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
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Ms. McMillian is having difficulty posting words which will pass the review of the censorship, erm, editorial board.
"if you're looking for holiday cheer on this blog, well, you've come to the wrong blog" she was heard uttering.
Ahem. Ms. McMillian is staring down the business end of a nasty, horrible deadline. Yes. Her job is so fun and cool that she gets to have really important deadlines during the holidays. So while you're out enjoying the break between Christmas and New Year, raise a glass to Trillian who could probably really use a drink right about then because she's working to make her client and her boss and The Company happy and fiscally healthy.
She did mention some of you might like to read or re-read a few posts from the archives. The Mod Hair Ken post seems to be a favorite, if you're looking for a good version of A Christmas Carol, Trillian reviews a few here. And if you've heard about some St. Andrew thing going on, the roots of it can be found here.
She also said it's not too late to order from Amazon, Trillian's got a few gift ideas here.
7:59 AM
Monday, December 20, 2004
I've had a lot of weird stuff happen to me in my lifetime. Hence Life(?) of Trillian.
A lot of it man/dating related.
You know how people say, "just when you think you've seen/heard it all..." and then tell you something to top all weird behavior? Thus proving none of us have or ever will see it ALL. I've seen a lot of it. I thought I'd seen or heard most of it.
And then I went on a another date.
Why do I do this to myself?
I swore off men forever.
No more dates.
No more hope.
No more sex.
Nothing.
To do.
With.
Men.
And then I met this guy.
And then another one emailed me.
Both seemed, you know, maybe, dateable.
The guy I met asked me out.
This in itself is huge.
I actually met a guy in a normal way (at a party), we talked, he was interested in me, asked for my phone number, rang me, we talked, and he asked me on a date. This is normal. This is the way people meet, date, fall in love, blah blah blah. For a brief shining moment I felt like a normal human being.
But I'm me. And that shining moment was, of course, very brief.
I met the guy after work, drinks and dinner.
He was on time. He snazzed himself up real nice. He used the gentleman manners his mother obviously taught him.
We ordered drinks.
He turned to me, took my hand, looked deep into my eyes and said, "I brought you a present."
"A present? For me? You shouldn't have!" (sincere shock, oh swut, I didn't bring him a present. I didn't know we were exchanging gifts this year...)
"Just a little something, nothing really." (proffering a square, prettily wrapped box)
"Gosh, it's too pretty to open!" It was wrapped all pretty, the expensive store gift wrap counter kind of wrapping. Nice, thoughtful, maybe a bit too much too soon, but very thoughtful.
"It is pretty, isn't it? But go on, open it." (looking back, this is the first hint that something unusual was about to happen. He said, "It is pretty, isn't it?" in a sort of weird, too thoughtful kind of way.)
Gingerly opening the gift, sincerely trying to save the wrapping because, well, okay, fine, I'll admit it, I was thinking I could re-use the wrapping. Okay? I'm moving. I'm broke. It's "the holidays." Give me a break.
It soon became obvious the gift was a very expensive bottle of perfume. Not eau de toilette, not something by Coty or that you buy at Walgreens. Real, serious, industrial strength, insanely expensive perfume.
I'm not going to be petty and tacky. A gift is a gift and no matter how expensive or cheap it's a gift and it's a kind gesture.
But.
I'm not big on perfume. For me perfume is reserved solely for: I'm looking to score/entice/arouse my man moments. And then there's the fact that most of it sends me into an asthmatic fit. There are precisely three perfumes I can wear and still breathe. And this wasn't one of them. Hush. There's more coming so hold your comments. I'm just walking you through my experience as it happened. My first thought was: Perfume? Expensive perfume? On a first date? What the...?
This was a first. I've had gifts on first dates, not many, not expensive, but a few gifts. This, however, was perfume. Expensive perfume.
Perfume is a very, very personal thing. Women are very particular about it - even women who are not asthmatic. And for a man to give a woman perfume, well, I mean, it's a very personal thing to do and he swutting well better know her well enough to a) know what perfume she likes (or at least what general type of smell she likes) and b) know her well enough for her to be okay with the implied sexuality of the gift.
And unless he is in fact: Cary Grant, Bryan Ferry, Roger Moore, Maurice Chavelier, or a high ranking member of the mafia gifting his newest moll ("here ya go babe, I got yooz summa dat smelly stuff you dames like"), he is not blessed with that perfect blend of swing and humility to pull off the "here, I bought you a little something" on a first date, with the little something being perfume, and not come off creepy. (Lingerie is also way off limits. By the way.)
So there I was, looking at a very expensive bottle of perfume, one whiff of which would send me coughing and wheezing for two days, and this guy staring at me. A bit too intently.
I looked up from the bottle of perfume to find him giving me a penetrating stare. You know, like Christopher Walken.
Insert psycho shower scene sound bite here.
"Gee, this is really swell. Thanks. It's really nice. You shouldn't have. (really, you should not have done this) Thank you."
"Put it on." he said/demanded in a low, slow voice. You know, like Christopher Walken.
"Uhm, see, well, why don't I just go into the ladies' room and put it on in there because..."
"I want to watch you put it on."
Oh swut. Oh swutting swut.
He seemed normal. He seemed okay. I mean, at the party, when we met, he didn't seem like the sort of creepy weird guy who would bring very expensive perfume as a gift on a first date and demand to watch while I put it on within 20 minutes of sitting down for drinks.
And yet, there he was. Penetrating stare and all.
"Erm. Yeah. This is a really swell gift. It's very nice. I really appreciate the thought. Very thoughtful. Super thoughtful. But, see. The thing is, I have asthma and..."
"You don't like it?"
"It's not that I don't like it. Like isn't a fair term. It's possible I can wear a tiny little itty bitty drop of it, but I don't want to try it at the beginning of the evening in case, well, it's just, I'm sorry. I have asthma and certain perfumes, and I don't want to spoil the evening in case, well..."
"You won't wear it for me?" he said, obviously very angry with me, that penetrating look turning sinister. You know, like Christopher Walken.
For me? For me? For him? Whoa. Wait just a minute here. It's not as if you are in any position to make the "do it for me" request. You sir, are a man on a first date. I owe you no obligatory "for me" requests.
"You couldn't have known, obviously, and you know, I'm really sorry, it's a lovely gift (weird, but lovely) and really thoughtful (too thoughtful) and I'm so sorry."
"Open it. I want to smell it. You can pretend to put it on." he barked at me. Yes. Barked at me. He barked like a dog. Woof woof. Bark woof bark bark bark is really what I remember him saying at this juncture.
Okay. Way, way, way way out of my comfort zone. I like a little role play as much as the next sexual deviant, but not within 20 minutes of a first date. I am not Belle du Jour, I'm not on the clock here, you don't have to get right down to business because you're paying by the hour. Even though I wore those questionable boots the other day.
He wants to smell it?
Pretend to put it on?
This can only be leading to one thing and one thing only: He's got some kink about perfume, aromas and watching women apply perfume. Nothing at all weird about any of that. Nothing at all. In fact, as arousal goes, it's very normal stuff. It just shouldn't be brought up within 20 minutes of the first date when there has been no indication whatsoever that I was out lookin' for a quick and easy roll in the sack.
Why me? What is it about me that attracts these weird, abnormal, bizarro behaving men? I don't think I'm sending off "hey! Weirdo! Yeah! You with the far too presumptuous attitude and creepy penetrating stare! Over here! Bring your kinks and bad manners with you and come *!ck me!" signals.
"No." I was bold. I was assertive. I was not going to be the nice girl who goes along because she doesn't want to offend or hurt anyone's feelings. Because I have been that girl for far too long and I'm too stressed, too tired, too medicated and too fed up with men trying push me, bend me and make me be someone other than me.
"Yes." (WOOF!!) he demanded. Yes. Demanded. Argumentatively. Barkingly
"No."
"Yes." (BARK BARK (fangs shown) BARK!)
"I'm not playing this game and I'm not arguing. No." setting the perfume and the nice wrapping on the table in front of him and getting up to leave.
"Don't make a scene."
Wanted to say: Don't make a scene?! You bring me a gift, of very expensive perfume, on a first date, stare at me all creepy Christopher Walken-like, bark at me demanding that I open it and let you smell it while I pretend to put it on and you're telling me not to make a scene?! Drama King, you set the stage, wrote, directed, produced and starred in this act.
But didn't say that because: I'm not going to dignify with a response. Not going to give him a reaction which is what he obviously wants. Not going to lower myself to his level. Not going to play this game. Not going to stay here a second longer.
Putting on coat, hat, gloves.
"You're leaving?! (BARK! HOWL!) You don't want a decent man! You've got a great guy right in front of you and you get all bent out of shape. You know what your problem is? (Why do people ask this rhetorical question in the heat of arguments when we all know they are going to tell us exactly what they think our problem is even if we say, 'yes, as a matter of fact I do know what my problem is so save your psychology and opinions and breath for someone else'?) You don't want to be treated well! You're old and single because you like being treated badly. Women like you need to realize it's your own fault you're alone. You're too picky and too stupid to recognize a good guy when you've got one in front of you."
Silence falls over the restaurant. People at other tables staring. Me standing there trying to put on my gloves. Can't get my fingers in the right places. Maybe I am stupid.
Okay. Stop staring. I'm not that swutting old.
Wanted to say: Stop staring at me. It's rude. Yes, you, girl with the stupid, cheap and tacky feathery top from three years ago, really bad home-kit highlights and too much eye liner who is obviously older than me. And you, too, table of women in from the suburbs to get stupid drunk and have a night on the town. Here you go! Here's your fun story to tell tomorrow when you're back in suburbville telling all your suburbville friends about your wild night on the town in the city. I hope this makes you feel smug and superior in your cozy four bedroom with your husband and kids and mini van. And you're all older than me, too. By the way, so maybe you can't be that smug or superior, and I live in the city, every day and night, I can go out any night and get stupid drunk and make scenes and have creepy men bring me expensive perfume. Swut you.
Grabbing handbag, not fussing with gloves any longer, and just. Getting. The. Swut. Out. Of. There.
"Cab, ma'am?" the door man asked as I left.
It was at that moment, the ma'am, which sent me over the edge.
"Ye..yea...yessssssssssss." sob sob sob sob sob
"TAXI!"
"Here you go. (opening cab door) Feel better. (offering arm and helping me in) He's a jerk. Have a good evening."
Door men. The good ones are, well, good ones. Been though this scene so many times before. Dates gone wrong. Men gone wrong. Dates who don't show. Men who meet someone else they're more interested during a date with me. Men who go to the men's room and never return. Door men see a lot of this. They must. Because they all know the drill. Get a cab as quickly as possible, be nice to the poor girl who's leaving alone and obviously on the verge of tears, get her in the cab and get her away from the front door before she scares away other patrons.
Sitting in the back of cab. Crying. Pouting. Should have said: "Old and stupid? You're six years older than me, single, and dumb enough to bring perfume as a gift on a first date! Did you really think that 'Let me smell it, I want to watch you put it on' line was going to get you in my pants?" Hmmm. Maybe I should go back and say that to him. I wonder if he's still there. He didn't follow me out of the restaurant. No. There are no second chances with this sort of thing. Done is done.
Get home.
Things instantly looked better. There was a parcel waiting for me. A present? For me?! And it's not from some creepy guy on a first date! It's from someone I never expected to send me anything! It's a huge surprise! I don't care what it is, it's from a really kind, caring, super thoughtful person whom I wish didn't live so swutting far away! And oh swut. I didn't know we were exchanging gifts this year. I haven't sent one holiday card, not one, and certainly not a gift. Still. Glee. Because this isn't the sort of person who sends things expecting something in return. And besides, they moved and I don't have their new address but now I do!
I bounced up all four flights of stairs all, "Gee! I wonder what it is! Oh boy! Oh boy!"
Furry Creature, poised and ready to perform his duty as date-gone-wrong consoler cat. Things are better all the time!
And then! Oh yes! Yes! Answerphone message light flashing. It swutting well better be HWNMNBS' voice on there or I'm going to hurl myself out of one of these drafty windows.
Eleven messages? Seriously? Eleven messages?
Uh oh.
I'm suddenly not liking the flashing light of the answerphone. The light flashing brighter and bigger and ominously.
Deep breath. Here goes.
"Hey Trill, we're going for drinks at (bar in your hood) tonight. Not sure if you're here this weekend. How's your mum? We'll pick you up if you want to go for drinks. Call me."
"Trillian, it's your father, (yes dad, I know, I've recognized your voice for a few years now) your mum and I just wanted to say hello. Hello. We'll call you again later tonight. Probably around 9:00 your time. We're going to watch a program about PT boats on the History Channel. We'll call after that. Around 9:00. She's not home. I told her we'd call her again later tonight around 9:00 after the PT boat show. She must be out to one of her parties." (My father hasn't quite got the hang of the talk button on cordless phones. His messages always include either conversations regarding me not being home or long minutes filled with whatever he's watching on television or listening to on the radio because he forgets to push the "off" button. One time my answerphone was completely full with nothing but what sounded like the commentary of the Master's Tournament.)
"Hey Trill, we're here (at bar in your hood), thought we'd see if you're in. Guess not. Call me."
"Trill, it's Mark, from the mail room? At work? Sorry to bother you at home, Carl in HR gave me your phone number, I hope you don't mind, but I thought you'd want to know John's father died today and they think the funeral is going to be Monday. My number is (oh swut, pen, paper, swut, swut, swut. John. Poor John. Oh swut) call me, I should know details by tomorrow." Oh swut. John. I like John. John is a good guy. John is one of my two friends at work. Oh swut. John. Your dad. Oh swutting swut. Okay. Reality check. My problems are nothing and completely insignificant.
"Trillian. (oh swut. it's him. shut up you idiot. a man has died. just shut up and go away and leave me alone) Call me so we can straighten this out." Straighten what out? Your presumptuous weird behavior or the embarrassing and rude insults you hurled at me? No thanks to either.
"Trillian, we got off to a bad start..." ERASE.
"Trill..." ERASE.
"Yo." ERASE.
"Trillian, look, I..." ERASE
"Ms. McMillian, remember me, that guy who blows into town and sweeps you off your feet every few months? The one you refuse to write or call because he's dangerous? Yes, it's 3 AM here, and no I haven't been drinking. Your line's been engaged all evening, I've been trying to reach you. Just wanted to talk, friendly voice and all that, and good news, I'm going to be in town Sunday through Wednesday, prepare to be swept off those sassy heeled feet of yours. Danger Man is back in town." Brit Barrister. You know...oh, forget it. It'll never go anywhere but we're occasional good ports of call for each other. Be quiet. He's nice. He's intelligent. He's witty. He's here for a few days every now and then and that's that.
"Trill..." ERASE! Didn't you hear? A man has died. And a much nicer, smarter, kinder, funnier, less Christopher Walken-like man than you is flying in from Europe to sweep me off my feet so take your perfume and shove it you creepy freak.
If anyone is interested in a presumptuous single hetero guy who will lavish you with expensive perfume on your fist date, let me know, I've got a guy for you. Sure, he's a little creepy. Sure, he likes to watch. Sure he's rude and has an anger management problem. Sure he's totally self unaware. But. He's single. He's employed. And he's lookin' to score. I know there are women out there who would eat up the expensive gift aspect and would be more than happy to oblige with any barked commands as long as the gifts keep coming and the price tags get higher.
