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
Thursday, December 15, 2005
It's Christmas and I'm mad as Hell.
Wishing you and yours an angry holiday season.
That's my holiday greeting. Not exactly Hallmark material. But then I'm not exactly Hallmark material.
I've been trying to get mad, you know, really, honestly feel anger. It's a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. And not a lot of fun, either. The closest I came to honest rage so far was when I received two bills from my doctor's office. I have no idea what the bills are for because I don't actually know medical insurance company code. I have made several office and lab visits over the past two months, so the bills were not a surprise, I knew I would be receiving tidings of payment due. But I thought, hoped, that there would be some sort of detail on the bills, some way to track the expenses, some way to know exactly what I got for my money.
But no.
I'm expected to just pony up the money and ask no questions. I'm expected to just shut up and pay the bills.
I found this out when I called 1) the doctor's office, 2) the hospital billing department, 3) the insurance company, and 4) the billing processing office which is not part of the insurance company, doctor's office or hospital.
Yes. I have health insurance. But it doesn't cover most of what I've had done in the past few months. It will cover even less after January 1. I can't figure out what my health insurance covers, I just know it doesn't cover anything ailment for which I have seen a doctor.
Car accident and subsequent trip to the emergency room? Not covered. Because it was an accident. Not routine. I could have prevented it. Yes. A woman at the insurance company honestly told me accidents are preventable and therefore I am responsible for any health treatment required as a result of an accident. Yes. Really.
That made me mad. I asked to speak to her manager.
She said she was the manager.
I said, "So, you don't report to anyone? You are the top command of (huge mega insurance corp)?"
"I am the manager of this claims department," she said, all snotty and punctuating each syllable for effect, the desired effect being intimidation.
"Wow. That's probably a stressful job. Dealing with confused people like me all day. Wondering why they have health insurance when it doesn't actually cover anything that's wrong with them," I said, not yet angry to the point of anything other than sarcasm.
"If you have a problem with paying your bill you need to fill out a deferred payment option request," she retorted.
"I don't think I want a deferred payment option. I want to know what my health insurance policy actually covers so that I don't rack up thousands more dollars in medical bills by seeking treatment for ailments which are not covered. I want know what is covered so I know when I can afford to see a doctor. If it's not covered it's going to have to cure itself or kill me. But if it's covered I want to be sure to seek treatment so that I get something for the money I spend on my health insurance premium," at this point I was feeling something which I think was actual anger.
My stomach hurt. Which worried me because I am certain my health insurance doesn't cover stress related aiments. Stress is preventable and therefore stress related ailments not covered. I am certain of this because insurance company's know they create stress and if they paid for treatment of the resulting physical ailments they would be paying for health issues they caused and therefore admitting responsibility.
And health insurance companies do not admit responsibility. They're in business to make money. Not give away money.
Angry? Oh yes. Very, very angry.
And broke beyond any form of poverty I've ever imagined for myself.
Holiday cheer? Are you swutting kidding me?
I just paid $1,900 for three tests which didn't even show anything was wrong. For $1,900 I at least want some medical anomaly, some sort of bang for my buck. I'd feel better about paying $1,900 if I at least got the thrill of hearing a doctor say, "Wow. Would you look at that?! I haven't seen anything like that since I was in the Peace Corps treating dwarf albino lemurs." Or better yet, having the doctor say nothing, but give those long, meaningful, "there's nothing more we can do" looks. After that sort of a doctor visit $1,900 seems worth it. Maybe even a bargain. But $1,900 for inconclusive or healthy test results? Here's an idea, what if my checking account is inconclusive over the payment for the tests?
Yes. I'm saying I want something wrong with me. I mean, I was at the doctor and hospital, obviously I didn't feel well and something was wrong with me anyway. I'm paying for medical tests and treatments, so yes, I want something wrong with me. I don't need to buy peace of mind.
Here's why: Inconlusive or healthy test results only lead to more tests. "If that's not wrong, then it must be something else and we'll have to do more tests." Basically more tests, more money. I'm not saying my doctors are out to scam me for more money. I know that's not the case. They're actually very thorough and have a great facility at their disposal so they utilize it thinking it's the best thing for the patient. When a patient shows up with symptoms and pain, they're not thinking about how much the tests are going to cost. They're concentrating on the best and most thorough treatment for the patient's health. And that's good. Rock on, doc.
But.
We, the patients, have no idea what these tests cost. We have no clue what being whisked into the lab or peeing in a cup is going to cost us. All we know is that we didn't feel well so we went to the doctor where we were put through a lot of tests, some painful, some embarrassing, some weird, and a few weeks later we start receiving a lot of bills. Very, very expensive bills. If I knew peeing in a plastic cup was going to cost me $400 I would have at least brought my own cup. Or, I might have said, "Um, doc, this is going to cost me $400. Is this necessary or is there another option?" In my case I don't think there was another testing option.
But still. It would have been nice to know it was going to cost me $400. I would have treated the experience with more reverence. I would have tried to enjoy it more. Taken my time. Take a few photos. It was, after all, my vacation. Because that $400 would have gone a long way to a much needed vacation. But there will be no vacation for me because I paid medical bills.
"Hey, Trill, where'd you go on vacation this year?"
"The bathroom! Look, I got a plastic cup and a zip lock bag with a biohazard label for $400! Here's a photo of it! Here's me with one of the nurses. Here I am suspiciously eyeing the disposable cups in the bathroom after she suggested I drink a glass of water. Oh, and here I am catching a sample midstream! Good times. Man, I love that place. Instead of a mint on your pillow they give you a moist disposable towelette. Now that's class."
Yep. Anger. I'm feeling it.
I can't afford much in the way of holiday festivities this year. Not that I'm feeling festive anyway. I'm trying, you know, for the sake of my family and friends.
But.
Ten more days until Christmas. Will she make it alive? If she doesn't kill herself she won't be able to afford medical bills so she's wondering what the point of staying alive is.
Bad Poetry Corner
Here's a little country song for everyone else broke and pondering that time honored holiday tradition of suicide. I Bought My Christmas Tree at the Dollar Store I did it because friends and family said I should. I took their advice against my inclinations. And now I wake to disturbing aberrations. I'm tormented, bothered and generally not good. Making spirits bright is not fun, it's a chore.
There are no lights twinkling brightly. No pretty ornaments hung with care. Or tinsel or icicles on the branches so bare. Yep. My decoration is quite unsightly. 'Cuz I bought my Christmas tree at the dollar store.
Festive! Merry! Up, bright and gay! Not the adjectives which spring to mind, But I could afford it and it was all I could find. I tried to find a better one but to my dismay They didn't have green trees, just trees white as hoar.
There are no lights twinkling brightly. No pretty ornaments hung with care. Or tinsel or icicles on the branches oh so bare. Yep. My decoration is quite unsightly. 'Cuz I bought my Christmas tree at the dollar store.
I keep it bare to try to pass it off as art. The holidays for me are depressing. My finances are so bad they're digressing. I can't even afford decorations from WalMart. It's a symbol of failure and American class war.
There are no lights twinkling brightly. No pretty ornaments hung with care. Or tinsel or icicles on the branches oh so bare. Yep. My decoration is quite unsightly. 'Cuz I bought my Christmas tree at the dollar store.
No, it’s not the comeliest tree in the ‘hood. But I’m no prize either, so it’s appropriate, This ugly tree and I, we’re unwanted, reprobate. It’s a symbol that I’m ugly, I suck and I’m no good. My Christmas tree symbolizes that I’m a failure and poor.
There are no lights twinkling brightly. No pretty ornaments hung with care. Or tinsel or icicles on the branches oh so bare. Yep. My decoration is quite unsightly. 'Cuz I bought my Christmas tree at the dollar store.
Don’t give us pity, we still have some pride. It’s doing the best it can for a small fake tree from Taiwan, And I do okay for an ugly duck who never made it to swan. We’re both ugly, pale and shaped weird but there’s a bright side, Even though our price tag is low we know our true value, with tax, is more.
There are no lights twinkling brightly. No pretty ornaments hung with care. Or tinsel or icicles on the branches oh so bare. Yep. My decoration is quite unsightly. 'Cuz I bought my Christmas tree at the dollar store.
So paltry and small and shaped kind of funny, Even my cat ignores it, he thinks it’s a joke. He knocked it over with one gentle sniff and a poke. Hey, what do you expect for that kind of money? There’s no one to impress because I don’t care anymore.
There are no lights twinkling brightly. No pretty ornaments hung with care. Or tinsel or icicles on the branches oh so bare. Yep. My decoration is quite unsightly. 'Cuz I bought my Christmas tree at the dollar store.
Charlie Brown ain’t got nothin’ on me. This thing’s spindly, crooked and unenthusiastic In it’s attached unsturdy tri-pod stand made of plastic. But it was only a dollar and it’s all I want in a tree. It’s got some charm and no needles or pine cone spore.
There are no lights twinkling brightly. No pretty ornaments hung with care. Or tinsel or icicles on the branches oh so bare. Yep. My decoration is quite unsightly. 'Cuz I bought my Christmas tree at the dollar store
9:29 AM
Friday, December 09, 2005
Hi everyone! Guess what! Christmas is just around the corner! Woohoo!
I've got plenty of angst, woe, depression and bad cheer so stop in if you find yourself in need of a holiday recharge.
It's looking bleak this year. It may very well be the year I become a holiday suicide statistic. It's not even December 10 and I'm already contemplating death by perky plaid Christmas ribbon strangulation, death by eggnog overdose, death by Christmas tree (yes! It's okay to say Christmas tree now! Dennis Hastert says so!) light electrocution and other festive ways to kill myself.
Gosh, don't you just love the holidays? I sure do.
You know, at this busy time of the year it's nice to take a moment for yourself spent in quiet reflective contemplation of what the season is really all about.
Pressure.
Intense, self inflicted, family inflicted, work obligation inflicted, charity inflicted, church inflicted pressure. Pressure to perform. Pressure to provide. Pressure to help. Pressure to be good. Pressure to believe.
Every year I run around like crazy trying to find if not perfect, at least thoughtful presents for the people I care about and love. Don't get me wrong. I want to buy them presents. I love them. I genuinely wish I could buy them lots of really great presents all year. But the calendar and social protocol dictate that we have to procure a gift, some gift, any gift during the holiday season.
The advice columns dole out wisdom and advice about hot gifts, cool gifts, thoughtful gifts, extravagant gifts, inexpensive gifts. Heck, I myself offer up a yearly suggestion list of gift and shopping ideas.
Hey, wait a minute, it's that time of year again, isn't it? I'm supposed to give you some shopping ideas and tips. Cripes. I knew I forgot something.
Sorry.
Well.
No.
I'm not.
I'm not sorry at all.
Figure out your own damn gift giving dilemmas.
Ha ha ha. Ho ho ho.
Had you going there for a minute, didn't I?
Psych!
Not!
The advice columns also say we should treat ourselves to a little something at Christmas, too. Something we know no one will think to give us. Because the people we care about and love don't love and care about us enough to figure out that special little something we'd like as a present. Hey. It's not their fault. We're complicated and selfless. We don't really need anything. Still. You'd think they could come up with something slightly more original than bath products. Seriously, do I smell bad?
Right.
So.
My shopping advice list is a little different this year.
As I was spending my spare moment in quiet reflective contemplation, I realized I am complicated, selfless, and in need of nothing easily procured, wrapped and put under the tree. No wonder I get all those bath products. I don't even know what to give myself.
iGuy? Well. That's a long way away from now. Many moons and many holidays shall pass before those wise men appear under the tree.
What do I need? What do I really, really need? A new job. Money. Health insurance. Yeah. That's pretty much it.
No expectations. No emotion. As helpful as that stance is for me, it does complicate things in the gift giving arena. Basically anything and nothing would be the perfect gifts for someone like me who has no high or low expectations and no emotions.
Emotions.
Hmmmm.
Well.
Now.
Maybe there's a gift I could give myself.
One or two emotions to spend however I want.
I have been very good at voiding myself of emotions. I'm getting really good at it. I haven't had any expectations in months. I'm almost the emotionless blank void of a person I want to be. If I felt emotions I would be proud of myself. But I don't so I'm not. And that feels right because I feel nothing.
I do kind of miss emotions now and then. Usually in those quiet moments of contemplative reflection. I miss the good ones. Antipathy. Enmity. Envy. Lust. Yeah. I really miss lust. Though honestly, without love lust gets boring and very empty. Shallow. Not a lot of fun. Maybe that's just too many unloved years talking.
Still.
Maybe I should give myself the gift of lust this Christmas.
Hmmmm.
Johnny Depp. Bryan Ferry. Hugh Jackman. Pierce Brosnan. Me. Candlelight. And a bottle of wine. Mmmmmmm. Yes. That could be really nice.
Okay. Enough of that. No good can come of lust. Forget lust. Too much lust and not enough love in my life has been the source of a lot of problems for me. Lust = very bad idea.
How about antipathy? That's a good one. Antipathy is very underused and underrated. Justifiable hatred. Enmity, too. Hate. Yeah. I know. It's no good in any form. Usually. I know.
But.
Then again.
Are we really expected to go around loving everyone, even the people who do really, really bad things? Are we really supposed to love and forgive the people who abuse and hurt children? What about people who fail to spay or neuter their pets then throw the unwanted kittens and puppies in the trash or along a busy highway? Is hatred not justifed in those cases? Should we not feel hatred on behalf of their innocent victims? These are not good people. I don't care what's fundamentally wrong with them. I don't care that they were abused or neglected as children. It doesn't matter. They better than anyone, then, should know how wrong and harmful abusive and hurtful behavior is to children. Fuck compassion. What they're doing is sick and wrong and unnecessary. Yes. A little antipathy or enmity goes a long way. I know. You're thinking, gee, Trill, that's kind of harsh coming from you.
Yeah? Well. I've got two words for you: George Bush. Not so against antipathy and enmity now, are you?
But. I'm not a hateful person.
Not really. I have felt hatred, yes, but, deep down, really, there's not a lot of hatred in me. Which is actually a bit of a problem. I've been too compassionate. Too forgiving. Too understanding. Too sympathetic. Too empathethic. Oh man do I have a problem with empathy. There's an emotion I still have to battle on a daily basis. It's difficult for me to not care. Even though I know I shouldn't. Even though I know it's a problem. Even though I know if I'm going to make anything of this life I've got to be less empathetic and a lot more apathetic.
But.
Hatred's not the answer for me. Even if it's antipathy or enmity. Not even as a Christmas present to myself. It's not what I really want or need for Christmas. You go ahead and try it if you want. Let me know how it goes.
Envy? Well. I mean. It's the most envious time of the year. (That's going to be a song. Just you wait. It's the most envious time of the year. With much income gloating and loans out there floating, it's the jea- jea- jealousy time of the year... Anyone know Johnny Mathis? If I write it, will he come?)
Envy seems like the obvious choice as an emotional Christmas present to myself. Allow myself to be envious. I mean, heck, I am envious of everyone who's so successful without really earning it or even working for it. Maybe admitting it would be good and healthy for me. Yes. I envy people who have loving spouses, children, homes, dogs, cats, health insurance, good paying jobs they like, cars... yes. I envy those people. I thought I'd be one of them. Turns out I'm not. Because I suck at life and I'm a failure at it. So much so that my best solution was to void myself of emotion and allow no expectations, good or bad. That's a pretty bad state. I admit that. But it's working for me. I tried everything else with no success. This is working. So back off and mind your own happy little business and life. I'm not judging you so don't judge me.
Hey.
Wait a minute.
I'm sounding rather hostile, aren't I? Yes, yes I am. Maybe even a bit rancorous.
That's new. In spite of the above bout of trial enmity and antipathy, I'm not a naturally angry person. It takes a lot to make me mad for myself. I get mad and upset when I see injustices inflicted on other people, but not when it's inflicted on me. When I see an injustice I'm more about taking positive corrective action than festering hostility and lashing out in anger. I'm more the type to get hurt than angry when the injustice is inflicted upon me. I'm also the type to blame myself rather than get mad at someone else. Good girl and all that. Responsible. Anger and hate are unattractive. No one likes a pouty Polly. Smile and everyone will feel better. Getting mad will only make it much worse. Come on now, give us a smile, it's rude and unthoughtful to be mad.
Oh. My. Swutting. Godless.
Where did that come from?
My parents. That's where.
I wasn't allowed to be mad when I was young. Well. I mean. That's being harsh. My parents are reasonable. They didn't expect me to never be angry. But. They did expect me to understand it doesn't solve anything.
And they're right. It doesn't. But. Somewhere along the line I took it to an extreme and thought I shouldn't feel anger. And no, I'm not blaming my parents. That's my own mixed up psychotically dysfunctional self abusive brain at work.
So.
Huh.
So really, the whole void of emotions thing is really nothing new for me. I've been voiding anger since I was a kid. During my quiet reflective contemplation I realized I cannot remember being really, truly, honestly, horrifically mad. I've been hurt. Annoyed. Conflicted and confused. (All the other girls got bewitched, bothered and bemused, I got annoyed, conflicted and confused. Cripes. Open these floodgates and look what pours out all over the place. Don't mind me, I'm just having a major life dawn of realization here.) But never, that I can remember, have I been what I would consider really mad. Raging anger. Furious. Enraged. Nope. Never. I've been really, really hurt. Badly. You have no idea the pain and hurt I have felt in my life. I don't go around thinking about the amount and type, but I have endured more than one human's fair share of hurt and subsequent pain. This isn't, "oh, poor me." Pity is one emotion I do not want or need. But I'm thinking about some of those big hurts, the ones which have scarred me and I'm wondering if maybe a little anger would be not only justified, but allowable and even expected. Maybe I've been repressing anger without even realizing it. Maybe I need to release some hostility over a few things which hurt me instead of making me mad.
By Jove I think she's got it!
Eureka! That's it!
I'm giving myself anger for Christmas! I am going to allow myself to be mad.
Oh boy! I can't wait! This is going to be the best Christmas ever!
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
You know how you go along through life observing, maybe doing a little reporting here and there, taking it all in, learning, eventually realizing people, individually and as a species, are really weird? And once you realize this you sort of feel kind of enlightened because you naively believe, "hey, I've seen it all, or at least a lot of it, and I've learned that people are weird. And so having come to that realization, nothing a human does can surprise me. Not really. Not in that big, shocking way because I know that fundamentally people are weird. Ergo, they will exhibit weird behavior. Huh. Enlightenment. Wow. I'm so enlightened. Life's going to be a lot easier now. Terrific. Here we go then."
And then you decide to give online dating a try.
And you learn that everything you thought you could handle because of all that enlightenment and the acceptance of the realization that people, individually and as a species, are weird, confounds you. Leaves you stymied. More convinced than ever that humans are very weird, but stymied and confounded nonetheless.
Because there is nothing, absolutely nothing you could observe in life which can fully prepare you for the weirdness you may encounter if you give online dating a real and serious try.
Yep.
I've been out of commission for the past week-ish. Out of town. Under the weather. Certainly in no position to be giving 50 First Dates any effort. When I finally had the time and energy to deal with, erm, I mean, eagerly open the email from my online dating sites I found: A lot of the usual, scads of "clearly did not read my profile or would have known I don't date smokers, underaged boys, retired men or taxidermists," a few "hey, maybes," and this guy.
Normally I would have deleted him upon first glance of his basic stats: Way out of my age range. Many years older than the age I post as my max age. And yet, like so many other divorced guys hopped up high on Cialis, he sent me an email anyway.
(That behavior would fall into the "normal" weirdness for which life has actually prepared me. People are weird, therefore they will ignore basic facts presented to them and believe themselves always to be the exception. Which I find interesting and proof of the weird human thing because everyone feels they are the exception. We can't all be the exception because that would make the exception the norm. Exceptional means better than normal. We're not all better than normal. Most of us aren't even normal. Many of us peak at normal on a really good day and flop around in the below normal unexceptional gene swamp the rest of the time. That's part of the path to enlightenment: Realizing people are weird and since you're a person you, too, are therefore weird. And probably unexceptional. If you'd just apply yourself you could really do well. You're capable of so much more. Your third grade teacher told you so. She was right.)
But something caught my eye.
There was something familiar about him.
Something very, very familiar.
I took a closer look at his profile photo. I looked at his city. I looked at his other profile photos...
...and that was where I was hit with the realization of several things.
(insert Psycho shower scene soundbite here)
The things I realized were:
A) People are swutting weirder than I ever could have swutting imagined.
B) He is the father of a woman in my office.
You heard me. The father of someone I know, a man I have met a few times and clearly knows who he's emailing, contacted me for a date via an online dating site.
A woman I actually like. A woman in that gray area between coworker and friend. I like her more than I generally like coworkers, I mean, I've met her father for crying out loud. He works in town and sometimes stops in the office. I always chat with him and once I even showed him how to use iTunes. He's, you know, nice, in that father of a friend kind of way. Not in any way other than that, though.
I have several photos posted on this dating site so I am 100% certain he knew who I was when he emailed me. However, he didn't actually mention this fact in his email.
Not surprisingly, his email was short and rather cryptic. "Hi there. I know I'm older than you want (so why are you writing me?) but I think if you take a minute to look beyond our age difference you'll see we have a lot in common. (Yeah. We both know your daughter, for a start.) "
That was it.
I read his profile several times and fail to see what we have in common other than the fact that we don't smoke. (I know, I know, that's a huge start, I know. I shouldn't be so picky.) He doesn't like cats or dogs. (I can vouch for that. He made a sick dead cat joke when he saw the photo of Furry Creature on my desk.) He likes riding his motorcycle. (I can vouch for that. I had to hear the story of his near death crash experience.) He doesn't "spend much time reading" because he'd "rather have fun than sit around reading." (I can vouch for that. He didn't get a joke I made about Haikus. "What's a Haiku?") He describes his sense of humor as slapstick. (I can vouch for that. He is fond of Stooge-a-palooza on a local network.) He is not looking for a serious commitment. (I can vouch for that, too. I've heard his daughter's (my coworker) lament about his post mid-life crisis and her worries about what will become of him in his old age.)
Let's just pretend we have a lot in common. Just for the sake of me trying to not be too picky about the men I date. Let's say apart from our age difference we really were good for each other.
I swutting work with his daughter.
wavy dream sequence screen to the image of me going to meet my new boyfriend's family who is my coworker and her siblings. "Surprise! I'm dating your dad!" Then a few weeks later, me coming into work on a Monday morning. As I walk past my coworker's office I say, "Hey, Coworker, how was your weekend? Mine? Oh fantastic. I'm walkin' a little funny today but it was worth it if you know what I mean, nyuck nyuck. That dad of yours is incredible. Give him a Cialis on Friday and he doesn't stop until Stooge-a-palooza on Sunday afternoon!"
Back to reality.
A) I do not discuss my sex life (or lack thereof) with my colleagues or coworkers.
B) She's his daughter.
C) There's a rule imprinted in human DNA that states people do not want to know about their parents' sex lives.
Let's just pretend I don't work with his daughter. Just for the sake of me trying to not be too picky about the men I date. Let's say apart from our age difference and the fact that we have nothing in common, I don't even know his daughter and therefor he's "datable."
wavy dream sequence screen to the image of me trying to read with the Three Stooges blaring in the background and this guy laughing and guffawing, "hey, sweetheart, you'll never guess what Moe just did to Curly! Sheesh, he never learns!"
"Um, let me guess, slapping, punching and stupid vocal sound effects?"
Back to reality.
Okay. Leaving the Stooge Factor out of the equation, we're just not a good candidate for couplehood.
And then there's his daughter.
My coworker.
A woman I like and respect.
Whom I have to face every day from now until as long as I work with her knowing that her father tried to pick me up on an online dating site.
Now, more than ever, I really, really have to get a new job.
But until then, what?
So far I've simply ignored his email. I haven't responded. (I'm invoking cooling off period so no one gets hurt.)
The next time he stops in the office is going to be beyond weird. I'll duck and hide, but I can't live in constant fear of this guy showing up in the office. Some day, some time, I'm going to see him. And it's going to be really weird.
Although not as weird as trying to pretend that a coworker's father didn't hit on me online.
She must never, ever know. She's already got some issue regarding her parents' divorce. The last thing she needs to know is that her father is not only hitting on much younger women, but women who are her coworkers as well.
Maybe I've got her all wrong. Maybe she'd be cool with it. Heck, maybe she even encouraged it. But I doubt it. I like this woman. She's not weird like that. She's capable of thinking far enough ahead and reasoning that a coworker dating her father could potentially be a seriously bad thing.
The question this week is not should I date this creep, but what, if anything, should I say to him? I'm thinking maybe something like, "Hi Coworker's Dad. I'm going to assume you meant this as a joke. Ha ha. I think it's best of Coworker doesn't know about this, even though it is a really funny joke. Ha ha. She might not see the humor in it and we do have to work together. Good luck out there. - Trillian"
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Well. Here goes. Thanksgiving.
I don’t have much to say about it this year. What I do have to say about it can be summed up thusly: Thanks.
You could read this - someone reminded me of this. I’ve been doing this too long. I don’t even remember what I’ve posted here.
I do have a lot to say about holiday travel, though.
It can be summed up thusly: Don’t.
It’s not that I don’t want to be with my family. I do. Very much. I love my family. I even like them. I like spending holidays with them. If it weren’t for them I’d be spending my holidays alone or as that pathetic interloper who conjures such pity they get invited to mooch on a holiday with a friend’s family solely because the friend can’t stand the guilt of knowing the pathetic single friend with no family would otherwise be spending the holiday alone. So yes. Even if I didn’t happen to love and like my family, I am thankful and happy they’re around because I don’t want the alternatives. For them or me.
But. As a single person it is my lot in life to be the one who travels to celebrate holidays with the family. The family never (or rarely) goes to visit the single person of the family on holidays. (yes, I’ve seen Pieces of April) I understand why. I know it makes the most economic and logistic sense. One person, me, traveling, vs. the rest of the family traveling. It’s just easier. For everyone except me.
I used to allow myself the little fantasy of hosting holiday festivities with my husband and children in our home. I used to think that, you know, like normal people, that would happen. I thought one day I would have a spouse and children and a home and I wouldn’t have to travel on my own to my parents’ house. My parents wouldn’t have to once again host the holidays. Sure, it would be a lot of work, but I wouldn’t mind. Honest. I wouldn’t mind at all. I like doing all that prep stuff.
When HWNMNBS and I were househunting there was one house in particular I really liked. I could see us living there. It seemed, you know, right. Normal. This is the stupidity of real estate. This is where emotion kicks in and drives the sale. I could envision future holidays unfolding in that house. It seemed right for us. I realize that’s stupid, really, it’s just walls and a roof. But it just felt normal. It felt good. It felt good to feel normal. And the holidays play a big part in that normalcy. Holidays are normal rituals. The normal rite of passage is that you grow up, get married, have a home and celebrate and enjoy your holidays there.
I don’t allow myself that fantasy anymore. It hurts. Still. A lot. Which is why I hate holidays so much now. They stir up all that stuff I try so hard to forget or at least repress the rest of the year. And it hurts. Move on, move on...get over it, move on, no expectations, no emotion, do the opposite, just get through it, feel nothing and move on. Right. I know. I’m trying, okay? I’m trying. But it’s the stupid swutting holidays and I miss him and that hurts. Okay?
There. I said it.
Which is why I now hate this time of year so much. It’s not just that I’m very much single — as if that weren’t bad enough — I get the extra bonus joy of lugging around serious baggage from a failed relationship on my holiday travels
When I travel on holidays I see some families traveling. And a lot of couples. A lot of children being toted by their parents. But mostly I see a lot of single people. Sometimes we cast each other knowing looks. The exchange of looks goes like this. “You, too, huh?” “Yep. Alone.” “Yeah. Me, too.” “Gotta find a spouse.” “Yeah.Me, too.”
There are alternatives. a) Stay home, don’t celebrate, celebrate, whatever, just refuse to travel to be with family; b) live close to (or with) the family; c) convince everyone to travel to your place.
None of those alternatives work for me or my family.
So off I go to spend the holiday with my family.
Because that is what I want to do. I just wish there were a way to magically teleport myself from here to there. I’m normally a gung ho traveler. The journey’s half the fun and all that. But not during holidays. Nope. No way. That’s a whole other travel ball game. That’s a whole other game completely.
Especially Thanksgiving. I have always tried to figure out what it is about Thanksgiving that makes people so...I don’t know what it is. Frantic. Desperate. Hostile. Confused. Angry.
Maybe they’re dreading spending the day with their family. Maybe they’re not thankful for anything. Maybe they’ve done this one too many times. Whatever the reason, very few people I encounter while traveling seem to be in a good mood about the holiday.
And I know I’m one of them. I try to keep a healthy perspective about it. “Hey! I’m so thankful I have a family to be with on holidays! I’m so thankful I am able to travel! I’m so thankful for all these wonderful people sharing the holiday with me! We’re all on this pilgrimage together and isn’t that just special and interesting? We all have different stories which brought us to this one place in time together. United in our holiday travel! How cool is that?! It’s very cool!”
I honestly do start my journey with that attitude. It usually fades quickly but I do try to maintain some semblance of, well holiday good will. But when everyone else is in a really bad mood about the whole thing it’s really difficult to maintain a good attitude.
The children are the first to go. They’re perceptive. They know when there is a bad attitude hanging in the air. It’s like fear. They instinctively know the grown-ups are tense and moody. And because they’re children and unable to rationalize the situation they misbehave. It’s a really simple concept: Children misbehave when they are tired or craving attention. They crave attention because they’re not getting it or because they’re having emotional issues. Like fear. And confusion. Give the kid some positive attention and very clear rules and boundaries and guess what? It’s like magic! They behave! Well. Not always quite like that. Sometimes they’re just really tired and cranky.
Hey. I can relate. I’ve been tired and cranky for several years. It sucks. Sometimes I misbehave. But. There they are, reacting. Misbehaving. Annoying and irritating all the fellow holiday travelers. And the grown-ups react to the screaming, crying children. Tempers elevate. Remember, many of the people traveling this holiday are single people. People who do not have children. People who may actually really like and enjoy children. But not now. Not here. Not screaming, crying, annoying, irritating children whose parents allow them to run amuck and scream and cry and carry on, giving nothing more than an unapologetic shrug and smile and a lot of excuses and blame for why their children are running amuck.
I’ve noticed a trend among parents of young children. Blame everyone else for their children's’ behavior. The plane was late so it’s the airline’s fault the child is running around the newsstand pulling magazines off the rack while the parents slurp down a doublefrappecafemuchacrappola and discuss how this is all the airline’s fault.
I was hit in the ankle, yes, that ankle, by one of those SUV strollers a few weeks ago. The driver of the thing, a woman who could barely see over the handles of the stroller, was apparently pushing it with her stomach because she had a coughuppalottabucks in one hand and her mobile phone in the other. She was completely unaware that she hit me with the SUV stroller and kept shoving the thing into me. I turned around to see what the swut she was doing and she gave me a dirty look. I heard her tell whomever was on the other end of the phone, “It’s really crowded here. This woman in front of me won’t move and she’s making Jacob cry.”
Yes. I was making young Jacob cry. It was my fault the flow of foot traffic had come to a halt in the airport and that her inability to move was causing Jacob to be upset. Apparently Jacob gets upset when the stroller stops. Jacob likes to be on the move. Perhaps his mother's intake of caffeine during pregnancy has something to do with his need for speed. But it was my fault, more precisely: my ankle’s fault, that his forward movement ceased.
It was the “won’t move” part that pushed me over the edge.
“I ‘won’t move’ (yes, I used exaggerated air quotes around the won't move. I told you sometimes I misbehave) because the people in front of me have stopped moving forward because apparently somewhere in front of us there is a delay. This sometimes happens in airports. It’s normal. We’re all going to be okay. We just have to stay calm. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Where can I send the physical therapy bill for the work I need on my ankle because you repeatedly shoved your SUV stroller into me? Do you have insurance coverage to drive that thing or do you want to settle this between us?”
“Huh?”
“Oh. Right. It’s my fault your stroller repeatedly shoved into the back of my ankle. And all that emotional distress Jacob’s had is my fault, too.”
Still talking on her mobile, she said, “She’s really weird and a total bitch and she still won’t move and Jacob’s crying really bad now.”
We finally began moving. But never during the whole process did she put down her mobile phone or her coughuppalottabucks and tend to her child.
If you think this is an isolated incident, guess again. This happens a lot. I’m not going to pin labels on people or generalize a type of parent. We all know these people. We know who they are. We know where they live. We know those SUV strollers cost a lot of money. We know status is very important to them. More important that who’s actually sitting in the strollers. One of these days, very soon, maybe even this holiday weekend, I expect a riot over this issue.
And I like children. I really do. I truly like and enjoy children. I cut tremendous amounts of slack for children. It’s their parents who fill me with contempt. But. If my anger level is raised over this I cannot even begin to imagine how people who do not like or understand children are feeling over this.
Which leads me to think: Wouldn't it be easier if we all just stayed where we are and gave thanks with whomever happened to be next door? No one would have to travel. No one would have to schlep through crowded airports, train stations and highways. No one would have to deal with travel delays, tired screaming children, frazzled transportation workers or unmet expectations. Think how much more calm the general atmosphere would be.
Oh sure, we’d miss our families and friends. That would be difficult. Being apart from the people you love on holidays is difficult. But. On the other hand, arriving frazzled, tired, cranky and generally unpleasant after a long and unpleasant journey is also not in keeping with the whole warm fuzzy holiday spirit.
Given the choice I’d take a pleasant, heartfelt, meaningful sincere phone conversation with some laughs over a cranky, tense, surly face to face dinner.
But. I’m a wimp. A wuss. I don’t have the emotional fortitude to not travel to be with my family for the holiday. I couldn’t stand the guilt. And I cannot even imagine saying, “No, I’m not going to be there for the holiday this year. I don’t feel like traveling. I’ll give you a call.” Because there’s no way I could disappoint my parents and the rest of my family who cares that way. I’m not made of strong enough emotional stuff for that. Nor do I have the stamina to actually enjoy the holiday on my own. It sounds good in theory, take a year off from all of it for a change, and I’d have all sorts of ideas swirling around for my holiday solitude prior to the day. But when it arrived I’d be upset. I’d want to be with my family. I’d feel guilty. I’d feel selfish. I’d feel ashamed. I’d feel lonely.
So off I trek, another holiday pilgrimage as a single person. Keep those swutting SUV strollers away from me. You have been warned.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Okay, so when did this happen? When did The Holidays arrive? No one told me it was that time of the year. That hap, hap, happiest time of the year.
Not for me.
We know this.
I wish there were some way to just leave and go away some where where there's no holiday season for the next six weeks.
Funny. I used to like the holidays. I love my family and friends. I cherish every second I get to spend with them. The Holidays, albeit forcefully, bring everyone together. I used to love that. Now Carole of the Bells is more of a death knell than a joyous call to celebration for me.
This is what happens when your life turns out worse than you thought it would.
Things like The Holidays bug you.
A lot.
It's always been difficult for me to see past the commercial hype of the season. Yes. Really. Even when I was a kid. It's always seemed incongruent to me. Sure, that never stopped me from enjoying my annual present haul, but I never really connected why all the hype and fuss over all of it. Jesus' birthday. Peace on Earth. Good will to all. What part of that includes buying presents and making everyone who doesn't have a special someone and money feel like a complete pathetic loser?
Yep. It's that special time of year.
Shopping and suicide rates are at their peak.
After The Breakup (which was just before The Holidays so yes, they're even more tainted for me because of that) I started a little tradition. The Holidays are all about traditions, right? Every family has their own special traditions which make the holidays have continuity from one generation to the next.
But there is no next generation for me. Nope. Not even a spouse or "special someone" to share a special tradition. I'm a pathetic single loser, there doesn't need to be any continuity, so there are no traditions for me. Right?
Well. Yes. Basically that's the gist of it.
Except I did start my own little tradition.
It's called: The Festival of Not Becoming a Holiday Suicide Statistic.
It begins, well, now.
A few weeks after Halloween. Before Thanksgiving. The actual date, like Jesus' birth, is a bit sketchy. I know when to start, though. Usually a few minutes after the first Christmas themed jewelry commercial featuring Santa looking over a guy (wearing a new sweater) proffering an enormous hunk of rock otherwise known as a diamond engagement ring to a lovely young lady who embraces him clearly sending the message that she will accept the proposal because Santa helped sweater boy choose a large enough ring for her.
When did marriage proposals become synonymous with Christmas? When did this happen? Why did this happen? I didn't get the memo.
Oh sure, I realize it's a warm fuzzy sentimental time of year for couples in love. I used to be one of those people. The few holidays HWNMNBS and I shared rank among my best. Even better than the Barbie Airplane year. I kind of "got it" then. I loved him. A lot. The whole time together with the person you love during the hap, hap. happiest time of the year is nice. Yes. Really. And no, he never went overboard with gifts. Actually. Now that I think of it, there weren't any actual Christmas gifts. But that was okay. Being with him was present enough for me. I mean that, really.
Right.
Until I met him I didn't get the whole couples in love at Christmas thing. I just didn't see the connection. And just when I began to "get it," he dumped me. Leaving me again wondering how and why Christmas has anything to do with couples in love.
It's really very cruel. The people who don't have a special someone, and I'm not the only one, there are other single lonely people in this world (hence the staggeringly high suicide rate during The Holidays), us people who are not happily coupled up have to endure a couple of months of having our singleness crammed down our throats. There's no escape. I dare you to spend one day between now and January 1 without seeing or hearing at least one happy couple at Christmas reminder. If you're living in the Western world, I doubt that it's possible.
Hence The Festival of Not Becoming a Holiday Suicide Statistic.
Every year since The Breakup I have started the tradition of crossing days off the calendar - the day after the day. As I mark an X through the date I make a big production of the event. I say, "Whew! I survived one more day alive! The (insert suicide inducing moment like the above mentioned jewelry commercial) didn't drive me to overdose!" Or, "Whew! I'm alive this morning because the holiday party where everyone was coupled up except me didn't make me hurl myself off the highest roof I could find!"
Every Monday morning during The Festival of Not Becoming a Holiday Suicide Statistic there are special songs to accompany the marking ceremony. Classics like "All By Myself, Again," "Alone Again, Naturally" and "One is the Loneliest Number." It is during this time we take time out to remind ourselves we made it through another week alive and off the holiday suicide statistic chart. The best way to do this is by reminding ourselves we're alive. What better way than by using our senses? Hear the music, see the cookies and booze, taste the cookies and booze. Feel the effects of the sugar and alcohol lulling you into a numb stupor.
There is also a ceremonial lighting of candles during Hanukah, The Festival of Not Becoming a Holiday Suicide Statistic is nondenominational. Singleness knows no religious or cultural bounds. And if you don't burn those holiday themed candles you get at the office gift swap they hang around all year as unlit, unused reminders of The Holidays.
On January 1, the last day of The Festival of Not Becoming a Holiday Suicide Statistic and culmination of the year's seasonal events, there is a ceremonial viewing of Thelma and Louise for girls and Better Off Dead for guys. The Festival of Not Becoming a Holiday Suicide Statistic ends with The Sacrifice of the Innocents, otherwise known as maxing out a credit card at post-holiday sales. This will ensure mortality well into the new year. Credit card bills will keep you alive and working and will give you something in common with the rest of the free world, even (and especially) those with spouses and children.
So, upon us. It's here. I've got my marker and calendar ready to mark the days I remain alive during The Holidays.
Happy Festival of Not Becoming a Holiday Suicide Statistic, everyone!
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Rough week. Lots going on in Trillian’s life.
I’ll cut straight to the issue.
Like that? Should make it easier for those of you specifically hunting for for the Creeps of the Week.
Or: All indications that we would get along on a date or form a relationship are negative. But maybe I’m wrong and being way too picky so you tell me. Should I give this guy a chance?
So far most of you have been less than impressed with the Creeps of the Week. Which helps me with my concerns about my potentially “too high” standards. Some people have been hinting that perhaps I’m to blame because I’m too picky about what I want in a man. I didn’t think that was the case but then I thought most people probably don’t realize how picky they are. I thought maybe I didn't realize I was being too picky. I thought maybe I should be more open to different types of men. Maybe I shouldn't be so quick to dismiss the men who seem completely wrong for me, or me for them.
Apparently not. Apparently I'm not being too picky. Some of you even suggested that I'm not picky enough.
So thanks for validating my belief that I am not, in fact, “too picky.”
If you were to read this week’s Creep’s profile, especially his “in his own words” section, you would probably think, “OMG! Trillian! He’s perfect for you! After all this time, at long last, the perfect man for you!”
You would probably think that because you haven’t read my “in my own words” section.
If you were privy to my “in my own words” section you would probably not think, “OMG! Trillian! He’s perfect for you.”
You, like me, would probably think, “OMG, Trillian, what a jerk! What the swut is he thinking? Gotta be a stalker...or just really, really, really stupid.”
You would think that because if you read my profile statements you would realize he copied my “in my own words” section verbatim. Cut and pasted my words into his profile. Not once, but in three areas of his profile. All he did was change the gender pronouns where appropriate.
No. This is not mere coincidence.
I put thought and effort into my “my own words” sections of my online dating profiles.
You read the blog. Based on that, I think it’s fair to assume what I wrote is rather unique and original, if not in thought at least in style.
So I’ll go out on a limb and say there’s no way, no way at all, anyone could come up with the exact words and style as mine in their online profile. Maybe, maybe cutting a huge amount of slack, one section might read similar or even almost the same. But not three areas. Word for exact word.
This is called plagiarism. Stealing. Deceiving. Lying.
So what this guy did was, a) find my profile, b) apparently liked it, c) cut and pasted my words into his profile, and, here’s the weird bit (at least to me) d) swutting sent me an email saying he’d like to meet me because we seem perfect for each other.
Naturally, before I saw his profile, I thought, “huh, okay, not much substance to his email, but nothing stupid or rude or weird, either. Let’s check out his profile.”
You know what’s weird? Seeing your words describing yourself and who you’d like to meet attributed to someone else.
I know writing these things is difficult. I had trouble getting started, too. The difficulty for me is not writing words, but writing words enthusing about myself. It seems like bragging which, as you know, is not exactly my strong suit. Which is why I cut a huge amount of slack for men who don’t write exactly scintillating or even mildly interesting profiles. No one expects Hemingway prose on these things.
And yes, I know, I know. I’m sure there is a lot of plagiarism out there. I’m sure a lot of people read something in someone else’s profile which appeals to them and then “borrow” it for their own profile.
I’m not saying I condone this behavior. But I know it happens. And I can even understand why some people who are not very good at expressing themselves in written word might resort to borrowing a line or two from someone else's profile.
But this is how clichés become cliché. Someone comes up with the original thought, it strikes a chord with someone else, and so and so on and so on...the next thing you know “runs with scissors” and “comfortable in jeans or tux” or “I like your smile and eyes” are such common vernacular they’re no longer funny or cute or complimentary. They’re just stupid, meaningless clichés. It’s how language and ideas evolve.
If you’ve read it on a t-shirt, bumper sticker, email joke or Successories poster it’s a cliché. It’s unoriginal and has no business in your profile. It not only makes you look unoriginal, trite and cliché, it insults the intelligence of anyone you pursue who reads your profile. If you’re not great at writing, just be honest: “I suck at writing so this is difficult for me. I’m a research physicist. I’m kind of nerdy. I have two cats. I like parachuting. My hobbies include rock tumbling and caber throwing. I do not have a criminal record. I passed my last physical. My blood pressure is 110/80, my cholesterol count is 145 mg/dL. I’d like to meet a woman without a criminal record who likes cats and has hobbies, too.” There. See? Was that really so difficult? No. It wasn’t. Grant you, it’s not the best marketing prose, but it’s sincere. If you write a profile like this, be sure you respond to all, and I mean every question the site offers. If your site has a personality profile “test,” do it. It will be insightful for you and potential dates. It will fill in a few blanks where you were at a loss for words.)
But to swutting plagiarize, word for word, someone else’s words and put them in the “in my own words” section? Ironic, yes, but dishonest and insincere.
But what puts this in the creepy weird category is to then email the person from whom you stole the words and say you have a lot in common and want to meet them.
I know, I know. Imitation = flattery.
And I do get a lot of compliments on my various profiles. More than half my email is from men who say, “I’m not who you’re looking for, but I had to write to compliment you on your profile and wish you luck in your search.” Awww, gee, thanks, guys. I also have people, men and women, ask me to write their profile statements for them because they like mine. Ever read Cyrano de Bergerac? See the movie Roxane? This sort of thing always ends badly. Sure, I could probably write some bang-up sales copy for you. It’s all marketing. But you’re the one who ultimately has to deliver the goods. You want to find dates and ultimately a partner who likes you for you. And if you’re not great at writing, find someone who likes you because you’re not great at writing. You could say, “I’m not good at marketing myself so online dating might not be a good idea for me. Unless you’re someone who appreciates that I’m not good at marketing in which case this could be the start of something big.” Just be swutting honest.
Back to
I’m at a complete and total loss as to if or how to proceed with this guy. Mainly I’m angered, confused and little bit scared about his intentions. Obviously he copied my profile statements. Obviously he knew I’d see that he did this because he swutting emailed me and said he thought we’d be perfect for each other. Obviously he knew I would look at his profile. Obviously he wanted to get “caught.” Or, even scarier, weirder, thought I would be impressed that he copied my words. Or, weirdest of all, thought I wouldn’t notice he copied my words.
But wait, there’s more. If he hadn’t copied my three “in my own words” sections I probably wouldn’t give this any thought.
But since he did, the rest of his profile is suspect.
Sure enough, he answered every question, every single question posed by the site the same way I did. It’s as if he sat next to me and copied my answers on the final exam. Except there was no exam and the subject is me.
Some of you, the more forgiving, less cynical among you (who let you in here, anyway?) may be thinking, “Sure, it’s a little weird, but give the guy a break, Trill. He’s obviously impressed with your profile and wants to meet you and he got caught up with your profile and in the moment it seemed like a good idea to him. He’s trying really hard to meet you. And maybe you are a lot alike and he thought, ‘Wow! I could turn everything she says around and it would match my outlook exactly!’ so he did. Maybe it’s even his idea of a joke. Maybe he thought it would be funny to you.”
Maybe. So. What do you think? Weird, lying, plagiarizing creepy jerk (stalker) or misguided guy trying too hard who deserves a chance?
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
I like looking at a naked man as much as the next hetero woman. Maybe even more than some women. But. I'm not keen on seeing a guy I'm potentially going to date naked before we even meet in person.
Guys, here’s some advice from me to you. Free of charge. Just because you want us girls to post topless photos of ourselves online doesn't mean we want the same from you.
Let's say you’re a guy who spends a lot of time at the gym and you look like one of those old Mr. Atlas ads. Hey, whatever dude, you might want to cultivate a hobby other than the gym. Maybe something a little less self involved...little less brawn, little more brain...anyway, you've got a muscled body. You spend a lot of time working out and you want to show off the results. A lot. To all the world and every woman on online dating sites.
That’s cool. I guess. There are probably girls who will find the photos of your naked physique hot. They might want to meet you. But don’t count on them liking you for what’s inside. But then, maybe that’s not an issue for you. Or them. Paris Hilton’s available again...
But let’s say it is an issue for you. You want a woman who is "thoughtful, caring, intelligent and romantic" Maybe someone like that girl who’s temping down in accounting.
You really need to think about what you want in a relationship and what sort of woman you are hoping to meet. Think about the sort of girl you're hoping to meet. Got a good idea of the sort of person she is? Maybe a mental image or two? Great! Now tailor your profile to show off your qualities which will be interesting to that sort of girl looking for that kind of relationship. I’m not saying lie about yourself. I’m saying highlight your personality qualities and interests which will be of interest to the sort of woman you’ve decided you want to meet.
Posting a half (or near full) naked photo of your muscled body will attract Paris Hilton types who will find your naked muscled body hot. They will seek you out for some gettin’ freaky with Jello-O shots in the hot tub action. And if that’s what you’re hoping to achieve, great. Good luck with that.
But. If you want someone who is "thoughtful, caring, intelligent and romantic" you might want to reconsider your photo options. And you might want to highlight some of your interests outside of the gym. If you don’t have any interests outside of the gym now is the time to spend some time developing something other than your body. Perhaps you could spin this in your profile. “I’m currently exploring some of my interests like geode polishing and touring the Amish country. I’d like to meet someone to share in new experiences and interests” might pique the interest of a "thoughtful, caring, intelligent and romantic" woman who also has interests and hobbies. A photo of your naked body will pique her interest but it won’t be your mind or interest in the Amish country she finds interesting.
And here’s my issue. You’re a buff, muscle bound, gym four hours a day every day kind of guy. Nowhere on your profile do you hint at anything about yourself other than the gym, fitness and your body. You have one (or usually several) half or nearly full naked photos of yourself posted. You’re proud of your body and your muscles. You spend a lot of time with yourself and your muscles. And you want to portray this on your profile. Fine. Cool. Whatever, dude, good luck.
But why the swut are you writing someone like me? Does excessive sweating and weight lifting kill brain cells? Can you actually read? I spell it out for you in my profile. I say I have a demanding job, intellectual hobbies, and I volunteer. Nowhere in there does it say anything about me having the time or interest in spending four hours a day at the gym. Nowhere in there does it say I value buffing up my body more than anything else. Nowhere in there does it say I'm looking for a guy who spends every spare moment in the gym or in the pursuit of his idea of a perfect body. No indication whatsoever that I'm interested in you or seeing your half naked body in my face when I innocently open your profile. Unless you are in fact a personal trainer, and even then...not only is it intimidating, it's weird that you think posting a photo of your half naked body is impressive and a good way to meet women who want something from you other than gettin’ freaky in the hot tub with Jell-O shots.
I'll leave you with this thought: If the best (or only) thing you can say about yourself is that you have an awesome body, you might want to look up the definitions of narcissism, vanity, arrogance, pride and conceit. Going to the gym, working out, trying to be healthy is one thing. Making your body your only source of entertainment and interest is another completely.
Now. Before all you jocks or "naturally buff" guys start saying I'm fitness bashing, get off your bruised ego and realize I'm not anti fitness and health. If you go to the gym a few times a week or play sports or have a physical job, you know darned well I'm not talking about you. And I'm also hoping you have enough of a life outside of the gym to realize posting a half naked photo of yourself is not the way to make a good first impression on that potential "thoughtful, caring, intelligent, romantic" woman you claim to be hoping to meet online.
On the other hand, let's say you're not really the Mr. Atlas type. Let's say you're just, you know, "regular." "Regular" is good. I like "regular." Most women do. "Regular" can be very sexy. Non threatening. Unnarcissistic. (Those are good qualities, by the way.) So why spoil it, why make us think you're egotistical and weird by posting a photo of your half naked self online? Perhaps even worse than the Mr. Atlas types, you've got seemingly no particular reason for showing off that shag carpet you call a chest.
It's not that most of us prefer the Mr. Atlas types, it's that we prefer a man who has more than an ounce decorum and self awareness. Guys, this is first impression time. Whether you're buff, cut and waxed or dull, soft and hirsute, this is not the time or place to reveal that aspect of yourself. If that's the best presentation of yourself you can think of to give to potential dates, you might want re-think your strategy.
Are you honestly trying to find that special someone or are you hoping to get noticed by a producer of low budget porn?
Because that's just it, guys. These half naked snapshots (or worse, ye gads, the "professional" glamour shots of naked men flexing...ewwwwwww on a hetero dating site? ick) rarely give the impression that you're a confident guy comfortable in his skin. They almost always have a very, very seedy quality to them. They almost always make men appear to either be auditioning for porn or looking at it. (You know what I mean, I’m not going into details, but more often than not these guys also sport “something” obviously going on “down there.” Did you hear me say ewwwwwwww? This is not erotic. This makes most of us think, “Why is he sitting around half naked in a state of arousal, and worse, why did he take a photo of himself like this, and worse, who took the photo?)
And then there are the really special cases. Guys, take note. You or someone you know is probably one of these guys. I say this with a high degree of certainty because I see a lot of this type of photograph. I’m especially talking about the guys who post a photo of themselves, half (or maybe more) naked sitting in front of their computers, the phosphorus green/blue glow of the monitor illuminating their chest hair. EWWWWWWWWWWWWW. You know what this says to me and most other women? "Hi, I'm a perv. I spend a lot of time online. Alone. Naked. In a dark room. And I take photos." See where I'm going with this? Do I need to connect the dots for you? Bad imagery all the way around. Bad, bad, bad connotations. Especially when combined with the weird grins most of these guys have on their faces. Double EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
It occurred to me maybe some of you don't realize the bad connotations these photos emit. Maybe you think, "I wish women would post photos of their boobs. Why don't more women post half naked photos of themselves in their profiles? Don't they know us guys like boobs? Maybe if I do it, set an example, and then email thousands of women, a few of them will get the hint and follow my half naked lead. Men around the world will hail me as a hero and I'll get to see more boobs! It's all good!"
Dude. They make internet porn for this very reason. Go sit in a dark room naked in front of your computer and leave the dating to the other guys.
This is about dating. Not about seeing boobs before you even meet a woman.
And that's my whole point. Regardless of the state of your physique, save something for later. I personally like to know a bit about a guy before I want anything to do with his body. Call me a prude. Call me weird. Call me whatever you want. But. Also call me speaking for a lot of women in this respect. We do not have the same sort of fixation on your chests as you do with ours. We just don't. Yes, we like looking at men. A lot. But when it comes to men we date we want to know they have a sense of decorum. We want to know they respect us and themselves. We don't want our sisters, best friends or coworkers stumbling across our date's half naked photo posted online. Get it? It's embarrassing. It's weird. It's so unnecessary.
And I promise you this: Just because you show me yours does not mean I'll feel obligated or compelled to show you mine.
And you just know that this is all leading up to this week's
I took a break. Left the email alone for a few days. I didn't want to see or think about anything even remotely date related. I was in a sort of licking of wounds state and not in a "hey! Let's meet dozens of new guys who are online right now and waiting to chat with me!" mood.
When I finally opened the mail box, oh man. Oh man alive. I didn't even send any winks or smiles or emails. And yet. My box was brimming with them. That new dating site is full of very, very eager men. Too eager.
Way, way, way too eager.
So eager they obviously didn't read my profile. I waded through hundreds, yes, really, hundreds, of men who were at least 10 years older than my stated desired age range. Most of them 15 years or more. Many more. I swear I'm going to sue the makers of Viagra, Cialis and Levitra. Guys, men, seriously. Leave. Us. Alone. Pick on someone your own age. There are senior dating sites. Use one of those. I thought maybe I innocently stumbled onto one of those "for active mature daters" sites. I even checked to be sure I wasn't misled about the clientele on the site. Nope. It's geared for all ages over 18, nothing about senior dating listed in their “about us” section. And when I search for men in my age range there are plenty there. Yet who contacts me? Men getting ready to retire all hopped up high on Cialis. Can't blame a guy for trying, you say? Bah. This didn't happen before ED drugs were available. Damn you Bob Dole.
Right. So. A bunch of "mature" men.
And this guy.
I read his email twice before checking out his profile. He seemed, you know, sort of okay in his email. He wrote that he likes music and going to concerts and outdoor activities and travel. Hey cool! Me, too! In fact in the last week I’ve listened to music, gone to a concert and traveled to go hiking in the woods! Wow! It’s fate!!! Oh sure, the part about his liking to fish concerned me, especially because I specifically say: No hunters or fisherman, please. But he said he liked my sense of humor and that I look friendly. Okay. See? Now we're getting somewhere. No cliché "I like your smile and eyes." He was able to identify an actual adjective for his perception of my looks. I was sitting there thinking, "Okay, that's it, I'm marrying this guy. As long as he doesn't bring dead fish into the house or insist on telling me about his killing sprees otherwise known as fishing trips I can deal with it. Great. Fine. Job done. Let's check out his profile and email him.
And then I saw "it."
"It" is the photo he chose to use as his profile photo. The image of himself he chose to present to the world and potential dates.
I'm not going to humiliate the guy (or any other guy) by posting his photo for you to see. I'm not trying to humiliate these guys. I'm not on a personal vendetta or rampage against them personally. Well. I mean. Not really. Yes I'm picking them apart in a public forum but I'm leaving out specific details which could in any way narrow down the suspects to him. I’m hoping they, and others like them, will learn from this.
His photo. Oh, where to begin.
There’s no good way to tactfully discuss this. Best to just have out with it.
In his main profile photo he’s: Naked. Not exactly buff. Very hairy. Standing in front of what appears to be one of those metal storage sheds where most people keep their lawn mowers.
With what I calculate to be a 15 foot python snake draped around his neck with him holding the head of the snake in front of his penis.
With me here? The effect I believe he was going for was to imply things like, well, snakes, hands, force and jerking off. Oh. He's also wearing a wide grin. And appears to have some sort of gum disease.
Once I got past the initial "ick" and "please let this be a bad joke" phases I noticed the wood burned cypress sign on the metal shed. You know the kind of signs the retired guys at craft fairs at the mall will make for you, all lacquered and personalized? The kind people have on their cabins and motor homes usually proclaiming "The Andersons" or "Cabin Sweet Cabin?" Well, his said "**'s Snake Shack"
Still clinging to the hope that this was a bad joke, a very bad joke, I read his profile. Yep. There it is:
Wavy screen segueing into vision of the future: The sweet little face of Furry Creature caught in the jaws of that python, his eyes scared and confused, imploring, inferring, why, Trillian, why? I know you were lonely, I did my best to keep you company, really I did. I tried to be a good feline companion. You didn't have to let it come to this...I would have gone back to the shelter...why did you let him feed me to the snake? And naked hairy chest guy standing there grinning.
No. Just. No.
And then I checked out the rest of his profile. Not much there. Not much on details, this guy. However, apparently he feels photos are worth thousands of words. Because he has the maximum amount of photos allowed posted. All featuring his Snake Shack, snakes, fish and him naked or half naked with snakes or dead fish. Apparently he's big on scaly things. Apparently he likes the way scaly things feel against his naked flesh. (that sentence is going to be a hit with Google) Apparently he likes spandex, too. Several of the photos feature him wearing nothing but python and flame decorated spandex, um, "leggings." Yes. As in hair band spandex, erm, those things.
Okay. You know, great for him. He knows what he likes, he's comfortable in his skin and that's all really cool. He's got interests and spends a lot of time pursuing them. Take your passion, make it happen. Great. But maybe not exactly a great match for me.
And after seeing his photos, I found his comment about me looking "friendly" a bit odd. Here's a guy who obviously spends most of his time hanging out with menacing snakes and killing fish. Either he needs a break from all that scary business and found me to be a friendly, non threatening, non carnivorous oasis in his otherwise snake eat man eat fish world or he's thinking I'd be easy prey for the python.
Or, maybe, I've got him all wrong. Maybe he's just new to online dating, got a bit over enthused and carried away with the photos, couldn't decide which ones were best, and well, yeah. Maybe I've got him all wrong. He did write an okay email. He is my age. And once you get past what appears to be gum disease he has a big grin in every photo. He seems happy. Dating a happy scaly creature loving guy with gum disease would be a change for me. Maybe I should give, him, us, a chance. I am trying not to be quick or harsh to judge. I’m trying really hard to meet different sorts of men. Well, he’s different all right. But maybe he’s a really nice guy. Maybe he’s got a good sense of humor. Heck, he grins a lot. Maybe I shouldn’t look the gift horse, or in this case, snake, in the mouth. He thinks I look friendly. That must be important to him. Maybe he doesn’t care that I’m ugly, he just wants someone who looks friendly. I mean, hey, there are worse things than being with a guy who thinks you look friendly, right? I spent a lot of years with a man who thinks I look ugly and that ended badly for everyone. So maybe me and The Snake are onto something good here.
If the naked photos, snake and fishing things are all that’s keeping me from considering meeting this guy, am I being too picky?
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Another one bites the dust.
Someone else quit their job in the office.
Someone else found a much better place to work at a much higher salary. Someone else found someone who wanted to hire them and give them more money. Someone else is moving forward in their life.
And here I am with my life stuck in the past.
This isn’t even worth mentioning it happens so often in my office now.
But here’s why I’m mentioning it.
And potential “proof” the Universe is mocking me. Just in case you're playing along at home and want to keep score.
So, this person at work quit. Okay. Whatever. Yay for you. Congrats. Have a nice life.
There will be ramifications which will directly impact me. Every time someone quits the vacant position is “restructured.” Read: Higher level and difficult components farmed out to existing staff with the menial and mundane aspects left for a downgraded position so they can hire a lesser skilled, lesser paid person to fill the vacancy. Which isn’t actually a vacancy, it’s now an entirely new position. I was told late in the day that I will be handling one of the more dicey functions of the quitter’s job. Because apparently I’m “good with people and all that.” And all that. What the swut?! I’m “good with people and ‘all that?’”
But wait. That’s just everyday stupid talk from my boss. She’s perfected the art of talking in vagaries. The part I really loved most of all was her closing selling point to me about the new tasks being thrown my way.
This is in the running for the quote of the year from my boss: “People who don’t work here seem to like you.”
Uh. Yeah. Thanks, boss. Don’t forget that at review time!
I’d like to think she’s just so bad at speaking that she doesn’t realize what she’s saying. I’d like to think she didn’t mean it the way it sounds. I’d like to think this was not a loaded statement with a lot of lunchroom gossip behind it. I’d like to think all of that. I can probably convince myself that she’s so bad at speaking she doesn’t realize what she’s saying. But the rest of it? Not an easy sell.
I know it’s true. I try, I really, really try to be a good team player and get along in the office. I’m not rude or mean to people. (really, seriously, I’m not. I save the contempt, loathing, disdain and hatred for the blog. Sheesh.) In fact, I think I’m pretty darned nice to people in the office. Sometimes even friendly to people at work. Even people who aren’t nice to me. Of course being nice to people does not mean they will like you. I understand that.
And really, I don’t care if people at work like me or not. As long as we don’t have any “incidents” and work gets done and there’s no childish behavior, I’m fine with not being liked in the office. I’m too swutting busy to care about popularity in the coffee room. And that’s probably the problem. I don’t care about the inbreeding, I mean infighting and pettiness and socialization which seems to fuel everyone in the office except me.
The bigger reality is that I spend far more of my time dealing with people who don’t work for my company. Clients, vendors, sales reps, production people...the majority of my work related conversations and email happen with people who do not work for my company. I have a good rapport with all of them. Heck, I even honestly like most of them. And they “seem to like me.”
Right. So. My boss gives me her patented brand of backhanded compliment and informs me I’ll be responsible for more work which has absolutely nothing to do with my actual job. I make no remark about the backhanded compliment, completely ignore it, and in my best nonsnarky tone ask: “You know, boss, I don’t mind helping out. I think it’s fair to say I’ve pitched in above and beyond the call of duty and have done so with a pretty good attitude, all things considered. I rarely complain about my workload or the fact that I’m the one who picks up the slack for everyone who quits or is unable to do their job. I don’t mind, really, you know, in the big picture, but, at this rate I’m going to be doing every job in the department.
With no benefit for me. Like a pay increase. Or even time off work. As it stands I have difficulty taking time off work because I’m too busy doing my job and the jobs of several people who have quit or are not capable of doing their jobs. I really am fine helping out where I can, but at some point there has to be some benefit for me.”
I know. Way to assert yourself, Trillian! Don’t let yourself get used and abused! Stand up for yourself! Stop the insanity!
My boss was also nonplussed. She simply looked back at me and said, “You’re good with people outside the company. You seem to enjoy people outside the company. I don’t have time for this and you’re better at it anyway. This is more suited to your skills. Do you expect me to do all of this work? You’re the one who’s been here longer. And you know the pay increases are low again this year. You were at that meeting. You know there’s nothing I can do about your salary. If you want more money you’re going to have find a job somewhere else.”
I’m not kidding. She gave me the “if you don’t like it, leave” line. After effectively admitting she’s incompetent and needs me to cover for her and everyone else in the department.And what the swut is with the “enjoy” thing? I’m doing my swutting job! Of course I’m courteous and respectful and, you know, nice to clients and vendors. The overriding message I got from this conversation was: Trill, no one likes you here. I don’t have any legitimate reason to fire you, so I keep dumping more work on you and not giving you more money. And yet you won’t leave. Which is okay because I can’t do any of this work because I have no actual skills. If you don’t like it, leave. You should have fun out there with the people you enjoy outside the company. Go on, run along, go enjoy other people.”
I just got up and left, gave her my “Have a nice day” line and left. After all, I had new job responsibilities to handle.
Okay, right, so, just another day in the life. Living the dream and all that.
I got home, late, and what to my wondering eyes should appear in my mail box? A message from the Universe. A kick in the ass and then a kick in the face. That highly anticipated notice from a company where I had an interview a few weeks ago.
No big happy “ha! Take that, boss, I quit in my future.
More of a, “We regret to inform you we will not require your services for the role you applied for at our company. We will keep your information on file for six months. Should a position requiring your skills become available in that time we will contact you. Thank you for your interest in Swut You Co.”
I know this line by heart. I’ve heard every rejection schtick ever written or spoken. It’s not me/us, it’s you. You’re not good enough. You’ve got a nice personality/good skills but I’m/we’re just not attracted/interested in you that way. There’s someone better than you.You suck.
Jobs, men, life. In the realm of rejection it’s all the same.
It’s a way of life for me. The irony of the timing just adds to the schadenfreudenism of the whole thing. It’s all part of the big joke the Universe plays with me and my life.
Paranoid?
Nah. Just my life. Whatever.
Still. Sometimes I wonder.
I’m not perfect, way, way, way far from it. But. I’m not a bad person. I’ve never hurt anyone. I am sensitive to other peoples’ feelings and needs. I work hard. I try to learn as much as I can. I play by the rules. I don’t want much from life and expect nothing. I’m you know, a good person.
And yet, still, this constant mockery and abuse from the Universe.
I don’t even swutting like irony. It’s an overrated and overused plot method. I get it, okay? I get it. I get irony! Enough already! It doesn’t need to be my middle name. Can we change my middle name to success, now? Please?
Angry? No. I’m not. Maybe it sounds that way. But I’m not. It’s just life. There’s no point in getting angry. What would it solve? Nothing as far as I can figure.
And this is where the true beauty of the no expectation/void of emotion state really shows itself.
I could be very upset about my boss’ words and attitude. Other people would be angry or hurt or maybe even scared. Other people would be upset about having more work dumped on them. Other people would be upset, angry, self pitying at not only another rejection letter but the timing of it. It would push them over the edge of reason.
Not me.
It’s not that I don’t care. I do. I care a lot. But I feel nothing because I have no expectations, good or bad. I see the irony. I’m really bored and sick of the irony that is my life. Yes. That’s fair to say. But. I’m not angry about it or hurt or resentful. I refused to expect it, because I refuse to have any expectations whatsoever. So I accept it. I have no choice. There it is. Done deal.
I need to keep my job because I need my measly paycheck to pay my rent and feed my cat. So I will continue to “enjoy people outside my company” and keep trying to find another job. Until then I have no choice but to accept my current employment situation and the people with whom I work.
See how enlightened that sounds? Yeah. I’m a swutting saint. Not. Just trying to cope with yet another very bad situation in a very bad life. So I suppose, sort of, it is a form of success. I found a way to deal with a really bad situation and life without killing myself. Success.
Monday, November 07, 2005
I took a day off work last week. And I didn’t do anything family, health or work related. I just up and took a vacation day. Just like that. A day off work.
It felt good. I forgot what a vacation day feels like. The past year, well, two years, really, have been entirely consumed with work, family and health related issues. Every day I’ve taken off has been consumed with traveling to my family, dealing with a family crisis or issue of some sort or as a personal day for my own health issues. Where’d I go on vacation last year? My mum’s hospital, my parents’ house, my sister’s house...or various doctors’ offices affiliated with my mother or my own health issues. Not exactly vacations. I stayed home a couple of days because I was really sick, smack down in bed sick. Definitely not a vacation.
I was off on my company’s holiday days, but the past few years I’ve trekked to my parents’ on any holiday to “look in” on them. Not vacations.
I took a day off when I moved. Definitely not a vacation.
I took a few days off when HWNMNBS made a reappearance. But since it ended so badly those days cannot be counted as vacation. Unless soul torturing is some new kind of extreme vacation thing. I can't recommend it. But if you're a person who has everything going for them and you feel a need to feel bad, maybe this would be just the sort of vacation you need.
So I took one measly day off work to do nothing but trudge around communing with nature in the North woods. It felt good.
But I’m worried.
Maybe it’s because I only took one day off work. Maybe I needed more time. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken a day off when a lot is going on at work. Maybe I need to really go somewhere far, far away from home.
I didn’t relax. I couldn’t relax. I didn’t call the office. If I’d had a mobile signal I would have considered it. I might not have actually done it, but I would have considered it. My hotel was wi-fi, though, so a day into my long weekend I checked my work email. I mean, I said I would if I could so I had to, right? I said I would. And it was just a quick check because I have a project on press. If I weren’t in the middle of a lot of work it would have been different. I think.
Or maybe I am uptight.
The problem I face is that with our reduced staff I’m always in the middle of a lot of work. I always have a project either going to press, on press or shipping. And stuff going on with clients. And events either in the marketing, planning or live stage. And meetings. Always meetings. And the hundreds of unforeseen, unplannable questions or problems which are thrown across my desk or phone every week because apparently no one else knows what to do or how to answer the question or handle the problem, even (and especially) the ones which have nothing to do with me or my actual job function.
This isn’t “oh poor me.” I realize this is becoming business as usual for most people. Most of us are asked to do a lot more, some with a pay increase, but most of us are just asked (read: expected) to “help out” during a personnel or budget cutback with no monetary or personal reward. Most of us are team players enough (read: worried about losing our jobs, even jobs we hate) to “help out” where we are asked. Even if it’s not even remotely related to our job function.
The “it’s not my job” answer simply does not hold up in most companies. I suppose some union jobs allow or even require a person to respond with “it’s not my job” with the implied ramification of “...and I really can’t do it because I’ll get a grievance filed against me.” But I think, based on a few conversations with some union tradespeople, that even some unions are realizing and subsequently encouraging their members to “go the extra mile” because, well, times are hard. Don’t like it? Go work at Wal-Mart.
Right. This is all about me. I took a day off work and didn’t really enjoy it.
I mean, I did enjoy it. I went hiking and saw wildlife and ate weird food (please don’t tell me what a cheese curd actually is or how it’s produced) and generally didn’t talk to anyone for a few days. Which felt good. And bad.
And that surprised me.
My family situation is difficult right now. I realize I’m in a unique life phase. My mother’s health is fragile and my father is, well, not really very good at handling emergencies regarding my mother.
I’m not saying they’re incapable of taking care of themselves. They generally take pretty good care of themselves considering my mother’s condition. Swut. I hate thinking about my mother in terms of a "condition." It’s so unfair and wrong. But. There it is. It’s not going away. And my father is in a form of denial about it. And consequently my mother relies on me to help her in an emergency. Yes. Me. Who lives five hours by car away from them. So this sort of weird role reversal has happened. I ring to check on them, a lot, to be sure everything’s okay. I spend a lot of weekends and all my holidays with them so I can help with doctor appointments and things around the house.
I don’t resent this. I’m not saying “oh poor me” or “oooh, look at what a good kid I am” or “no one else is doing it so I have to help them.” None of that. I do what I do because I want to do it. I wish I could do more for them.
But here’s the thing.
I have an increasingly stressful, demanding job which I hate. The little time off I have is really necessary to try to rest and “get away” from work for a few hours or a few days. But. My personal life is also increasingly stressful and demanding. When I "get away" from work, physically at least, I'm smack in the middle of a personal life which is, well, not so great to say the least.
One of the big issues is that it’s just me. There’s just me. I have no one to relax with and no one to help with my personal life demands.
My friend’s father is very ill. She’s doing a lot of spur of the moment traveling to help out at home, much like I do. We help each other however we can - mainly talk to each other, listen, moral support kind of stuff. She’s managing her situation a lot better than I’m managing mine. (at least it seems that way to me)
She and I have learned to live “on alert” for an emergency which is always eminent. We both got over that shock and stress early into our parental situations. That’s not even particularly stressful anymore, which is a whole other bag of issues I won’t get into. But for now we’re both “okay” living on the edge of an emergency, ready to spring into action at the ring of the phone. We’re both able to laugh at some of the weirdness our parents inflict upon themselves and us. (How is it possible a man can strip and rebuild a transmission on a car in an afternoon yet not be able to figure out how to use the washing machine?) We’re both accepting our parent’s physical afflictions and subsequent issues. We're dealing with the reality of our once strong, healthy and able parents now thrust into dependent and frequently uncomfortable daily lives as well (or better than) most kids do. Certainly better than our siblings. And we’re both able to make excuses for our siblings who are not “helping out” while venting to each other about their lack of concern and care for our parents.
But here’s the difference. She’s been under the same (and worse) stress over her father as I’ve been with my mother. And yet she’s not really feeling like it’s starting to take a toll on her. She, in fact, looks and feels great. I look and feel exhausted. Lately I wonder if it’s starting to take too much of a toll on me.
Is my friend just made of stronger, better stuff than I?
No. In fact my friend’s kind of a wuss.
It finally dawned on me what the big difference is between us. Well, I mean, it didn’t just dawn on me, but the ramifications of this difference are becoming obvious.
She’s married to a really great guy. He’s supportive and caring and always does The Right Thing. He keeps everything running smoothly at home while she’s off on a trip to her parents. And when she returns home he always has everything not only under control, but in great shape and has a “treat” lined up for her. Trips to the spa for a relaxation days. A horseback riding outing. A knitting class. All sorts of treats to help her relax and take her mind off things for a few hours. And in between all of this, he plans their vacations. Ski holidays. Tropical island vacations. All designed to help take her mind off things and “get away from it all.”’
Oh sure, I don’t need a man to book a spa day or go horseback riding or take a knitting class. I don’t need a man to go on vacation.
But. His help keeping things going at home would be helpful. His keeping normal life on track would be helpful. His income would be really helpful.
I don’t have time or money to give myself the treats and luxuries my friend’s husband gives her.
Jealous? You bet I am.
Lately she’s been harping on me to take a vacation. “Trill, you really need a real vacation. No work. No parents. No family. Nothing. You need to go far away from your life and relax. St. Croix did wonders for me, maybe you should think about going there. Even if it’s just a few days, Trill, just get away and unwind. You used to love to travel. Just get out there and get away and be you again. You've had nothing but sadness and stress for the past few years. Your mother will be fine for a week, Trill, just get away and relax.”
Good advice, right? Yes, of course it is. But. One small detail. Two, actually.
Money and time off work. I don’t have much of either.
So I spent the one vacation day I could spare hiking in a woods and staying at a Thrifty Miser Cheap Skate Inn for two nights. I didn’t have to pay extra for constant noise from the television in the room next door, and there was a pay phone by the ice machine. I packed my own food and spent almost no money on the “trip.”
Relaxing? Well. Sort of, I mean, nature’s nice and the fresh air was good for me. I saw some deer who had so far escaped hunting season alive and majestic. I saw a white squirrel. And some really cute rabbits. And a lady bug. That was all cool and relaxing.
But the few days I was gone I couldn’t completely forget about my real life. Work. My mother. Money.
There was an outlet mall on my way home. I thought, “Hey, I could stop and do a little shopping...” and then I came to my senses. I can’t afford to shop - not even at an outlet mall. I don’t need to shop - I go to work and go home because I can’t afford to go out - I don’t need anything except work stuff. I could spend the time wandering around, but that’s time I could spend doing laundry, cleaning the bathroom, or, decadently soaking up the last few hours of my long weekend, my vacation, at home with my cat.
See where I’m going with this? There’s no escape from real life when your real life is fraught with financial worries, family worries and work worries.
Uptight, much Trill? You’re thinking. Maybe. But. It’s just me running this life. I don’t have a partner or even a wing man to help me with the stuff of life. It’s me. That’s it. Time and money matters a lot because I don’t have much of either.
Stress has become such a part of my life that I don’t even notice it anymore. I scoff at stress. When yet another “crisis” hits at work and most of the other people are stressing over it, I am nonplussed. I frequently don’t know what all the fuss is about. I think, “Stress? What stress? This isn’t a crisis, this is just a normal situation...in fact, I might actually get out of here by 7:00 tonight and have an hour to find and purchase those birthday gifts and cards I need to send this week...and I might be able to squeeze in 45 minutes for lunch at the end of the week to go to the post office to mail them. Stress? What stress? This is a relaxed week! ”
Someone in my office recently went out on sick leave. Or more appropriately, a mental health leave. This person was apparently having “stress related fatigue and associated ailments” and is going on short term disability leave. This person wisely discovered their “stress related fatigue and associated ailments” before the end of the year and the discontinuation of our short term disability leave. They’re taking the rest of the year off to rest and recover from stress at work. The amount of days covered on their insurance is exactly the amount of days left in the year.
Coincidence? I think not. This person is working the system. Maybe they really are stressed and tired. Though I can’t imagine how a person who habitually shows up an hour late for work, takes a two hour lunch and leaves before 5 every day can be stressed and tired from work. But hey, I suppose looking at web pages checking for bad or out of date links can be a stressful job. So stressful and fatigue inducing that they need not only several weeks of bed rest but a vacation, too. Doctor’s orders.
This person is very popular at work. Everyone likes them. Everyone is concerned and worried about them. There are cards and a donation envelope we’re all supposed to sign and contribute to for their time off. Apparently the donation will go toward a gift card so they can go shopping for their vacation. Because they’re out on sick leave because of stress.
Maybe I am uptight and unthoughtful and callous. But. Huh? I mean, they’re out on sick leave. They’re being paid to stay home because they’re tired from all the “stress” from the job they barely do on a good day. And we're taking up a collection so they can go shopping for their vacation? They've gone off work leaving us here to cover for them, to do their "stressful" job while they take a vacation because of work related stress fatigue, and we're taking up a collection for them to go shopping? Am I not understanding something? Should we be just a little, oh, I don't know, resentful or angry that they've skipped off work for two months to sleep and go on vacation? (So long, suckers, strongly implied.)
It’s not that I don’t understand. Swut knows I understand being tired and stressed and stressed because I’m tired and tired because I’m stressed. A good night will give me five hours of fitful sleep. I really do understand. But leaving work for two months isn’t going to solve my problems. Unless the doctor can write a prescription to the airlines and hotels which will cover a vacation, and a prescription to pay my rent and buy groceries and put a little aside for retirement, time off work isn’t going to help me. But my coworker is taking doctor’s orders and staying away from work and going on a long vacation because of the stress at work.
They’ve worked out a way to get a lot of time off from work and a vacation at the same time. They have to go on vacation because it was prescribed to them. And it has to be done before the first of the year when our revised health plan takes effect. How convenient. How nice for them.
Jealous? No. I am not jealous. I do not aspire to work, beat or cheat “the system.”
I simply want a real vacation. And a husband.
I realized a few things on my day off from life.
a) There’s no day off from life if you are a responsible, caring person.
b) Vacations are nice, really nice, but unless you have someone with whom you can 1.) to share it, 2.) help cover the expenses, and 3.) help you prepare before and after the vacation, going on vacation is a form of stress all in its own.
c) It’s easier to not take a day off work than it is to take a day off work.
d) You will spend as much extra time in the office and making sure things are set at home prior to a day off as you will on your actual day off, thus negating actual vacation hours.
I used to love to travel. Well. In theory I still love to travel. Adventure. A whole big world to see. The lure of the open road. The curiosity of the unknown and comfort of the known former places of adventure. All that still seduces me. Now that I don’t love or want love, I spend most of my fantasy time thinking about my past travels and all the travels I’d like to make.
But with age and continued unmarried status comes harsh reality. I can’t afford to travel very often or very far. I’m luckier than a lot of people, I grew up with parents who liked to travel and traveled a lot. I’ve been fortunate enough to make a lot of travels and vacations in my adult life. Until the past few years, I would take off for parts far away and unknown at the drop of the hat or with great planning. Either way was fine and fun for me. When I had single friends sometimes we’d go together, and sometimes I’d just go off on my own. It didn’t bother me and in fact at times I preferred to be on my own. Set my own schedule, chart my own course and enjoy my vacation. HWNMNBS and I did a lot of traveling together. Heck, our entire relationship was based on the fact that we had to travel 6,000 miles just to be together. I was okay with that because I was an experienced and intrepid traveler.
Now, not so much.
Now I have a mother who is in a vulnerable health situation. I have a hugely decreased health care plan. I haven’t had a pay increase worth mentioning in six years. I had to move. All of these things eat into my personal operating time and budget. Any extra money I have will go to a) traveling to my parents and b) taking care of health expenses.
I just got a bill for my portion of some medical tests. My current health insurance pays 80% of the cost of these tests. 80%. That’s a lot, right? Well, yes, it is. But. The other 20%, my portion of the bill, is $515.67. Yes. $515.67 in out of pocket expenses for tests which indicated I needed further in-depth tests or were inconclusive. Yes. $515.67 out of my pocket for tests which told my doctor nothing other than that I needed more tests. Quite a nice little business they’ve got going there, eh? Too bad my doctor won’t just write a prescription for time off work and a vacation. But then the hospital and insurance company wouldn’t make any money off me. Someone should be getting rich from me. If I can’t reap financial rewards from my life it might as well be hospitals and insurance companies. Maybe that nice insurance company rep will get to have a nice vacation because of my CT scan.
Okay. Healthcare in America is what it is. And it’s not much. And it’s going to get worse. I understand and accept this.
But in my recent fantasy I allowed myself a little real time research.
Let’s say I had a spare $515.67 to spend on something other than shelter and cat food. How far could I go, what could I do with that money other than spend two afternoons enduring a series of health exams?
Travelocity has a last minute five day air and hotel package to three German cities for $524. Okay, sure there are taxes and my personal expenses, but still, for $524 I could get there and have a place to stay. Hmmm. Okay, how about something a little closer to home? San Francisco. $312 includes airfare and hotel for four days. Add another $50 and I’ve got a car. Totally do-able on my $515.67 (fantasy) budget. Or, let’s just say I felt like splashing out on a little luxury for my next trip to my parents. I could rent the Z4 of my dreams for $449.99 for a week. Okay. Plus tax and all the other rental care expense. Which could end up being another $449.99 in Chicago. Still. The base rental price of a Z4 for a week would be covered.
I was somewhat humbled to learn my $515.67 would not take me to New York City, Vienna or Madrid for more than a day. Or to London for more than two days. I was honestly pleased to learn that. Which is a whole other realm of the pathetic depths my life has fallen. I was actually pleased to learn I couldn’t go on certain types of vacations with the money I have to pay for out of pocket medical expenses not covered by my insurance.
The reality is, though, that I don’t have many vacation days to spare. I have to keep a few “just in case.” Just in case I have to rush to help my parents. Just in case I have to have more medical exams or go to the dentist. Just in case I get the flu. These are all real, viable instances which will undoubtedly happen and require a day or half day out of the office.
A luxury for me would be to take a day off and do all the things I normally do at night, or put off as long as possible because I can’t do it at night, or simply don’t do because I can’t do them during the week when I’m at work. Laundry. Clean the compartment. Go grocery shopping. Take the cat to the vet. Call a bunch of job recruiters. Sort out bills and re-evaluate my budget. Shop for presents. (Christmas is coming...that special time of year when stress and suicide are at their peak! Oh boy! I can't wait! And lucky me! I'm still single and get to enjoy another holiday season surrounded by happy couples and families!) See what I’m getting at here? It’s me, and me alone managing this life. I have a job which requires long hours. I don’t have a life partner. That leaves a lot of stuff undone.
My fortunate friend with her thoughtful husband doesn’t have to think about everything all the time. She has a husband she can count on to take care of the stuff of life when she has to rush away to care for her father. She has a husband she can count on to provide her with relaxing niceties and escapes when she returns home. Most of all, she has a shoulder to cry on and support to rely on 24/7/365.
That's the difference. That's why the stress of her father's illness is not taking a toll on her. That's why she's not looking and feeling tired.
But when she tells me I need a vacation and I try to explain this to her, she doesn’t really get it. She’s sympathetic, she knows I’m struggling. But. She, like all my other married friends, can’t remember what it’s like to be single. What it’s like to not have a constant, caring, thoughtful partner to rely on in good times and bad. Why should she remember? She’s normal. She found a husband and they’re going through life, the good and bad, sickness and health and all that, just like they vowed to do, and just like most other people do. Happily ever after. Why should she remember what it’s like to be single in a coupled up society? Why would she want to remember?
Right. So. Vacation. You know, my day off in the woods was, you know, nice.
And it occurred to me that even though I fantasize about vacations I can no longer afford to take, I’m not sure I’d really want to take them anymore. Maybe someday if I have money to take vacations I’ll feel differently. But now I don’t think I really want to travel on my own. It was great when I was younger, unattached, footloose, fancy free, all that. But there were times I thought, “It would be nice to share this with someone...” And about the time I started thinking that more frequently, I met HWNMNBS. And it was nice to share it with him. I had a lot of fun traveling with him. No surprise there, a trip to Target was fun with him. But now, "out here" on my own again, as much as the idea of traveling, the spirit of adventure is as strong as ever, so is the desire to share the adventure with someone significant.
Sure, I can tell you about that white squirrel and the majestic deer and the couple from Sweden who were totally lost on the hiking trail, and you might be interested or get a laugh out of it, but you weren’t there. It wasn’t a shared experience. It was, as ever, me and the weirdness that haunts my life, together again, always. And that makes me feel even more alone.
And more uptight and worried about my life. There’s nothing like a vacation on your own to make you realize how alone you really are. And the more I tried to take my mind off things, my life, the more I was consumed by thoughts about work and my life.
Uptight? Well, yes. But. Uptight because I need to be. And because I don’t have anyone to talk to back in the Thrifty Miser Cheap Skate Inn. Being alone with your thoughts is good, more people need to do more of it. But. When you live your life alone with your thoughts, you need a vacation from yourself. Otherwise you start having conversations with yourself. Stupid, uninspiring conversations. Conversations best left unhad.
“That squirrel was cute, eh?”
“Yeah, totally. I wonder if it was an albino or just white furred.”
“White furred?”
“Yeah. You know, just white furred instead of brown or gray furred.”
“Is furred a word?”
“Ummmm, huh. You know, I’m not sure. How else would you say it?”
“I don’t know. Naturally white?”
“Yes, but an albino squirrel would be naturally white, too.”
“True. Like blondes. Not all blondes are albinos, but most albinos are blonde.”
“Exactly. There has to be a way to distinguish between albino and just white fur. I’ll look it up when I get home.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“You are me, idiot.”
“Oh yeah. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.”
“Oh stop that. You know I hate that song.”
“Expert textpert choking smokers, Don't you think the joker laughs at you?”
“I said stop it.”
“Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna. Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Alan Poe.”
“I said stop it. I hate that stupid song. I mean seriously, how can anyone call the Beatles Gods with lyrics like ‘sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come.’ Sure, I like the concept of ‘Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody Tuesday’ but then they leave it hanging and dumb it up with ‘Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long.’”
“Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess, Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down.”
“Yes. Exactly. It’s not even poignant or ironic, it’s just a bunch of disjointed thought fragments. I can’t believe you’ve got me thinking about this again. I said stop it.”
“I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob.”
“I said stop it! I’m telling mum.”
See? This is why it’s not good to travel alone for very long. Have you seen The Shining? Spend too much time alone with your thoughts and this is what happens. A non violent good girl’s version of Jack Torrence sits in her fleabite Cheapskate Inn room arguing with herself about the stupidity and significance of I am the Walrus.
Which is why in the end I convinced myself it’s just as well I can’t afford to take a vacation or have a doctor examine me for work related stress fatigue.
That vacation might end up at a very special place with a comfortable room. A really comfortable room. With padded walls.
