me more? And I'm not coming in a minute earlier than my flextime will allow. I don't have to. Besides, what's in it for me? that's what I want to know. I'm not going to be around to see the results of all this evolution ballyhoo, why should I split?"
I've been on the dating scene for enough years and with enough men to have encountered my share of letches, losers and louses. The sight of it on a first date is nothing new to me. But typically it appears at least after a kiss or hand holding - some physical contact, some indication that one or both parties are interested in it coming out.
Never let them know you have breasts, legs or the ability to type.
And by Hell I do not mean Dallas/Fort Worth. That used to be Hell. By comparison Texas is looking like optimistic purgatory.
Until today I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise. We suck, we know we suck, we stand absolutely no chance of winning this thing, yet we come to work every day because maybe someone will notice us and cast us in a bit part somewhere else. And some of us are contractually obligated to be here. We put up with idiot bosses and budget cutbacks and technology that isn?t, Cowell-esque type criticisms from our governing board, and yet, YET, our CEO has the nerve, the stupidity and the gall to try to pump us full of enthusiasm and make us come back next week/month/year for another performance.
What I learned last night is that a broken ankle does not improve one's lap dancing abilities. And, it's a lot more difficult in a bar chair than a La Z Boy.
I'm still afraid of what malady will manifest from the Tab Years.
Not that I expect common thugs to follow any sort of code of ethics.
Shaved Head Billy Goat Beard Man is really pissed off now (bourgeois prats apparently bring out the rage in him - and really, on this point, isn't there a Shaved Head Billy Goat Beard Man in all of us?)
I am emancipated. I am liberated. I am woman. Hear me roar. Hear me scream in pain.
I am a bad ass. I will survive. I will conquer the broken ankle and swollen ligaments. I will break rehabilitation speed records. As God as my witness I will never ride a bus again.
I, Trillian, self admitted shoe snob, bought shoes at Payless.
You know it's time (for the seasonal clothing change) when you notice other people looking really stupid in seasonally inappropriate clothing. And then you take a look at yourself and realize you are just a flippy-slippy skirt away from being seasonally inappropriate yourself.
Shoulder pads came back briefly and have left again. Unless you're in a Robert Palmer tribute band, get rid of them.
Accept that the mates to favorite socks have left and are never coming back. And now it's time for its mate to leave. It's difficult, casting them out, when they've already been left behind by their partner. But you've got to think about yourself. This isn't a charitable home for Socks without Partners, it's a drawer. And many single socks go on to lead very successful and adventurous lives. Set them free.
She now summoned the nerve to look up, sheepishly, and realized the angry mob of snarling men that had formed around her. I don't think she's the type of woman who usually draws a crowd of angry snarling men. I think she's the type used to drawing crowds of adoring salivating men. I am hoping, for all the rest of womankind, that she will be humbled by this experience.
She apparently either wants to impress the celebrity involved in the sponsorship event, or just happens to always dress like next month's cover of Maxim . Difficult to say which. I am quite certain she has never possessed a sweater which smells like goat.
I am going to have to overcome my "That woman who broke her leg while being mugged in the subway" reputation or it's going to stick to me like a bare thigh on a vinyl car seat in August.
Not that I have made any judgments about Coffee and Danish Brother or his sexual orientation. I merely stated the fact that he showed up at the scene of an attack with coffee and danish. Which was very nice and very thoughtful and who doesn't love danish? But. This guy is either the most metrosexual guy on the planet, the epitome of metrosexuality or the girlfriend is a beard.
When you buy a ticket for a class of seat called ECONOMY, what can you expect? The airlines are not pretending that it's anything other than what it is, and they are very open about it. Don't try to dress it up at all. It says, in big red rubber stamp, "ECONOMY, you cheap jujuflub." Well. The "you cheap jujuflub" is implied.
Class: Economy. It should read: Class: None.
This is twice in three days I've looked like an extra from Prisoner, Cell Block H.
I assure you, if a situation arises requiring the opening of an exit door, I'll be the first to get one of them open, faster than you can say floatation device.
Sorry sweetie, those German men in business class will just have to get drunk without you for a few minutes.
Shaving your head doesn't fool anyone. Your male pattern balding is obvious. The hoop earrings do not make you look younger or like a bad ass. They make you look like a middle aged guy with a Mr. Clean fixation. Except you smell really bad. And if you insist on wearing a United jersey, what say you either lay off the brewskis or buy one that fits you without accentuating that nice big gut of yours?
does that extra 12? of recline really make that much difference in your comfort and sleep? Really? Because I would think having your head in a complete stranger's lap with her knees jabbing under you would get uncomfortable after a few hours. But that's just me.
Public Speaking...Clowns...Death...Trillian will take death, please.
Apparently it's not enough for Victoria to show me her secrets in mega paged catalogs two or three times a month, making me feel completely inferior and worthless on many levels. Now she sends me, and me alone, I think, Shoe Book to further mock me and the fact that I cannot wear anything but extra wide Payless shoes. Victoria's Secret Shoe Book? Victoria's Secret? Shoes ? Oh goody, time for my yearly check up. Let me order something from Victoria's Secret for the special occasion. And whiten my teeth so they'll look good when they're clenched during the exam.
I'm not a miss, not yet a ma'am.
Office. Party. Karaoke. Three things that should never, ever combine to join forces. Add alcohol and you've got a real problem on your hands.
I must somehow erase the image, burned into my brain, of a middle aged female colleague doing a Shakira impersonation, rump wiggles and sexual gyrating included. I must manage this before I meet with her to go over a budgeting issue this afternoon.
I'm not making that up, [Road Whiz] is the name of an actual product. Seems like the development people would have nixed that one. Road Whiz? Kind of set up to fail with a name like that.
Do not tempt, scorn, question or mock the Universe and/or especially a God. You will be visited by irony and torture the likes of which you cannot imagine. "You think you're in Hell now?! Well, you ain't seen nothin' baby. You're going to physical therapy!" In fact, from this moment on, instead of "going straight to Hell" I'm now saying, "going straight to physical therapy."
Two cats. Eight paws. Two curtain panels. One human with a broken ankle. The judges do the math.
This iron is apparently manufactured by MicroSoft. Who knew Bill Gates was in the small appliance business?
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; (and for I have endurethed "Kimmie")Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. (and presseth into my broken ankle with an amount of pressure and pain the likes of which thou canest not imagine)Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; (an uncomfortable table with straps and in the middle of a socialized chamber of horrors)Thou annointest my head with oil; (and my foot and ankle with some gooey slime gel stuff which smelleth really bad when joltedeth with electricity) My cup runneth over. (let me tell you brother, in about an hour there's going to be a sacramental cup runnething over in my living room)
I've had so many stylists. My "number" is so high I'm embarrassed to admit it. In fact, I'm not even sure what my "number" is. I lost count a long time ago. Which makes me sound (and feel) like a salon draggletail, but really, it's not me, it's them! I was ready to settle down years ago. I yearn for the stability and security a long term monogamous relationship would offer.
Visualize the stationary bike your grandma had in the sewing room. Add a sturdier base and weird open air ski boot things on the pedals. Now that's a "special bike." ... Who am I to judge the shortcomings of the obvious high tech scale of measure on the "special bike?" But clearly the seat needed to be adjusted. This puzzled "Kimmie." "Maybe we measured you wrong." The girl was not going to admit the magic marker hand drawn scale could possibly be "off" by an inch or two. She loves that "special bike." She'd rather take the blame, claim to have incorrectly measured my height, than admit the "special bike" has any flaws. ("How about the fact that the seatometer was crookedly drawn on in magic marker and probably not exactly ISO standard?" I wanted to ask. I refrained. I did not want to dis the "special bike" in front of these two.)
This might be a good trend, combining lesser retailed holidays with Halloween. The Jimmy Hoffa guy could get a couple of friends to go with him as the Taft-Hartley Act. Perhaps the nay saying Halloween parents could get on board with that. Educational, historical...
We youngest children quietly endure the taunts, the teasing, the mockery, quietly plotting our course of sinister action. I've had years to plan this. Waiting (oh yes, we're a patient bunch, all the psych books say so) for just the perfect conditions to launch our campaign of revenge. Regardless of what my brother inflicted upon me, it was all worth it. Especially now that he has a young daughter. Today, I will unleash upon my brother the horror that is: American Girl. I'm good. I'm really good. Evil could learn from me. They say revenge is a wasted emotion and shallow victory. Tell that to a grown woman who just scored a major coup against her brother's Swamp Thing re-inactment during her 6th birthday party.
(B + C)(F + G + X) /(A + D)/Y + E = Z
A = number of days before event where smaller dress size is required.B = number of people at said event you haven't seen in over a yearC = number of people at said event you have never metD = amount of weight needed to lose to decrease dress sizeE = number of weeks the date of the event (and need for smaller dress size) has been knownF = number of pieces of pizza eaten one week prior to eventG = number of AffyTapples consumed one week prior to eventX = number of unaccountable calories consumed three days prior to eventY = number of calories burned through exercise prior to eventZ = amount of funds available to purchase new larger dress for event
And then it occurred to me: What if my apathy toward death could be enough to bring down the whole plane. Hey. Weird things go through your mind when you're falling through space. The thought that I might be calmly taking all these tormented souls down with me made me feel guilty. Sort of hindered my passivity. "Oh all right, then, if the rest of you do not want to die, I'll live, too." I know. Big of me. Very adult.
In a dream or delusion sequence, the bed is calling out to her in soothing tones. "Temporarily Physically Impaired Friend, come here...I'm warm and comfortable and I want to take care of you." The richly embroidered silk bedding shimmers and beckons saucily with a sexy corner curling like a finger. "Come on sweetheart, come to bed. I've been waiting for you."
Think: Hugh Grant if he were a stupid, foppish, arrogant prat. Oh wait. He is. Basically, Hugh Grant. Only without any charm. Oh wait. Hugh Grant has no charm. Basically, Hugh Grant. Without the looks. Oh wait. Hugh Grant has no looks. Right then. Hugh Grant. Brother of the Groom has also brought along his Girl du Jour. She is likely hired. Brother of the Groom is known for using Escort Services. (huh. also not unlike Hugh Grant.) A woman swathed entirely in Laura Ashley followed by three children in matching Laura Ashley ensembles bursts in next. ... the children are apparently Replicants. And this freaks out Temporarily Physically Impaired Friend. Because nothing even remotely resembling Harrison Ford is within a 100 mile radius of Combes As You Were Manor. Temporarily Physically Impaired Friend vows to keep her distance from the Replicant children at all times. Laura Ashley woman introduces herself as Lucinda. Ah. The Cousin. It is now obvious to Friend and Temporarily Physically Impaired Friend why they have never met Lucinda. Nor heard any mention of her. Bride has obviously been trying to keep her a secret. For good reason. She has Replicant children. Later...(Replicants really freak out Temporarily Physically Impaired Friend this morning, they are all dressed in exactly the same outfits. Girls and boy. Exactly the same clothes. Exactly the same tired expression. Actually, today they look more like Children of the Corn than Replicants.)
Turns out Stacia does in fact dress like an extra in a porn movie. Big surprise.
[I was] suddenly inspired. Rolaids will take care of the whole problem. [I have] never consumed a Rolaid in my entire life. [I] don't even know what Rolaids are for or when they are to be consumed. [I] cannot even place a current Rolaids commercial. [I am] bewildered by my need for Rolaids.
The anticipation of the toy was more than he could handle. Pacing around me as I opened the package, shifting from paw to paw in agitation and anticipation, offering the occasional paw in help, "Hurry up, cut off the packaging already! Hurry up! Use those opposable thumbs of yours! I need it, I need it bad, man! Come on, hurry up! I want my new toy! Please hurry! I can hardly stand it!"
I realize just how closely associated Furry Creature's behavior is with that of men I date. In particular, suckering me in with beautiful eyes, a smile and a joke, taking me down with charm, always getting their way, and, in the end, me cleaning the litter box.
...it's not so much stuff dropped when you came in the door as a monument to stuff. A Tomb of the Unknown Stuff.
A bunch of religious outcasts (read: Bible Thumping Weirdoes) were not free to practice their fringe religion (read: Cult) in England, so they chartered a rickety merchant boat (read: Secondhand Church Bus) to a developing nation known for it's harsh seasons, difficult crop cultivation and hostile (even violent!) natives (read: America) to start new lives. To form a religious community where they were free to practice their beliefs without persecution, the prying eyes of the government and neighborhood gossip. (read: Jonestown or Branch Dividian Compound)
I kicked his Marine butt all the way back to Iwo Jima.
I can argue a good point that Miss Havisham and Scrooge are actually the same character, that Dickens just dressed Scrooge up in a wedding dress and girl's name, fleshed out the broken heart and disappointment issues to further push his point about growing old, bitter and jaded with love lost, and hence, very little hope for certain members of humanity.
I really want to see a Hair Club for Men testimonial from a Mullethead. "My male pattern balding left me feeling unworthy. Hair Club for Men gave me back my Sho-Lo AND my confidence."
Ms. Jones and the Camera Counter Trainee pull out a chart, which is fastened by an industrial strength chain to the Camera Counter. Apparently this is classified information. Can't let those pricing charts get into the wrong hands. The guys down at Super Sav would pay good money for that chart.
Me: Paying Customer. You: Name emblazoned smock wearing employee.
Why does Tim Burton insist on casting his girlfriends in roles for which they are completely wrong? Tim, you're great. You're a visionary. You've made it. You're very wealthy. You no longer have to rely on the "I'll put you in my movie if you'll go out with me" line. Lots of chicks will dig you whether you put them in a movie or not.
Wouldn't it be a riot if the first photos sent back were of a) a crash landed Beagle2, or b) Richard Branson waving and posing on the Martian surface, toasting Nasa with a Virgin? Cola, standing next to Beagle with a Virgin? logo sort of sketchily hand drawn on it? (You can have that one, Dick, yet another gift to you. One of these days you'll have to hire me...
Weird how everyone else's loathing and disdain for work is making me...what's the word? Chipper?
If he looked at his so expensive I couldn't tell what brand watch and sigh and complain one more time I was going to throttle him, choke him with his mocha frappe double kaffe chino. And his wife/girlfriend in her little snow bunny outfit (to the office? girl please) would have to be taken down with him.
Pretend you're a 15-old-girl. And you've just seen something you deem really gross. In the lunch room. Go, "ewwwwww" scrunching up your lips, nose and eyes. Hold that look. (remember, you're a 15-year-old girl). That's how this woman looks all the time. That is her normal look.
Just when you thought it was safe: The Orbiter brings shame, mockery, public ridicule and risk of further injury back to physical therapy.
I discovered why it's really called The Orbiter. The speed increases and sends the treader into orbit.I may have even looked over my shoulder to the other re-habbers with a look of triumphant glee. (See: Wile E. Coyote just before the moment he realizes the anvil is going to fall on him)
The exact physical, cosmic and Hannah Barbara alignments that had to co-align in the precise moment to create the dramatic Jetson's finale are staggering.
SWITCHES ARE MEANT TO BE FLIPPED, AND THINGS ARE MEANT TO HAPPEN WHEN SWITCHES ARE FLIPPED!!!! IT'S A UNIVERSAL RULE, IT KEEPS ORDER IN THE CHAOS!!!
...how is it a little cut, a tiny little cut from a shard of glass, just above my ear, nothing more than a paper cut, really, can create a scene straight out of Helter Skelter ?
I am mere days away from wearing a kilt and Viking horns and a Helga wig and speaking in a brogue so thick no one can understand me. Ebonics? Spanglish? HA! It?s brogue for me! It?s my heritage and there?s nothing anyone should be able to do about it. Or, wait, more annoying, and far less quaint, perhaps I?ll start speaking in Shakespearean Olde English. It is my cultureth and it would suiteth me kindly to speaketh in such mannered tongue.
Detroit ain't all rap-offs and trailer parks.
For the uninitiated, they do not actually exchange currency at currency exchanges in Chicago and much of New York City.
No one in England talks that way, so why, why, why! has this accent been perpetuated and used by everyone, every race, culture and creed when mocking the British or snobs or British snobs?
After my initial, "They are real! They do exist!" reaction, I couldn't help but notice they resembled many of the people waiting in line. (Insert interesting sociological research, statistics and comment here.) And check out the Diva Homie collection. Metallic gold. Bling bling for the little kiddies in the hood.
I recently endured the trauma that is Mary Kay. The Mother of All Pyramids.
I lucked out of her first "party" because I was barely mobile at the time. (That broken ankle is not without it's benefits...)
(on pyramid schemes) "Right, yeah, okay, take a look, I'll give you a call later." And this is true. They will call. Even friends who are usually not the most communicative will ring your phone off the hook. And since they're your friends, they have your cell and work numbers, as well as your email. Shy of a government sponsored witness protection program, there is no escape.
I once had an ex guy I dated, not even an official boyfriend, I mean a way ex guy I dated, a years past and long forgotten guy I dated, get in touch with me. The guy hunted me down through three countries, two continents, five apartments and three jobs. The power of love? Guess again: The power of Amway.
Save yourself while you still can. While you are still sober. Beware Friends Offering Wine and Selling Crap.
It might have been a nice place. It might not have been. No way of knowing under the crates and crates of crap for sale.
I came out of my Mary Kay? experience relatively unscathed. Shocked and slightly disappointed in my friend's enthusiastic zeal for clearly inferior lipstick (so much wax you could stick a wick in it and call it a candle), clumpy mascara (did you say Mary Kay or Tammy Faye?), and the smelliest lotions this side of Coty, but that aside, relatively unscathed. One Satin Hands system later, I'm none worse for the wear.
I hope you have really good lip muscle tone and flexibility, because you must be able to pull your lips back in a Cujo like manner for a heck of a lot longer than 30 seconds. This is why you might not want to do this in front of a would be significant other. This is not a good look. For anyone. Because for some reason it also requires screwing up the rest of your face, too. This is why mad dogs look mad.
*"Smile Teeth." The instruction insert says, "Apply only one thin layer of the gel to each of your top and bottom smile teeth." Except it's not in quotes. Not even italicized or bolded or footnoted. Nope. As if "smile teeth" is a standard, well known expression. I'm pretty up on teeth nomenclature, I'm dentally aware, and yet I have never, ever thought of teeth in terms of "smile teeth" or non "smile teeth." Incisors, cuspids, biscuspids, molars...but "smile teeth?" Apparently "smile teeth" are the teeth that show when you smile. Which for me is all my teeth except the very back molars.
My Payless shoes sat, discreetly slid under the chair in the trendy, sporty or swank shoe emporiums, patiently waiting. Watching. Knowing I was looking for a replacement. Knowing I was playing a sick game, making them take me out shopping for the shoes that would replace them. Embarrassed of them, making them hang back, hide, even, while the shoe store servants were present.
What does Ralph skanking Lauren or any of his Polo poseur posse know about sneakers?
You will be cast aside soon. Probably for sexy, real shoes. Shoes with heels and straps. Shoes she will coyly dangle by her toes. Shoes she will take out to dinner and dancing and drinking. Maybe even some of those boots she takes out of the closet and lovingly, longingly strokes and caresses. And most of all, what's really going to hurt you, are the shoes she will take to the office and keep on that most coveted place: The shoe rack under her desk.
I raced Semper Fi man. I kicked his skinny arse again. Whistling that tune from Bridge Over the River Kwai all the while.
...and who can't sing along to Whitesnake, Here I Go Again? I know, I know, spare me the email. I know it's the epitome of crappy 80's rock anthems. But I dare you to not sing along to it. I dare you. Few can resist it's call. Fewer still can refrain from clenching teeth and straining their necks on the chorus. You're doing that right now, aren't you?
I just assumed there was some sort of contractual understanding that no Smiths or Morrissey song could ever be muzaked. It's just wrong on so many levels.
I could not carry a tune in a basket with a lid fastened with a lock. I have "many charming and wonderful qualities," a childhood church choir leader once said, "but singing is not one of them." (No, Simon Cowell was not the first to criticize young and enthusiastic kids.)
Other people, normal people, would have shut themselves up right then and there, clearing their throats and ducking down another aisle suddenly very interested in merits of various bathroom tissues on sale this week.
I heard a male voice calling my name. "Ignore it, just ignore it. Whoever it is, he's not sure if it's you so just ignore it and get the swut out of here STAT!" I told myself. Berating myself for allowing myself to sing along to muzak in public. To Mike and the swutting Mechanics, no less. (Okay, so it's not as if the Pixies are muzaked, but still...Mike and the swutting Mechanics? Could I be more lame? Yes, you are saying, you could. Uh, Whitesnake ?)...He's right. I have grown up. A lot. So much that I could engage in small talk, nodding head small talk, and walk away. Walk away without giving him my number or email. Walk away without ever wanting to see him again. Walk away knowing, absolutely knowing his vanishing to Budapest was indeed the best that that ever happened to me. Knowing that for once I looked good and the guy looked bad.
Because really, is any sex, and I don't care how good/unique/expensive it is, worth sacrificing even an hour of your life with a woman who is a complete, utter, annoying, pretentious, bossy, rude, arrogant, loud, classless and really not that attractive woman?
you just don't touch other people's underwear in the laundry room.
I've heard this was a good form of birth control...just when things on the album were heating up, the home audience were heating things up, too. And then the end of side 1. "DAMMIT!!! I was just about to make it to second base!" Hastily flip the record or pause while the arm/needle re-cued. Boys, let me tell you, that's all the time it takes for a girl to come to her senses. Pink Floyd and The Moody Blues will only get you so far. While you are flipping the record or it's re-cuing to repeat, our brains are kicking back into gear. We are able to see clearly through the conceptual haze that seduced us. Many of you are now saying, "Thank God for cd's."
MTV killed more than the radio star, they killed the concept album, too.
Thank God the 1970's are over. But don't blame Pink Floyd. Blame your short attention span. Which I blame on fast slick editing, tiny little chunks of music on cds and mp3s and Mountain Dew. You've never had to learn to patiently, steadily lift the needle mid-track without scratching the lp. You've never had to time your bathroom activities to the break in the repeat of an album side. You never had to learn to listen to an entire body of work to understand, grasp and embrace a concept.
It turned to urgent fixation. I was a junkie needing a hit. I had to score and I would stop at nothing to get my fix. My drug of choice just happens to be words and photos and drawings and links and all the other really cool stuff bloggers post. I seductively eyed strangers' laptops in Starbucks. I thought about lying to my host - ?I just need to check my email for a quick minute? when in fact I would be blogging. I even contemplated an...an...an...internet caf?. (choked sob) I know. The shame of it all. That was when I realized I had hit rock bottom. I knew I had a problem.
the blogworld is nice place to visit, maybe even own a time-share there. Just remember to step away from blog once and a while. I promise you won?t regret it.
Then, wrapped in polar fleece, layers of socks and tissue hanging out of our nostrils, we'll sit by watching, uncaring in our Alka Seltzer/NyQuil fog, as they do their dirty work. "Keys to the mint? Sure, there over there. Could you pick up some lemon ginger tea and V8 juice on your way back? What's that? Yeah, I think Dick Cheney's bunker is on the way..." Very subversive these Al Qaida operatives, very subversive. Duct tape and plastic sheeting? Forget it. FEMAs got it all wrong. Stock up on over the counter cold symptom relievers instead.
Embarrassed to admit I knew anything about Rod Stewart or Maggie May or soccer, I just smiled and said, "heh, yeah." Knowing full well she'd got it wrong, that it's You're in My Heart that's about soccer, not Maggie May. But no way was I going to point this out to her. It didn't matter. What would it prove? That I know more about Rod Stewart and stupid songs than she does? Not exactly something I want to prove to anyone.
Stay quiet, do the mature adult thing and not say a word (discretion = valor, valor=much needed karma points) or, go back to the kitchen, pull aside the waiter, explain what happened and show the offending item. (fuss=free meal, free meal=more money to spend at duty free)
I took a good look at the item. It was a piece of an animal. The animal human! The animal ME!
You'd think needles that long would poke straight through your gum and out through your chin. I wonder if dentists in training ever do that? Miss the mark and send the needle straight through the patient's chin. Measure your lower gum to your chin. More or less than 6.5 inches? Mine is much less. Which means if it's not poking out through the chin, that needle is going somewhere a needle was never meant to go.
So let's recap: I'm flat on my back in a reclining chair with headrest. Reclining chair is tilted back such that two more degrees of tilt would be enough to cause me to slide out of the chair landing headfirst on the floor. Except that I wouldn't make it to the floor because: My head is a mere 8 inches from Dr. Dentist's crotch, which is what would break my fall if the two degrees of tilt were engaged. Dr. Dentist's hands, yes, hands, plural, covered in latex, are in my mouth. He's got his head leaned over mine, gazing into my mouth, close enough to kiss me. He's thrusting a long pointy thing into me, over and over. And I've got my knees raised in classic, "brace yourself Betty, there's a big one coming in" position. And Smooth Jazz is playing on the oversized clock radio. Perhaps I'm beginning to understand why people don't like going to the dentist.
I didn't need a collagen injection! My lip is already quite full enough! NO!!!!! You've made a horrible mistake!!! I have a broken tooth! Not a thin lower lip!
You know you're in for it when your dentist makes you wear safety glasses before beginning the procedure.
Maybe it was the Novocain. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was because I fell asleep for a few minutes. But I honestly believe I heard an instrumental version of Muskrat Love.
Then I realized what I had stumbled upon. An entire bin full of such timeless classics as: The Beaverly Hillbillies, A Clockwork Orgy, Red Vibe Diaries, Little Shop of Whores, Assent of a Woman and Trampire. (I'm not making those up, and I'm not giving out links - you're all very clever and tenacious Googlers.)
"No wife of mine is going to be an anti-trust lawyer! I'll get a job at the You May Already Be a Winner sticker plant. They're always hiring." the husband vehemently interrupts."You'd do that? Who are you? Who have you become! Look what this has done to you! Look what DVDs have done to you, to us ! That's just crazy talk! You're better than that! All these years of Be Kind! Rewind! dignity and professionalism and you are willing to just flush it down the toilet with You May Already Be a Winner?!"
I have always found it extremely ironic that Former Friend is so racially bigoted since her own last name is 14 letters long, 11 of which are consonants, and ends in s-k-y.
Ms. McMillian's athletic prowess was not limited to the ice. She was a Space Invaders tournament champion and thumb wrestling devote?. "Those hands, those fingers and that thumb of hers...no one stood a chance against her. Many tried, of course, but when it came to hand dexterity Trillian had natural assets beyond compare. I'm sure that's why she was so good at Space Invaders. And thumb wrestling? I mean please, only a fool would take on Trillian," Trillian's long time friend and one time game manager is quoted as saying.
Except for Bono who is never too bereft to speak. U2 is currently recording a concept album in Trillian's honor and will dedicate several world tours to Ms. McMillian. The project is currently under the working title: Trill-opia.
A week later, when I noticed the blue cast to my lips, I dismissed it as "wow, this cold is really taking a toll on me." Then I noticed my fingers had the same bluish tint of cadavers like you see in "the morgue" on police shows. Synapses fired a bit quicker. Gears chugged into momentary motion. "That's probably not a good thing. That's probably a really bad thing. In fact, I probably ought to see a doctor."
Aw geeze, do we really have to bring up the pathetic nature of my home life NOW?
I lied. Because I was not going to the Village of the Damned. Never, ever again. Never.
I managed to get through the night alive, and even rallied a bit in the morning. Funny that. The morning you are going for a haircut your hair cooperates and looks spectacular. The morning you are going to the doctor, you wake up feeling better. Pay no attention. These are last minute attempts by your body to make you look stupid. If you cancel the haircut appointment, your hair will look worse than ever the next day. If you cancel the doctor appointment, you will die.
I have had so many x-rays in the past year I suspect the bluish tint I have acquired may be radiation poisoning.
If I could take a deep breath and hold it for three minutes I wouldn't need a chest x-ray, now would I?
Instead I was pretty much nonplused. And nearly nonpulsed.
I always forget London is abroad, and I wasn't really in the kind of mood to discuss my vacation.
I have no problem with denial. I'm really good at denial. So good that I don't even know I'm in denial.
They don't have a pamphlets on SARS, anything to prepare you, like, "How to Talk to Your Friends About SARS" or "Now that You Have Been Given the SARS All Clear" or "Relax. It's Just Pneumonia." They just sort of left me dangling out there with: The good news is you don't have SARS. Yes. It is very good news. Even better news since I hadn't even considered it until they told me I didn't have it.
I'm not a bitter shrew because my friends are all married. I'm a bitter shrew because of my own failures.
"So, then, what exactly is it you're looking for in a man?" people ask. "The usual. I guess. Whatever. A guy," is my response.
WOMEN LIKE HAIR. Hair is the male equivalent of boobs. A lot of men don't have much hair. IF YOU'VE GOT IT, FLAUNT IT.
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!
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 .
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.)
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.
You're beyond Oprah and sliding toward Jerry Springer. Just so you know. Even Dr. Phil won't touch you now.
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) 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.
I see these girls, with their mothers (often dressed similarly) and I sum up their future and life story. Tries first cigarette at age 11. Lets a 15 year old boy "cop a major feel" by age 13 (by now she's up to a pack a day), followed a few months later by her first weed. Learns the healing powers of Smirnoff at 14. Simultaneously becomes proficient at blow jobs. Fully loses her virginity by 15. Pregnant by 17. High school drop-out. Either finds herself at a party where some important record people are and freakishly becomes an international pop icon of the moment in the form of the latest Britney Spears or, for the rest of the 99.9%, move to a trailer park (single wide) on the wrong side of 8 Mile.Did I not get the memo? When, in what Universe, did the terms "sexy" and "girls sizes 4-6X" join and become "okay?"
This is a new low (or something...) in my chinese fortune cookie history. Chinese language lessons? Maybe this is a roundabout way of telling me: You will learn a new language. Or maybe: You pathetic loser, we've run out of stupid introspective pith to tell you so we're just saying anything at all. Next time we'll tell you something like The cement is porous. Leave. Now. Go away. Don't come back here. There's nothing here for you. We've done all we can. Just. Leave.
I always thought the one good thing about being a villain was that you got to wear a really cool costume. (Let's face it, the villains always have the best costumes.) The bad things about being a villain are obvious: They've got issues. Big issues.
That's why I'm one of the more evil villains, I'm very subtle. Our secret meetings where we plot to take over the world, the ones where I brainwash them and they fall under my spell, are cleverly disguised as HR seminars held in airport hotel conference centers around the world.
Julie, at 12, was already really slutty. Come to think of it, Julie was slutty when I first met her, when she was 7. I wish I could say she was knocked up before her Sweet 16.
And the Grand Pubah of No: "They're not good for your feet or legs or back."
Forgive me Father for I have shopped. It has been 19 days since my last purchase of consumer goods.
To put it bluntly, no self respecting Barbie would be seen with my Kens. However, I was ahead of most of the other girls because I actually had Kens and a Brad. So we made do. Our cool Barbies dated nerds with plastic molded hair.
Ooo-oooh that smell. That smell of newly injected plastic.
mustering all my courage, thinking news of the Francine Incident might not have reached the North Pole, I asked Santa for a new Francie. I dared not ask for a Ken, too. And since none of the other girls had even one Ken, I figured I could coast until my birthday with my existing Kens and dorky Brad. Besides, asking for a male doll was, well, I mean, I just wasn't that sort of girl. Kens are to be given without solicitation. A nod from mother/aunt to the girl's prepubescent blossoming womanhood. I held my breath from October to December 24th. I regretted my error in Santa judgment immediately. How could I have been so stupid to ask for a replacement toy? What was I thinking? I worried that Santa might get wind of the Francine Incident. To the uninitiated, Francie is Barbie's cousin. Sometimes really square, sometimes really mod. She hasn't been seen or heard from since about 1978. I suspect she's a Keds wearing soccer mom in Wilmette. P.J. was the very fast (slutty) friend of Barbie. She's come and gone over the years, my guess is in and out of re-hab. Last I heard she was living in Sedona selling crystals and aligning chakras.
Old fashioned Midge who was old and square when she arrived with my sister's discarded Kens and Brad would never tolerate Mod Hair Ken. She already didn't approve of all the Malibu gang. The sorority mother of the Barbie Dream Townhouse (with elevator), she'd oust Mod Hair Ken from the Townhouse faster than the neighbor's dog who loved to abduct fashion dolls. ...there he was. Under our Christmas tree. Looking smart in his brown and white plaid sport coat, white snap-on dickie and tan polyester slacks with attached belt. And real, synthetic hair. Luscious synthetic locks shining and waving in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. None of this injected molded and painted stuff. No. This was Barbie worthy hair. His hair accessories were arranged on the pull down tray in front of him. Adhesive mutton chops, two different mustaches, and a beard/mustache combo, a brown ascot to wear instead of the dickie (for when Ken went to Monte Carlo) and a brush and comb. A Ken who arrived with a brush and comb! His white Pepsodent teeth smiling at Malibu P.J. (with tan lines!) by his side. ... Even if there wasn't a mistake, even if it really was all for me, even if Santa had for some reason chosen to so generously gift me with all of this, my parents would neve allow Mod Hair Ken to stay. P.J., scantily clad, with those tan lines and funky sunglasses, would probably not be welcome in our home, either. The call would go like this: "Santa? Yes, this is Mrs. McMillian. Seems you left a lot of toys for our daughter Trillian. Yes. Trillian. Right. Two l's. Yes, I know about Francie. That's why I'm calling. I think there's been a mistake. There's a Barbie plane, a P.J. with tan lines, no less, an Air France Stewardess doll. Yes, that's right, Air France. From the airplane. And this Mod Hair Ken fellow....""Is that Santa on the line?" my father would interject, "Let me talk to him. Santa? Mr. McMillian here. Just what are you getting up to with this Mod Hair Ken? Trillian doesn't deserve one as mod and expensive as him. Besides, she's already got Kens and some Brad chap, and Santa, I don't think I have to tell you, they're, ah, they're boy dolls. Trillian's not really old enough. Yes. Yes. Of course. Yes. We didn't realize until our son brought it to our attention. I see. Yes. You'll have someone pick it up tonight. Box it up? Sure. We'll just leave it there on the hearth. I'll have my wife call Julie's mother and explain what happened. Yes. Merry Christmas to you, too!" I don't think I've ever hated my brother more than I did at that moment. Once my parents knew about the mistake, they'd be in touch with the North Pole. It was all over. The jig was up.
Then my brother made it worse.He "investigated" Mod Hair Ken.In front of my parents."Is this guy 'correct'?!" I had no idea what he was talking about, but I knew it wasn't good. I knew he should not be talking about whatever it was in front of my parents.So all that schoolyard talk was true. He had facial hair and something else. Down there. In his polyester slacks with attached belt."And he's wearing a dickie?! You wouldn't let me keep Secret Agent Man, but you let her have a correct doll wearing a dickie?!" For some reason the dickie really got to him. I didn't understand why.At this my parents burst out in fits of laughter the likes of which I had never witnessed.Through fits of hysterics, my mother said, "And...he's....got...ha ha...stick on...titter titter...facial...hair!" HA HA HAMy dad was turning purple trying to contain his laughter in front of me.My brother, past the injustice of it all, was laughing, too.And then uttered the infamous words, "Is he hairy all over? Does he come with a chest wig?"At the thought of this my parents were beside themselves. You hear that expression a lot, but my parents were actually beside themselves over this. My dad was bursting in fits..."chest..guffaw guffaw...wig...HA HA HA!"My mother, trying to regain composure and sensing my distress, said, "Trillian, it's all for you, dear, it's yours. Santa left it all for you. Now fetch Ken's facial hair and bring it here. Let's see how he looks with a beard." 10:15 AM
