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
Yep. I know you guys all suspected as much, and here, exposed, is the truth.
We put on cheap and tacky costumes and stand around drinking brightly colored martinis in our moderne furnitured living rooms just waiting for the UPS guy, the pizza boy or YOU to ring the bell.
I thought revealing this truth was against The Code (you know, the XX Code), but apparently Fredericks has been granted permission to break the silence after all these years. I'm just passing it along in case you didn't get the memo.
11:03 PM
I’m in Exile
It will come as no surprise that I’ve been a little “out of it” the past few weeks. I’ve been trying to keep my head above water, at least stay afloat, but I know I’ve not been as sharp as I usually am. I haven’t missed any appointments or deadlines and generally my work hasn’t suffered. (Of course no one ever thinks their work is suffering...)
Somehow, some way (okay, go ahead, blame my (needs a new nickname) boss) the fact that a Very Important Client was going to be in the office yesterday and today escaped my attention. This is not a client I deal with, at least directly, so I’m not in on the meetings and lunches.
No big deal, right?
Wrong.
I saw the client team in the office yesterday. They were taking a tour of the new office, being introduced, the usual. I met one of them last year, so I made my polite hellos and small talk, directed one of the team to the ladies’ room...and went about my usual business with other projects and clients.
It’s Friday.
I’ve been a bit, well, remiss with my laundry and dry cleaning.
I’m going out after work.
I haven't had my ear to the rail in terms of what's going on with other clients and meetings and general stuff in the office.
Okay. Enough with the excuses.
I wore jeans, sandals showing off my purple haze pedicure, and a “rock and roll forever” t shirt under my blazer.
Normally, for other people, this would be a completely acceptable Friday outfit in my office. Lots of girls have been wearing little lacy, slinky, satiny, silky lingerie tops under under blazers with jeans and Jimmy Choo sandals. I opted for that look a few times, too, sans jeans, avec skirt or regular trousers. I don’t usually wear jeans to work, even on Friday, especially after what happened the last time I wore jeans to work, but, well, I don’t know, for some reason today I just did. And didn’t think anything of it. Everyone else does it all the time.
But.
The Very Important Client is in the office again today.
I’m the kind of person who is old fashioned about this sort of thing. I firmly believe clothing does make a serious first impression on people, particularly in business situations. I don’t mean that in terms of quality or expense. I mean it in terms of style and fit. Sad as it is, if you want to be taken seriously, I think you need to dress seriously. Even in creative fields. You can be stylish and still business appropriate. You can dress inexpensively and still be business appropriate. For me the rule of thumb is: Will they notice my clothes before and after they notice my work? If the answer is yes, it’s not business appropriate clothing. Much as I love some of my clothes and shoes, especially the more edgier of my clothes, when I am presenting work to a client, I do not want them thinking, “hmmmm, I like that dress, I wonder where she got it...that would look great on me...” or worse, “hmmmm, getta loada the rack on her!”
Everyone expects creative people to dress “differently.” But that’s no excuse. If you’re a great artist or writer or singer, do you want people to remember your clothes or your art, words or music? Search deep into your soul before you answer that.
Right.
So I wear an uncustomary outfit into the office today and of course, more mockery and irony from the Universe. The Very Important Client is in the office all day again today. And my (needs a new nickname) boss wants me to go to lunch with them. At a very swank restaurant.
I was mad. Really mad. “Look at me!” I yelled at her, pointing at my “rock and roll forever” shirt, “I didn’t know they were in again today! You might have mentioned this to me, you might have told me about the lunch thing. If you really want me to go I have to go home and change clothes. Which will take time away from the project for the Much More Important Client I am working on, you know the one with the very tight deadline we’ve all been knocking ourselves out to meet?”
She didn’t get it.
She never does. She’s not exactly the most business appropriate person. In any sense, let alone fashion. She likes Twinkies.
To be fair to her, I have established myself as being reliable about this sort of thing. I am an easy, safe token female, token creative to trot out for the clients. I don’t typically embarrass myself or my company. I’m not a flake. I have good manners. My hair is usually a color close to something considered “natural.” I don’t wear jeans and t shirts emblazoned with “rock and roll forever” across my chest to the office and open toe sandals with purple haze pedicure.
After my little blow up, she relented and said, “That’s okay, you don’t have to go. I didn’t feel like going to lunch with them but I’ll go. (oh gosh, you’re such a saint) I forgot about that deadline (how the swut could she forget about that deadline?) you just stay and work on that, don’t worry about lunch.”
Don’t “worry” about it? They’re not even my swutting client! Gee, thanks for the reprieve, boss. Whew, thanks a lot.
I wish it could end there.
But this is me. So of course there’s more.
My division manager happened to turn the corner in the hall as I was walking down the hall. It’s a long corridor. Giving him lots of time to size me up. There is nowhere to turn, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
“Morning.” he said to my be-sandaled feet with purple haze pedicure.
“Hi!” I said as chipper and unaffected as possible.
His gaze lifted slowly from my purple hazed toes, up my jeans and landed on my “rock and roll forever” shirt.
“Are you in on the lunch with Really Important Client today?” he asked, clearly worried.
“No, I’m up to my ears on the (other) account, that deadline is really beating down on us.”
(visibly relieved) “Ah, right, how’s that going?”
“This is a rough project for all of us, but I think we’ve got some really great ideas if they’ll commit to a slightly bigger budget.”
“So you’ll be in your office all day?” he asked hopefully.
“Yeah, sure, stop by any time, I’ll show you what I’ve got so far.”
“Uh, maybe Monday. I’m going to be busy with Really Important Client all day today.”
“Right. Of course. (sensing a hint of, well, something with a tone, feeling a need to make an excuse or apology) "I didn’t know they were going to be in all day today, too.”
Silence.
Awkward silence.
“Right, well, stop by when you get a chance, I’d like you to see what I’ve done on the project.”
Silence.
And this is why I say: Clothes matter.
And why I am in exile in my office.
Learn from this. Don’t let this happen to you
10:50 AM
Thursday, September 09, 2004 Return of the Photoblog Much to the dismay, chagrin and agony of long time readers, I am reinstituting CHIWTSYS.
Some of you will remember this from blogs past.I can see you rolling your eyes and I can hear you groaning. So no need to email me. Just. Don’t. Click. The. Links. M’kay? Just don’t go there.
Blogspotters have not yet experienced the drama, intrigue and sheer boredom that is CHIWTSYS.
What is CHIWTSYS? they may be asking.
CHIWTSYS is an old photoblog I used to post. It’s an acronym for Come Here, I Want to Show You Something.
It’s a cheap, easy way for me to post the gajillion photos and video clips I snap. It’s a place where I will post whatever the swut I feel like posting. Don't get all excited, there will be no incriminating photos or video clips. At least not intentionally incriminating. You won’t see photos of my friends and family or coworkers. You will not see full on photos of me, though parts of me will be exposed.
Why are you reinstating CHIWTSYS? Because I never intended to cease CHIWTSYS forever, it only went on public hiatus. Because I’ve still been posting photos all over the Universe. Because I ran out of space on my other sites and albums, started a new one and decided to make it public. Because after spending months on crutches I was really excited to be more mobile and photo snappy again. Because I get sick of emailing photo attachments hither and yon. Because, don’t forget, I’m an artist and sometimes the need to express myself overrides the need to refrain from boring the pants off the Universe. Because I am trying to keep my mind off HWNMNBS. Because I am trying to remember how my life was before I met him. (Not that I changed when I met him...maybe if I had things would be different...) Because, dammit, I just feel like it, okay?
You already author three full time blogs, Trillian, do you really have time for this? I’m not marrying the swutting thing, I’m just trying to get some organization in my life and creating one place for everyone to get a microencapsulated view of what’s going on with me. Meaning, yes, people I know, friends and family, may be stopping by to check out the blog. (Keep that in mind if you post comments - my mother might be reading them. She’s cool, but she’s my mum. Show a little respect.) I’m getting really sick of attaching this photo and that one to emails here and there, directing one person to that album, another somewhere else and another to a website. I snap lots of photos daily anyway. It takes me seconds to post them. This is a true photoblog in that the photos will be stand alone posts with very few words. I know, I know, you’re all thinking, “No way can Trillian refrain from a lot of words.” Guess again. Come here, I want to show you something.
Trillian, you took a lot of guff for it, you know, before...are you sure you want to open yourself up to that again, especially now, you know, what with HWNMNBS and everything? The guff wasn’t horrible, just uncalled for. H8ers are a fact of my life. Everyone’s a critic. Amongst the guff were some helpful comments and occasional bits of insight and a lot of fun. Blogs have come a long way since then. People are more used to random photos now. I just feel like it, okay?
Is Oh! The Places I’ve Gone returning?! Yep.
Will there be a The Furry Creature Who Lives With Me section? Duh.
So, um, are you going to reinstate, um, you know, the sh*! of the day photos, too? Check out today's post.
But... My site, my sh*!.
There are actually three sites involved with CHIWTSYS. There’s the blog which will feature a photo or two a day (ish). Click on the eye (yes, that's my right eye you're jabbing at with that pointy arrow) on my sidebar to link to my CHIWTSYS blog. Mainly my shoes and where they take me. And other obtuse stuff I observe. On that blog you will find links to a website (“Wanna see something else?”) and Flickr.
The “Wanna see something else?” link will take you to a little web site which has pages devoted to some of the highlights and other stuff which doesn’t get posted on the blog. Shoe lovers, foot fetishists, cat fanciers and people otherwise desirous of having their pants bored off them will want to stop into the website. It’s the same site from years ago, but on a different host and with (for now) fewer pages. Here’s where to find fascinating video of my cat and other mundane stuff. (There is currently a video clip of my Polo Poseur sneakers going for a ride posted on the Oh!... page.)
And finally, there’s Flickr, where the photo enthusiasts and voyeurs might want to visit. There is some swutting amazing photography on Flickr (not mine, silly, other peoples’). If you’re using Hello (Picasa) you might want to check out Flickr. A) It’s Mac friendly, B) there’s a whole huge community of super nice people and really great photography and a lot of just interesting, funny, typical snapshots, and C) It’s just better. Even if you don’t blog or photoblog, you might want to check out Flickr for some great photography and art. Oh sure, Yahoo! and all the others have those photo albums, and they’re good, but Flickr is better for kicking it up a notch.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
So I’m getting a new photoblog going (more later) on Blogger.
Right now the actual new blog is not the issue.
The issue for today is: Which issue is it? Is it “What the swut is wrong with the world?” or, “What the swut is wrong with me?”
I suspect the issue is the latter. Because it’s almost always the latter. Because it’s almost always me who is the odd one out. (Look no further than yesterday’s post.)
I’m not big on blog profiles. I’m neither narcissistic or voyeuristic enough to bother with them. I don’t presume anyone cares about my favorite things, and I’m not terribly interested in complete strangers’ favorite things. Most blogs I read tell me everything I need or want to know about the author in their posts. I figure my posts are telling enough about me for the casual reader to glean the basics.
I like that. I don’t want it all encapsulated in a tidy little profile page. I like to think we’re all more complex than that. I like to give everyone an ounce of credit for their intelligence without having to make assumptions by their movie, music and reading preferences. Profiles cause judgements. I don’t like to judge. Or to be judged. At least not based on a few banal categories posted on a blog profile.
Call me a snob (go ahead, do it, other people do, you might as well, too) but I would be very disappointed to learn one of my favorite bloggers likes Jackie Collins. I’d still read their blog, but that Jackie Colliins thing would always be in the back of my mind. Maybe eventually I could think of it as a funny little quirk of an otherwise funny, intelligent person.
But I’d still think about it.
Worse, it shames me to admit, if I read a profile of a blogger before I read their blog and saw Jackie Collins listed as a favorite, I probably wouldn’t saunter over to their blog.
I know. I told you to call me a snob.
But I’m not a snob. So I’d just rather not know.
You don’t know me. But if you’ve read a few posts you’ve probably ascertained I can be caustically sarcastic, I am far too sensitive about certain things and people, I deal with a job I dislike because “that’s just what you do,” I adore my cat, I get myself into some very bizarre situations, my life is nothing if not ironic, I have some pretty darned good friends, I love music, I am known to imbibe on occasion, I don’t see the world through the same eyes as a lot of people.
My new blog setup asked me if I wanted to post a profile. I declined by habit. But I had a glass of wine in me and a semi-wicked streak came over me and thought I’d post a bunch of crap on my profile.
You know, just for fun.
I claimed to like Rambo, Clay Aiken, Jackie Collins, Sidney Sheldon and moonlit strolls on the beach.
I did the little link match thing to see what other bloggers liked Rambo, Clay Aiken, Jackie Collins and Sidney Sheldon and moonlit strolls on the beach. The results were, of course, staggering. Thousands of people like them enough to list them on their blog profiles.
I got scared. Worried more than ever about the fate of the Universe.
I thought, “Someone is going to see me listed as a Jackie Collins fan and link to my blog. Boy won’t they be surprised!”
It was a funny inside joke. Me, my profile, listed there with all those other Rambo, Clay Aiken, Jackie Collins, Sidney Sheldon and moonlit strolls on the beach loving bloggers.
But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t leave that out there. I couldn't have myself seen in that light. (I said call me a snob.)
I entered the real deal hoping no one saw the first posts and hoping for instant redemption.
I surveyed my new profile.
Me: Encapsulated.
I wrote the first things which came to mind. I didn’t dwell or think about it too hard. After all, these are a few of my favorite things. It shouldn’t be difficult or time consuming.
I did the little link match thing to see what other bloggers liked the same books and movies I do. The results were, of course, staggering.
For very different reasons than the first set of false favorites.
The reading favorites scare me the most. Turns out I am the only blogger (who has a posted profile) who likes Muriel Spark. I am the only one who likes OSX: Missing Manual. Two of us like Pastoralia. Three of us like Room with a View. There are six or seven of us who like Will Self. And apparently only two of us have a more than passing interest in the history of punk. (Sebastian in Peru, let’s chat!)
The movie choices I thought I could dismiss. I mean, it’s movies. It’s a subjective category. Some of my best friends, intelligent, funny people, like really awful movies. So I don’t judge myself or anyone else by the movies they like. Per se.
But only three of us like Below? (I suspect only three of us saw Below.)
The fact that I am the only one who listed some of these choices on my blogger profile did come as a a surprise. There are millions of bloggers. I cannot be the only one who thinks Girls of Slender Means and Loitering with Intent are two amazing pieces of literature. And the OSX Missing Manual? Come on, the book’s sold millions. I have long suspected I am the only blogger who uses a Mac. This may confirm it. But Room with a View? It’s an Edwardian classic. There was that Merchant Ivory adaptation. Yet only three swutting people list it as a favorite? What the...?
I was heartened to learn 14 of us saw and liked Scotland, PA enough to list it as a favorite. And 40 of us like Shallow Grave. And a jury of 12 of us enjoy reading Our Man in Havana.
I sat there metaphorically scratching my head.
Are these results skewed because people like me are like me in that they don’t bother to post profile data? They’re out there but not posting profiles?
Or do I just have really obtuse taste in movies and literature?
The truth is out there and lies somewhere in between.
But it did make me think. This is been exactly my problem my entire life. I can’t fit in, no matter how hard I try. When I try to fit in, tow the party line, I’m not happy. I’m not true to myself. I feel like I’m lying. I feel insincere. I don’t like me. I don’t ring true. So generally don’t bother trying to fit in and certainly don’t worry about whether I do or do not.
"Just be yourself, dear."
But in light of recent events, I’m spending far too much time examining myself, my choices, and what the swut is wrong with me so that I can fix it. And this little adventure in profiling made me realize this could be an issue. I bet all those Clay Aiken, Jackie Collins - o - philes have good jobs and spouses and homes and happiness. They fit in. They have the security of not worrying about being thought of as weird. They are blissfully ignorant. They don’t have to choose to be silent or search for appropriate responses at cocktail parties and work functions because they don’t like or even understand the movies, books and music which are all the rage. They don’t have to endure painful moments of listening to music, reading books or watching movies they hate for the sake of trying to be normal, trying to fit in. They don’t have to silently suffer a lot of personal indignity and shame while trying to pretend they’re perfectly happy bowing to the lowest common denominator. They don’t have to want to be normal so badly they stifle every word and attempt to squash every thought that is not in the accepted mass appeal and reading level. They’re happy. Content. A few are smug. They will live happy, mass appeal lives.
I wrote it and I meant it, I’m not judging. Good for them. Very good for them. I wish I could find a place like theirs. I wish I had a life like theirs. I try. I try really hard.
So I am left with a dilemma of conscience. Do I keep my favorites posted, apparently obscure choices, out there in the blog Universe? Or do I stick to my usual and gut feeling of not posting a profile at all? The latter rings more true to my personality, but the former gives a hint to my personality.
Do I care what anyone in the Universe thinks about me based on my film, music and literature preferences?
No.
That should be my answer.
But I suddenly feel I should stand up and make my voice heard among the small group of unpopular profile choices.
"Stand for something or fall for anything."
Someone, somewhere, will conduct research on blogs and bloggers. (There is always research and it is always conducted.) They will discover how many bloggers like Jackie Collins and Clay Aiken. They will write us off as a bunch of small minded, miserable, ranters who lack a real social life or functioning brain. The blog community will be publicly shamed.
But do I really care? No. Not really.
Whatever.
But the whole greater good thing is nagging at me.
What to do, what to do....
(If you haven’t treated your brain to the words and thoughts which are Will Self, do something about it. Now.)
8:05 AM
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
The Universe continues on its unending quest to mock me.
Sadie, the stupid, loud, obnoxious, very, very, very overweight (easily a 300 pounder) without a pretty face or nice personality, the one who talks like she just left Dogpatch yesterday, the one unable to handle even the smallest responsibility at work, is now sporting a mega carat engagement ring.
Yes. The man really exists. He’s attended a few work functions in the past few months. He’s a normal, good looking, average weighted, seemingly nice, seemingly in possession of a functioning brain, seemingly “a good catch” by modern standards kind of guy.
And he’s decided stupid (very dimly witted), whiny, overweight, not good looking under all the weight, loud, bitchy, Sadie is the one he wants to spend his life with, to be the mother of his children and apparently wants by his side forever more.
Jealous?
You bet I am.
The timing, of course, couldn’t be worse.
I spent the last five days in a drug induced haze trying to die and failing that, then trying to forget everything I ever knew about love, HWNMNBS and how happy I was.
Only to be greeted with the OHMYGODS! and gasps at the ring and the hugs for Sadie and the nonstop chatter and babble of their wedding plans and oh isn’t it all so wonderful?! And we’re all so very happy for her! (And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt everyone in this office is wondering “what the...?” and “how the...?” and I know soon the catty emails will be flying about Sadie and who in their right mind would marry her. It’s not just me who cannot stand this woman.) But outwardly everyone, yes, even me, is gushing and ooohing and ahhhing and hugging and gushing and being ever so happy for Sadie. (okay, I didn't exactly gush, but I congratulated her with kind words which I think rang sincere.)
I then quickly retreated to the ladies' room and then my office where I have spent the last hour and a half in my office alternately sobbing and going over each and every detail of me, of HWNMNBS, of our dating, engagement, break-up, back together trial, break-up and comparing every detail to Sadie and her betrothed and wondering why Sadie and not me?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not jealous of her fiancé. Sure, he’s a “good catch” but I don’t want him.
I’m jealous of their life. Of their engagement. Of their happiness. Of their success.
Because if Sadie can do it, anyone can. I mean anyone.
Except me.
Apparently, Sadie, in all her break the scales weight, her not so pretty face, not a nice personality, dim witted, loud, obnoxious glory is better than me. She is not only allowed to keep a job for which she is not legally certified (or even capable), but also earns more money “doing” that job than I do at mine (for which I am above and beyond qualified, certified and capable). And now she’s got a “good catch” fiancé. Soon there will be a big lovely wedding. And nice home. And lots of children.
She has succeeded gloriously where I have failed abysmally.
I know it’s no good, no use, to compare. We're different people. Different lives. I know that. But how can I not compare when it’s being flaunted in front of me at the worst possible time?
My take on this?
In its pursuit to mock me and my life, the Universe must have a check and balance system to keep its karma and conscience clean.
HWNMNBS is taken away from me, in a very horrible way, for very hurtful reasons.
Check.
An ugly, fat, dim witted, mean, whiney girl must be given a wonderful husband and life.
Balance.
One very happy girl looking forward to a long and happy life.
Another choking sobs in the bathroom waiting to die.
Karma in the Universe.
Post-it Notes:
I don’t know if she’s good in bed. I don’t want to know if she’s good in bed. I work with this woman, people. Please. Don’t make me go there.
I’ll say this once and then you can all leave me alone about her sexual prowess. I’ll put in my observation based on what I’ve observed and learned about her while working with her.
The facts:
She’s lazy. Without doubt or hesitation the laziest person I’ve ever worked with.
She has a ready list of excuses to get out of doing anything she doesn't want to do.
She’s dumb. She couldn’t finish her Myers Briggs exam during our retreat. By her own (loud, just off the Dogpatch local bus) admission she “couldn’t read the questions fast enough” and didn’t “understand most of them.”
She’s had one boyfriend, “several” years ago, prior to the fiancé. (by her own loud admission)
She proclaims (loudly) that she tried exercise once and won’t ever make that mistake again.
The only time she leaves her desk is to get food.
She takes a cab from the train station to our office. It’s three blocks.
She gets gasping for air winded walking (at a snail's pace) to the vending machines.
Not just her thighs, but her entire legs rub together when she walks.
She sweats. A lot. Just by sitting at her desk talking or eating.
She “retains a lot of water” and cannot bend fully at the wrist, fingers, waist, elbows, knees...
If she’s not gabbing (whining) (loudly) on the phone, she’s eating (loudly). Mostly crisps and cookies - loud, messy, crumbly things.
She exclaims (loudly) “Ewwwwww that’s so gross!” a lot. I mean a lot.
And leave me alone about being anti-fat. This is not about her weight issues. This is about her sexual ability. She can double her weight or lose half of it for all I care, but there are laws of physics and basic functions and movements her body size restricts. Like being tall, short, extra small...there are certain physical limitations to her body size.
