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
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Twelve days ago, something happened to me. Yes, that was the day of the fateful date with Creepy Perfume Guy. But something even worse than that happened to me that day. Yes. Really. Something worse. On the same day.
That was the day I heard the words which strike fear in the heart of every woman when uttered by her stylist in a hair salon: "Oh shit..."
Silence.
"...well, you know, it doesn't look as bad as it could. You know what? I like it. Yes. I like it. We'll have to do something about your brows, maybe, but it could work. I think we've found a new you! "
Silence.
Silence.
"I was just getting used to the old new me."
Silence.
Silence.
"Okay. Tell me. What have you done to me?"
"I must have mixed the wrong color for your highlights."
"That much was obvious. But what do you mean by 'oh shit?' 'Oh shit it's way too light' or 'oh shit it's way too dark?' Because I can live with 'oh shit it's way too dark.' I might even be happy with 'oh shit it's way too dark.' But I could have issues with 'oh shit it's way too light.' And just what do you have in mind for my brows?"
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
"Let's see what it looks like dry before we take any corrective measures."
Oh yes. Let's. "Corrective measures?!"
It wasn't as bad as I feared. And yes, once dry, it was a new me. It wasn't nearly as 'oh shit it's way too light' as I presumed it to be. And she's right. We may have found a new me. A new, now with 30% more blonde, me.
Here's a swatch:
I didn't think it was too bad at first. In fact, I sort of liked it. Other people did, too. People made favorable comments. "Kickin' up the highlights a few notches, eh Trill?" I got a lot more attention from strangers. You know, all the usual blonde v. brunette reactions. My highlights said sunny, vivacious blonde! Little did strangers know under those sunny, vivacious blonde! highlights lurked the soul of a dark, broody brunette.
Or did it?
The past twelve days have seen me perform some of the dumbest moves of my life. Which is leading me to think the dumb in blonde isn't in the follicles but in the peroxide. And that it may be more than 30% more blonde my stylist swore was all she mixed.
Let's review the dumb things I've done in the last twelve days with a little help from Julie Brown.
The Twelve Days of Blonde Miss Because I'm a blonde, I don't have to think.
I talk like a baby, and I don't pay for drinks.
I went on another date. Okay. So that's not terribly stupid. Well. Wait. Given the abysmal results of 50 First Dates thus far and the horror stories therein, going on another date after I'd sworn off men forever was in fact: Dumb. Really, really dumb. I'm not saying I deserved the Date with Discomposed Dan, but let's face it, I'm not exactly having the best luck meeting really nice, interesting, sane men lately and any man who asks me out is suspect, I know this, and to attempt a date is stupid and just asking for trouble.
Never have to worry 'bout gettin' a man
As long as I keep this blonde and I keep this tan,
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Working yet another late night, I traipsed to the vending machines for dinner. The yellow light on the change machine was flashing its out of change signal, I had limited coinage, so my choices had to be right the first time. Fourth row, position three: Twizzlers. Check. Fifth row, position five: Sweet n' Salty Energy Mix. Check. Sixth (bottom) row: Oooooh! Orange Zingers! I haven't had those in ages! Oh boy! It's late, I've got just the right amount of change! I'm tired and I'm splurging! We all know what's coming next so really, do I need to explain any further? Of course the Zingers got stuck on the spiral coil. Of course I tried to free them. Of course I almost spent the night on the vending machine room floor, arm bent and stuck in the machine.
I see people working and it only makes me giggle
'Cause I don't have to work; I just have to jiggle.
Thinking I had finally finished a project on a tight deadline and done so with a unique and creative twist, I emailed the project to a printer in Toronto. Satisfied with a job well done, I sat back and enjoyed my shoes for a few minutes. A few, brief, glorious minutes. The satisfaction spell was broken, the shroud of stupidity lifted, when I received an re: email from a printer in Atlanta who lost the bid on the print job. My contact there was delighted to hear from me, pleased that I decided to send them the job after all, and that I was putting some very work starved press men to work during the holiday lull. Yeah. The peroxide gets you into these situations, but it's the brunette standing there trying to explain and make fumbling excuses. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, erm, yeah, well, see, your email is very similar to someone else's and on my address list, ha ha, funniest thing, really, it appears you are right under another printer on my address list and, erm, um, well, see, that's a job we're sending to Canada, but I've got another project coming up next month I'd like you to bid on, I'll send the specs in a few weeks...sorry for the confusion..."
I'm a blonde, B-L-O-N-D-E.
I'm a blonde; don't you wish you were me?
I never learned to read, and I never learned to cook.
Why should I bother when I look like I look?
I'm vegetarian. What do I know about cooking a turkey (or any other animal)? That's right: Nothing. So when I told my sister I would cook everything except the animal for the family holiday dinner, I meant it. She came through with a prepared bird of some sort. Great. Perfect. Just heat and eat. I mean, that's what I thought "prepared" meant, anyway. Imagine my surprise to learn there's actually more to preparing a "prepared" turkey than warming it in the oven for a few minutes. Imagine not realizing there are many bags and wraps and wires and oh what the swut is that? a half hour before the rest of the holiday meal was going to be ready to consume. Imagine my family coming up with a new holiday game while waiting another hour and a half for the "prepared" turkey to be edible: Recollecting and adding up the years and number of college credits I've earned and how much money and time has been spent on said college credits. "I thought you had to be real smart to go to graduate school..." my young niece innocently remarked after asking for the 27th time if we were ever going to eat and how come Aunt Trillian doesn't know how to cook a turkey.
Bitch.
I know lots of people are smarter than me,
But I have this philosophy:
So what?
I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
I packed my home telephone in a moving box. I didn't realize this until the telephone rang, I only heard the base station ringing and I couldn't find the telephone. I had to call my home number from my cell phone, untape and unpack three boxes before I could figure out which one was ringing and find my telephone. (The brunette follicles won the battle (but not the war) with the forces of blonde when they came up with the plan to call my home telephone and listen for the ring.)
I see girls without dates, and I feel so sorry for 'em,
'Cause whenever I'm around, all the men ignore 'em,
'Cause I'm a blonde, nyah, nyah, nyah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, nyah, nyah, nyah.
While attempting to help my father repair my parents' furnace I lit the little flame lighter thing, you know, the thing like a cigarette lighter with a long tube thing for lighting stuff (see, I AM a blonde) and created a small fire ball which, had there been just a little more oxygen, would have resulted in a Backdraft-esque wall of flame. I can't take complete blonde fault for this, my father, himself a natural blonde, gave me the igniter lighter thing and told me to try to re-light the pilot light on the furnace when he said when. I thought he said when. Well. He didn't actually say anything remotely like the clear, enunciated "when" I was expecting, but he was over on the other side for a really long time and the string of endless profanity had crescendo-ed and then grown silent, and I heard a hissing noise start in the pilot light area, so I took that to mean "when." It didn't. I nearly didn't have to worry about whether or not I should "do something" about my brows.
They say that to make it, you need talent and ambition.
Well, I got a TV show, and this was my audition:
Umm ... okay ... what was it? ... umm ...
Don't tell me ... Oh, yeah, okay.
Duck, Magnum, duck!
I got on the wrong train. I would have been on my way to California if the janitor on the train hadn't decided to sweep the business car of the Zephyr and said, "Lady, you can't board this train yet. You got 2 hours. Who let you on here?" The thing is, no one let me on the train. I just sashayed down the platform, 30% more blonde highlights bouncing along, fluttering in the breeze, and hopped onto the first car I chanced upon and assumed it was the right train and the right car. All bold and pompous. I apparently forgot there are usually a few trains per platform and you get on the first train at the end of the platform when they announce boarding for your train. The really stupid thing about this and why I think the peroxide has taken hold of my brain is that I have been boarding and riding trains my entire life and never, not once until now, in any country or foreign language, have I boarded the wrong train.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
I took some photos to the do it yourself print kiosk and selected 4 wallet sized photos of 6 different photos for my mum to send in the holiday cards I was sending for her. Had I paid attention to the very clear on-screen diagram, had I been 30% less blonde, I might have remembered/realized there are four wallet sized photos on each wallet sized print. One print = four wallet sized photos. 4 prints = 16 photos. So I only needed one wallet sized print of each of the six photos to accomplish the desired number (24) of wallet sized prints. But no. We had 12 extra wallet sized prints of six different photos to spare. Got a blank spot in your scrapbook or refrigerator? Got a new wallet with one of those photo inserts? Need a family photo to adorn your desk to make your office look more homey and approachable? Got a little collage project brewing? Want a photo of my family? I've got 72 various posed wallet sized prints to spare.
I took an IQ test, and I flunked it, of course.
I can't spell VW, but I got a Porsche,
My parents have OnStar. They also have an automatic garage door opener. Their car has a special little compartment for the remote opener controller pod. You press the lid of the special little compartment and that presses the remote opener controller pod. The special little compartment is right next to the OnStar dial buttons. 6 days. Several errands and lots of running around to do. 9 "OnStar how can I help you Mr. McMillians?"
Yes. There was one day I got the same OnStar operator on two different misdials. "Sorry, see, my parents' car has..."
"I know, I know," he said, "'this special little compartment for the remote garage door opener controller pod.' Ms. McMillian perhaps you should disconnect your parents' OnStar service for the duration of your visit."
'Cause I'm a blonde, B-L-O-N-D-E.
I'm a blonde; don't you wish you were me?
I just want to say that being chosen this month's Miss August
Is, like, a compliment that I'll remember for as long as I can.
I forgot I am a woman of child bearing age and as such have monthly needs and requirements. Very embarrassing to be caught unaware and unprepared and completely stymied by the whole process. ("But it was just that time of the month four weeks ago!" I may have been heard uttering as I ran out of Walgreen's. at breakneck speed.)
Right now I'm a freshman in my fourth year at UCLA,
And my goal is to become a veterinarian because I love children.
I wrapped up my niece's latest installment of American Girl conspicuous consumerism all nice and pretty in really cute kitty cat-mas wrapping paper. Then I wrapped my brother's Gordie Howe autographed hockey puck in specially designed case in the polar bears in mittens and ear muffs wrapping paper. And ran out of tags. So I made my own. Because I'm clever that way. But where I'm not so clever, apparently, and very blonde, apparently, is placing them on the proper packages. A week later in Michigan, my niece was confused but tried to very polite when she opened the hockey puck. "Thanks for the round heavy black thing, Aunt Trillian," she managed to bewilderingly say in her little girl voice, casting the specially made case aside, and then quickly resuming her present opening and hoping for a better more suitable gift from other relatives. (This was before the "prepared" turkey debacle, by the way.) Hardly the image I had in mind of her delight over the bacchanal of doll accessories, the image which kept me going when I braved the American Girl store and painstakingly chose accessory after accessory, taking every detail and my niece's likes and dislikes into consideration. Realizing my error in tagging the gifts, my mind raced to an image of my brother in California, opening up kitty cat-mas wrapped American Girl doll accessories. Hardly the image I had in mind when I procured the Gordie Howe autographed hockey puck for him seven months ago.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Other girls think I'm snotty, and maybe it's true.
With my hair and body, you would be too.
I'm a blonde, B-L-O, oh, oh, ... I don't know!
The Grandmommy of all stupid things I've done in my life: Purchased and downloaded the entire Britney Spears My Prerogative EP. That's right. Four versions of Britney's cover of My Prerogative. Bobby Brown's My Prerogative. A song I intensely disliked 1988-90 when Bobby Brown's original was on the radio and in the clubs and wouldn't go away. I can only assume, in the few, short lucid brunette moments I get now and then, that it was actually subversive mind and body control, not a dumb blonde moment. Britney is like the Mother Ship to all newly over peroxided women. She calls to us, transmitting on some peroxide only frequency, our highlighted strands like antennae, picking up her signals. I was powerless under her influence. She commanded my fingers to move, to do her bidding, apart from the brunette part of my brain, willed me to hit Buy Album and Okay when prompted if I really wanted to purchase the album My Prerogative by Britney Spears. I cannot tell you the shame and embarrassment and down right dirtiness (drrrtiness?) I feel over this. I paid actual money, $3.96, for four versions of a really horrible song covered by Britney Spears and have absolutely no recollection of doing it. It's like the people who are abducted and have missing periods of time they cannot remember. Britney Swutting Spears. I'm sure if I were to listen to Britney's songs I would be completely blondewashed by her evil mind control transmitted from the Britney Mother Ship. I'm absolutely certain if you listen to Britney's songs backwards that's what you'll hear. "You will obey. I command you to wear really stupid, tacky, skanky clothes, bleach your hair to an over processed shade of yellow with the texture of hay and wrap a python around your half naked and unexplainably wet body. I command you to make desperate grasps for fame with stupid publicity stunts. I command you to speak in a very odd dialect even though you haven't lived anywhere near the origin of said odd dialect for years. I command thee to buy, buy, BUY! my re-cords, y'all! Now go! Go! I'm on the fast track to pulling a Dana Plato with my life, so you Must. Buy. My. Music! Save your queen! Bleach and burn, bleach and burn! You can't be too blonde or too skanky!" In my defense, iTunes had a bunch of artists flashing in the new music banner, and I meant to buy the Incubus cover of Roxanne (long story). Yes, a cover of another really stupid '80s song, and no, Incubus doesn't offer me any redemption for the Britney Spears Incident. But. Still. I think that's how it must have happened. All I really know is that when I took my iPod out of the dock and checked my purchased music folder for Incubus they weren't there but Britney was. Four times. That's all I know for sure. And in another defense, if I were someone truly stupid enough to intentionally purchase My Prerogative, I would also have been too stupid to know how to correctly spell prerogative and never would have found the song to buy it. So it had to be evil blonde forces at work. Anyone who actually knows how to spell prerogative wouldn't intentionally purchase Britney Spears anything. And for now, at least, I know how to spell prerogative.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah.
'Cause I'm a blonde, yeah, yeah, yeah!
Wednesday, December 29, 2004 Allseasons has a good idea and useful links for the tsunami victims. Try it on your own site! Fun and helpflul!
(And Allseasons is a super good photographer and has some great stuff on Flickr. Fun, helpful and talented!)
6:32 PM
Take a picture, it’ll last longer
Things I’ve seen in the past week I wish I could/would have photographed...
Actual Church Sign Better than Any the Church Sign Generator I’ve Seen:
“CHRIST MAS EVE 7 PM 11 PM
CHRIST EYE FOR THE SINNING GUY MON 7 PM
ALL WELCOME”
I wanted to attend the Christ Eye for the Sinning Guy service? session? homosexuality intervention/exorcism? spiritual makeover? but couldn’t, didn’t have the time what with the holidays and all. It’s probably more fun to imagine what goes on there. A bunch of guys, probably 12, follow a sinner around doling out apostlistic advice? One of the intriguing things about this concept? shameless attempt at using pop culture to pull in wayward souls? is that someone involved with this honestly believes this is a good ruse for pulling in sinners and converting the Christless. Someone believes sinning guys are going to drive by the sign, see it as a personal message from Christ or God Himself and say to himself (I presume “all” means all men based on the Sinning guy title and because it was at a Baptist church and when they say guy they mean it. The womenfolk safely home tending to the youngins’ and sheltered from the sinning guys) “Hey! I’m a sinning guy! I could use a little spiritual advice! I’m there! Make me over!” This is also proof of the impact of television on culture and all walks of life: This was in a very remote corner of the Universe, one of those places which appears to be untouched by modern times, one of those places where they have a grain elevator, a grange hall, a bona fide diner, plaid flannel is a way of life, and is too remote and unpopulated to be serviced by cable companies so people either have a dish or antenna or don’t watch a lot of television. And yet they have presumably seen Queer Eye or heard about it.
A 23-ish-Year-Old Guy with Head Stubble and Tattooed over One Ear: Budweiser and Over the Other: Camel Head tattoos always give me pause to ponder if the person is fickle or truly wants a tattoo but has professional/parental/spousal repercussions to consider. They were spelled out in fonts loosely resembling the logo fonts.
Loosely.
Very loosely.
But choice of tattoo matter sent me soaring to new heights (lows?) of ponderment. Was he a) being ironic (doubtful by the looks of the rest of him); b) fickle about getting tattooed so went for his head thinking he could always grow his hair to cover the tattoos, and chose over the ears because even if he goes bald chances are he’ll have some hair over his ears; c) thinking “hey, NASCAR guys wear all those logos! I’ll get Budweiser and Camel, my favorite brands, tattooed on me just like a NASCAR car! d) actually being paid by Budweiser and Camel for these very personal endorsements; e) worried enough about copyright infringement that he told the tattoo artist to be sure to make the script not exactly like the logos; f) alternately proud and ashamed of his vices and brand preferences; g) trying to look really macho and fit in with the guys down at the shop; h) abducted by white trash aliens and branded with these marks (did we put six pack of Bud and a pack of Camels in Voyager capsule along with the works of Shakespeare and Beethoven and a message of peace and goodwill? I mean, we did send The Rolling Stones on that capsule, so Bud and Camels are not out of the realm of possibility. Those NASA guys always making jokes...); i) stupid?
The 4-ish-Year-Old Kid Walking around the Grocery Wearing: A Spiderman pajama top, Red Wings sweat bottoms, and a tinsel and wire halo festooned upon his be-mulleted head. Three days after Christmas. (Maybe the Christ Eye guys got him.)
The Woman Decked out From Head to Toe in Fake Fendi Print Attire. No, nothing new here, we’ve all seen the photos and maybe even a few of these designer imposter clad army recruits on the streets.
But.
This woman.
Well.
I mean.
It doesn’t come any more over the top fake, including the stamped metal rhinestone encrusted logo earrings-necklace-bracelet-belt buckle-anklet ensemble. Bling, baby, bling! But what really set her apart from the other head to toe designer imposter brigade was the Fendi logo dyed or sprayed in a repeating pattern along the bottom of the hair sticking out from under her fake Fendi cap. Now that’s class. You go girl. You and Bud/Camel head tattoo boy should get together. You could compare trademark copyright infringement laws.
The University Aged Boy Who Was the Spitting Image of Waldo. Of Where’s Waldo. Realizing his resemblance to Waldo, embraced it, went with it, and donned the striped shirt, scarf, cuffed jeans, sneakers and glasses frame style. The amazing/great thing about this is that he was with a group of “cool” looking kids, so he’s got friends or at least people who allow him to tag along with them. At long last: I Found Waldo. My life is complete.
The PC Someone “Donated” to Charity Anyone remember WANG? Anyone watch the Antiques Roadshow? Who the swut “donates” unusable crap like this to charity? It’s not helpful to anyone. The impoverished will not benefit from a “computer” so old they can’t even use it as a word processor because no printer or disks or, well, anything, is compatible. Sure, those of us sorting the donations got a good laugh out of it, but, after all the sorting, we were left with a heavy lunk of plastic to dispose. Office Depot will take any old computer, people, take your old crap there if you can’t bear to put it in the rubbish yourself.
An Enormous Dog Chained to a Snowman I love dogs. I love snowmen. But I hope there’s not a warm snap because if Frosty melts away Kujo will be untethered and free to roam.
Judas Priest Kicks Ass/Jesus Died for Us Graffiti The Judas Priest looked newer. It’s possible the juxtaposition position was a random act of irony.
But.
I see some stoner kids thinking it would be really funny to spray out Judas Priest Kicks Ass above the Jesus Died for Us message. Stoner kids. Long may you live. It warms my heart to know with all the cooler than thou kids toting music by bands-so-cool you-can-only-find-their-music-to-download-on-websites-with-secret-passwords around on their iPods that the stoner AC/DC-Judas Priest-Metallica loving teens are still around with their spray paint.
A Company Named: Kuntz Tool Okay. So you have the unfortunate name Kuntz. You probably got teased a bit about that. Sorry. Kids can be so cruel. And then you grew up and went into the tooling business. Great! You’re proud to be a Kuntz. Proud to be in the tool business. Great!
But.
Maybe the combination of Kuntz and Tool in your business name was not the greatest business decision. If not the least inspired. I’m just saying. Kuntz Tool? What the heck were you thinking? It looked like the sort of place that would have those nylon jackets with the company logo embroidered on the back custom made down at Linda’s Monogram and Custom Embroidery. Maybe they could work a deal with the Bud/Camel tattoo guy. Kuntz Tool would fit real nice on the back of his head. Wouldn’t the stoner kids find it hysterical if Kuntz Tool opened a shop next to Nutz on Clark? (If you happen to be the Kuntz Tool people, really, I mean you no ill will. I’m sure you’re lovely people with a good little tool business. I’m just saying. Kuntz Tool? You couldn’t even try to hide behind an umlaut? (Küntz?))
The Grimy Panhandler Shaking the Requisite Fast Food Cup and a Cardboard Sign Proclaiming: Dalmacion Puppys 4 Sale He had a box containing four white puppies, possibly Dalmatians.
Has this guy seen 101 Dalmatians and thought this would be a good way to play on the young children (and their parents) who pass him? Is he thinking breeding Dalmatians would be an easy side gig to his panhandling? Is this a new trend in panhandling? Begging and puppies? Did someone drop the puppies with him trying to unload them and offering to split the profits with him? (Cruella?) Is there a breed of dog called Dalmacions?
The Middle Aged Couple Who Spent the Entire Showing of Finding Neverland Passing a Cell Phone Between Them Reading and Sending Text Messages,
lighting up three rows around them. Okay, this would have required video. And it’s really more of an annoyance than a missed photo op. But. My niece and I and a lot of other people paid $10 to be in a dark room with a larger than life John Depp and that flashing phosphorescent light and button pushing really ruined our Depp Experience.
The Gray Haired Hippie with the Pony Tail Bound in One of Those Leather Cord-Wrap Things, ZZ Top Gray Beard, Santa hat, Black Harley Jacket, Red Leather Trousers and Eurostyle Biker Boots. And a Corn Cob Pipe. Tis the season. You rock, dude. Your kid is spray painting Judas Priest graffiti down at the viaduct. Just thought you’d be proud to know.
The Teenaged Boy and His Younger (10-ish-Year-Old) Sister Traveling Unaccompanied by an Adult Who Napped Cuddled Up to Each Other. (And no it wasn’t some gross incest thing, it was just a really cute moment of sibling harmony, the kind which only happens with parents aren’t around.) No big deal. Nothing funny or ironic here. I just thought it was cute and wished I could have taken their photo.
Ditto the very Senior Aged Lady Who Rode an Entire Five Hour Train Trip with Her Handbag (which was an actual handbag) Perched on Her Lap.
The St. Andrew Prayer-A-Thon 2004 has come to a close. I hope those who participated got that special something they bugged St. Andrew for during the past month.
Hey Trill, what about you? How’d you fare with St. Andrew this year?
Well.
Yes.
And no.
Once again, St. Andrew giveth and St. Andrew taketh away.
This year the taketh away part happened sooner than last year, so that’s either an improvement over last year (less time to ponder any immortal possibilities) or proof that it doesn’t really work at all (if you only have a gift for a day is it really a gift or just something borrowed?) or maybe that's the catch with St. Andrew, he delivers your request as promised, desire granted, no mistaking that, but then plucks it away from you. Just because no one mentions the plucking away from you bit doesn't mean the prayer doesn't work, it just means there's a catch, some unwritten fine print. Or maybe that's what happens when non-Catholic, pretty much non-anythingers prays to a Catholic saint.
But you know. Whatever.
Nothing ventured, nothing lost.
I’m no worse off than I was before the Prayer-A-Thon.
No better.
But no worse.
Wait.
Better.
I had my little quiet moments of reflection and solitude throughout the most difficult time of year for me.
And isn’t that really the best gift of all?
(Insert passive aggressive cynical remark of choice here.)
And I was given the ongoing gifts of disillusionment, disappointment and despair.
Useful, practical gifts. Sure, I get them every year, but I can always use more.
The worst is over. New Year's Eve to get through and then The Holidays are 11 months in the future. 11 glorious months.
Now it’s time for new year resolutions.
Which I don’t make.
However.
I will be glad to get 2004 in the trash. The calendars will be ceremoniously torn off the walls and thunked in the rubbish bin. I’m looking forward to being rid of the past 12 months.
Lots of changes ahead in 2005. New apartment. New neighborhood. No more train commutes to work. New monitor in my office. Yeah. 2005 looks like it’s going to be swell.
