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
Monday, January 31, 2005 Then Again, Maybe Not All Hope is Lost
I've met someone.
A very dangerous someone.
Someone who has given me renewed faith.
Someone I never thought I'd meet.
He's intelligent.
He's sincere.
He's really swutting funny.
He's plagued by irony.
He's responsible.
He has a career.
He has friends.
He is on good terms with his family.
He's not from here.
He travels a lot.
He's sarcastic.
He's caustic.
He's cynical.
He's jaded.
Oh.
And.
He's tall.
He has dark green eyes.
He has thick dark hair.
He has a wry smile.
And a sardonic smirk.
And a sexy swagger.
He's a vegetarian.
He's...
exactly like me.
(Without boobs and with (I presume) a penis)
I found the male version of me.
I should be really happy, right?
Wrong.
That renewed faith he's given me?
It's faith that I do not want and cannot date someone like me.
Even though someone like me is the only chance I have of being understood, the only vow this coupling will result in is a suicide pact.
He's a few years older than me. He's been around a couple more blocks than I have.
I have seen the future, and it is: Bitter, negative and resentful.
He's given me faith that I do not want to become That Person.
Somehow, through all of my angst and woe and why me, why me, I have managed to not become bitter.
Jaded, angry, cynical, sad, nonplussed and confused? Yes.
Bitter? Not yet.
Resentful? No way.
I know I am on the express train stopping at those two stations, but I'm not there yet.
This guy, I think, was sent to me from the future. "Take a long, soul searching look at this person, Trillian. He is you if you're not careful."
How do I know this?
During the course of our three hours together, one person thought we were brother and sister, another person thought we were a couple celebrating an anniversary. Which I take to mean we look like one of those couples who have been together so long they look like each other. Or, there is, in fact, something my parents have never told me.
Those remarks made to us resulted in some humorous dialog between us. Which is good. He can laugh at himself and at an awkward situation. He is: Nonplussed. I like that. Sort of.
I don't always exude enthusiasm.
Throughout my life I've been told (repeatedly) that I look intimidating. Or bitchy. Or stuck up. Or too intelligent to mingle with the common folk. (I get that one a lot in various forms, particularly from men who barely know me, which really irritates the crap out of me. Is this supposed to be a compliment? Advice? I should "dumb down" my look? How do you do that? More peroxide? More blue eye shadow?)
But.
These remarks are made by people who have not had the pleasure (ahem) of seeing me when I am passionate about something. Or when I am happy/excited for/encouraging someone else. Or when I'm with HWNMNBS or even thinking about him. Or when I'm out with friends. Or when I'm playing with my cat. Or when I'm at a concert. Or when I've had a few drinks.
This guy, Male Me, cracked a few smiles, wry ones, and a sardonic smirk or two. I like that in a guy.
But his eyes are soulless.
Life has beaten him up and robbed him of his ability to let go and enjoy the moment.
He is too smart to take anything at face value.
I know the feeling.
I'm that way, too.
But.
What I discovered through this guy, Male Me from the Future, is that deep, very, very, very deep in me, so deep I didn't realize it was still lurking there, is a particle of hope.
Hope that I don't end up Dead, Like Him.
He's very aware of himself. He knows and talks about how he is and what happened for him to evolve into who he is. He's tried the medications, the therapies, the alcohol...
But he's realistic. He is not deluded. He sees things for what they are. He looks in the Mirror of Truth every morning. He sees himself as who he has become. A nice, intelligent, sincere person who's endured some of the worst life has to offer the species human.
Character?
Oh yes. He has character.
He is wise and witty.
And weary and wary.
Boring? No way.
He's too aware of himself and too polite to let himself brood and bore.
I know.
Definitely not the kind of person you meet very often.
Which is why I believe he was sent to me from the future. "Trillian, stop looking in your own Mirror of Truth for a minute and look at this person. He's too far gone, there's nothing which can be done to save him. But look and learn. Save yourself before it's too late."
He's given me faith in my ability to be open to possibilities.
He's given me faith that I am not as far gone as I thought I was.
He's given me faith that I have not lost all hope.
Yet.
The problem in all of this tangled web of hope I wove?
Once again I got home and collapsed in a puddle of self pity, self-loathing and tears.
Why, why, why?
I'm so lonely...
and the broken woman tri-fecta:
I miss him so much...
Oh yes. Male Me gave me hope, all right.
He gave me hope that maybe, somehow, some way, some day, HWNMNBS will decide he's had enough chasing after pretty girls and decide apart from looks I'm the only one he really loves or wants.
And that kind of hope I don't need.
How'd I get to that place after a date with Male Me from the Future?
Well, because, I always end up at that place (I am Miss Havisham), and because this time around I thought I was close. I thought maybe, maybe, finally, someone like HWNMNBS but not exactly like him. Different from him in enough ways to be like him without being a replacement HWNMNBS.
Because now I know I had more hope going into this date than I realized at the time. I really, really, really wanted this one to be different. I wanted this one to work out past a first date. I wanted this one to maybe, you know, be someone.
But he's not.
And I'm not different for him.
I'm not someone.
Sure, we got along okay. Sure, we had actual conversation. Sure, we had a few real, honest laughs.
But he's passionless and dead and hope-less. And I'm passionate and on life-support and minutely hope-ful.
Next to him I'm spunky. Seriously. He even said so, "You know what you are? You're spunky. You got spunk, kid."
I know. Me? Spunky? Not quite.
Well.
Actually.
Next to him? Yes. I am spunky.
It's all relative.
And I have absolutely no idea if he meant that as a compliment or a criticism.
He said he liked my boots. (thanks, they're new)
He said he liked my coat. (thanks, it's old)
He said he liked my sarcasm. (thanks, it's old, too)
He said he liked my eyes. (thanks, they're perceptive)
He said he liked my hands. (thanks, they're, erm, capable)
But he didn't say he liked my spunk. He merely commented on it.
To him I seem spunky. And here I thought I was nonplussed.
It's all relative.
In retrospect, I think that was when I began to realize Male Me was sent from the future to give me a message, to make me realize I still have a particle of hope left in me. I did splurge on new boots (okay, not specifically for the date, but still, I wore them for the first time on our date), I did put on the cute outfit requiring uncomfortable undergarments. I did spend (a lot) of time on my hair and make-up. I did wear my slutty coat. A completely hope-less woman doesn't do any of those things. I thought a nonplussed woman would do them as a matter of course. But I was wrong. You need a particle of hope to bother. That's the message I got from the future via Male Me.
Male Me from the Future did his routine as a matter of course. For him, the real effort was trying to meet women in the first place. Because he is trying. But not because there's any shred of hope for a "real" relationship inside him. He's going through the motions because he knows that's what he should do. (Apart from hoping to have sex, which is his only real ambition with women, and I don't think he wants from me because I'm ugly and because, well, somewhere in all of that I don't think either one of us was sending any of those signals. And it would be really weird having sex with him because it would sort of be like having sex with myself which I can do any time I want without the emotional issues of sleeping with someone new. Not that it's any of your swutting business. But just so that the few of you who always ask me if the sex was good can be spared sending me that email.)
And that's what I miss about HWNMNBS. No, not the sex. Well. I mean, yes, the sex, but not now, not here. I miss his spunk. His perception. His cheek. His spark in the eyes. His ability to get enthused and passionate about mundane things. He has hope. Okay, that hope is no longer for or with me, but, he has hope. I've been really jealous of him about that. As hurt and lonely as I am about all of it, I look at him with awe and wonder, not the "How can he do that to me wonder" (okay, sure, every now and then there is that awe and wonder) but the, "I wish I could bounce back like that" wonder. The "he dumped me because he's hoping for something better" wonder. He's got hope. He's got spunk.
Apparently I've got some spunk, too, and a shred more hope than I thought. But by my calculations (using a complicated formula involving Male Me from the Future's birth date and my birth date) I've got 2 years and 5 months to do something about myself and my life before becoming Male Me from the Future.
Apparently the fine folks at Disney "collectibles" feel that Trillian should resemble the spawn of the Michelin Man and Dora the Explorer. Which could make an interesting movie.
I wasn't going to make one single comment about the movie or anything remotely affiliated with it.
But these are just too swutting funny/pathetic/in incredibly bad taste to let sit silent without comment. Oh Doug, Doug, what fools these mortal creatures are...I hope somewhere in the Universe you are able to have a good laugh about all of this.
I can hardly wait for Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on Ice.
Thanks to UIM for the link.
Thanks as well to the many who sent me various links regarding Asteroid Adams, here's the scoop.
11:50 AM
Well that's it. It's all in the past. The old place is officially The Old Place. I moved the few remaining boxes of odd bits and cleaning supplies out of the old apartment last night. Then I dropped off the keys at the slumlord's office.
I spent a day at The Old Place last weekend, cleaning and throwing out stuff which didn't make the cut on moving day (someday, after the medication kicks in and I have a few drinks in me, I'll tell you about Moving Day. It's just all too fresh, too painful, too...too...too much everything right now) so all I had left were a few things which were too fragile or odd shaped to fit into a box or schlep on the bus or up to the corner to get a cab.
I didn't feel melancholy about leaving on moving day (someday, after the medication kicks in and I have a few drinks in me, I'll tell you about Moving Day...) I didn't feel melancholy on clean-up day. I didn't feel melancholy closing the door for the last time. I had my cry over leaving a few weeks ago, got it out of my system.
Or so I thought.
I thought wrong.
Because now, here I am, missing my old place.
It was really cold yesterday. And true to form, the old place was freezing. During the few minutes I was there, I couldn't wait to get out of there and get home to my warm and cozy compartment. Which I took as a good sign that I was over the old place. I didn't have much there, but all the items were odd shaped or heavy, so I had to make a few trips up and down those four flights of stairs. I don't miss dragging groceries, kitty litter and other odd/heavy stuff up or down four flights of stairs. Which I took as a good sign I was over the old place. For effect, one of the handles on a bag containing cleaning supplies broke while going down the first flight of stairs, causing bottles and sponges and you name it to spew out and roll down the stairs. Nice touch, Universe. Don't think I didn't realize what you were doing with that little message. The bare apartment, big as it was, was old. After a week in my gleaming new kitchen with full sized brand new appliances which actually work and Italian marble floor, my crappy old kitchen seemed even more shabby. The avocado refrigerator looked really pathetic and stupid without my adornments of photos and art and messages and recipes magneted all over it. And that oven. Urgh. The wood floor which was worn and stained and warped. The whole kitchen just made me wonder how the swut I dealt with that place as long as I did. Which I took as a good sign I was over the old place. The bathroom, I mean, well, I won't gross you out. That old, never rehabbed bathroom was disgusting. It smacked me in the face just how bad it is when I saw it without the benefit of my cute shower curtain and towels and Close Shave poster. Which I took as a good sign I was over the old place. When I took the last bag of trash out to the dumpster I almost stepped on a used condom. I used to instinctively “sense” these things and avoided them, almost not even noticing them. Gone one week and my spent condom reflex has already laxed. Which I took as a good sign I was over the old place. While I was waiting for Arthur to arrive, two bass thumping ghetto mobiles pulled up to the park, several gangsta boyz materialized from somewhere in the park, seriously, they just appeared on the snowy basketball court, it was empty and a second later there were two groups of boyz shuffling in their waist at the knees jeans to the bass booming cars. I then watched what I hope will be the last drug deal I ever see. (that’s what Neighborhood Watch means: You watch what goes on in the neighborhood because no one in any position of authority will do anything about it) Which I took as a good sign I was over the old place.
But.
Then.
For some reason, after dropping off the keys and settling into my cozy, mod, nice new compartment, I suddenly really miss the old place.
There are boxes and things everywhere in the new place. I doubt I'll ever get settled in here. It feels temporary here. Maybe that's why I'm not exactly rushing to unpack and organize. My old place was temporary. I never did anything to the old place, never "decorated" or bought any real furniture. It never "felt" like home.
But now that I'm here, in my new compartment, the old place felt a lot more like home than I realized. A lot of pivotal stuff happened to me while I lived there. A lot of memories there. You never know what you've got 'til it's gone.
Change is good. Everyone keeps telling me change is good, changes will be good for me. That I should have done this long ago. (And to be fair to the I told you so-ers, friends were begging me to move from the old 'hood for the past few years. Sooner or later I usually take advice.) I do agree that yes, change can be good. There are good things about the new place. It’s small, but it’s very nice. I’m not crazy about the new neighborhood, but, everyone in the ‘hood is super nice. Everyone in the building and on the streets says hello or good morning or “gosh what a storm, eh? January in Chicago, har har.” No one except the delinquent boyz in the park telling me what they were gonna’ do to my whi’ cunt, the 7-11 guys, a bartender or two and Po and Lani at the Thai place in my old neighborhood spoke to me. Everyone in the old ‘hood is too cool to say hello or too afraid to speak to a stranger. I am really enjoying walking to and from work, yes, even in January in Chicago. Especially in January in Chicago. It’s a great way to start and end the work day. The people who work in the Walgreens and groceries in the new 'hood not only speak English, but they look you in the eye, count your change back to you and, OMG, say thank you. I thought that sort of thing only happened in the suburbs. So yeah, the new place is better in a lot of ways. Okay. Most ways. Okay. Just about every way.
So why do I suddenly miss the old place?
The space? Yes.
The cute architectural details? Yes.
But I there’s a lot more to it than that.
I miss the memories.
I know, I know, no one can take those away from me. But there are little things which fade from memory. Even though I was only gone a week, when I returned a few small memories flooded back to me as if they were much more distant than just a week. I cleaned the bathroom mirror one last time and I remembered HWNMNBS leaving me a funny, sweet message written in lipstick and how difficult it was to clean it off after I left it there for a week. I turned off the pantry light and remembered my dad and I installing the new fixture. I cleaned out the fridge and I remembered the night I had a party and everyone brought beer and cheese because they didn't think I’d have beer and because they know I love cheese, and someone brought a super aged Stilton and didn’t tell me and weeks later the entire fridge smelled like spilled beer and Stilton. I pulled the blinds in the bedroom and remembered lazy Spring and Fall Sunday afternoons spent with the window open, a gentle breeze, sun streaming in filtered through the leaves of the trees outside the window, birds and squirrels chasing casting occasionally darting shadows, Furry Creature lolling beside me and the Sunday paper spread out in bed. I noticed a small drip of wax in the fireplace, left from a long ago candle from a long ago romantic evening. I know those memories don’t mean anything, really. But I’m going to miss them when they’re gone. And they will go. Without the daily reminders, they’ll fade and eventually leave. Heck, I lost my condom avoidance reflex in just a week. If I can lose that so quickly, surely the small memories will be lost, too.
Somehow, the new compartment doesn’t seem like the sort of place where memories are made. Which is probably the best thing for someone like me.
Attachments to people and places has caused a lot of heartache and pain in my life.
My new mod, sleek sterile compartment is symbolic of the next phase of my life. Just another single, never married, no children, professional woman in a big city, living in a small compartment because that’s all she can afford and moreover, because that’s all she needs. No husband, no kids, none of their stuff, few friends visit because they’re all married and busy with children. Nope. Don’t need a lot of space. Nothing to see here, folks, just a pathetic single woman who still rents and has a cat. You know the story.
Ah ha. That’s it. That’s what I miss.
The hope I had when I lived in my old life in my old apartment. The new compartment says: "That's it. I tried. I failed. My friends have all moved away to move on with their lives. I'm getting older. I only need a small place in a safe neighborhood. After all, it's just me and my cat."
Oh yeah. Change is good. Change is really swutting good.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
You all read blogs. Or at least a blog. Many of you blog, too, or know people who do. So maybe you've encountered this situation.
There I was, awake at 1 AM, unable to sleep because I couldn't remember the name of the woman who played Leela in Dr. Who. (Yes, okay, I'm a dork and a geek, I love that stupid show, okay? And no, I don't lay awake nights thinking about Leela or Dr. Who except for this one particular night because the concept of a TARDIS has been on my mind a lot lately what with the move to a small compartment and the need for space and wouldn't it be really great if TARDIS were possible?
Friend receiving gift of sweaters from Trillian: "You don't want these sweaters? They're great and look! These still have tags on them!"
Trillian, downcast but resolute: "I love them, but I don't have space for them in the new compartment."
Friend, assuming the best about the compartment: "Aw, seriously? I mean, they're just sweaters, surely you can find a place for them?"
Trillian, getting annoyed: "I'm living in a compartment, not the TARDIS."
And if I were Leela I wouldn't have to worry about space for sweaters because I wouldn't have much of a wardrobe to store. Geeze, where is she now? What's her name again?)
Internet, sweet internet.
Google quickly produced Louise Jameson for me.
Google also produced 4,290 sites containing "Dr. Who" and Leela. Yeah. I know. I thought there would have been more than that, too.
Naturally I checked out a few of the more interesting looking hits.
Naturally I found the usual fan sites, episode critiques and Leela worship pages.
One site stood out among the others. It was a blog, and turned out to be someone's writing project site. Someone working on several science fantasy stories. Some of which were, you know, okay. For science fantasy. Among the science fantasy writing projects were several fan fic pieces. Fan fic about Leela. Not exactly my usual cup of tea, but it was now 1:30 AM and I was still nowhere near able to sleep, and you know, what the heck.
No big deal, right? There's a ton of fan fic out there, some of it not bad, most of it horrible, but all of it passionate. And at 1:45 AM in my lonely life, other peoples' fan fic is about as much passion as I'm going to get.
The thing about fan fic is that apart from most of it being utter crap, I find the enthusiasm and zeal the authors have for the object of their affections, and the "creativity" inspired by their idols very, well, I'm not sure. Refreshing, I guess. As long as there are fans, the world will have passion. Passion is good, so by association, fan fic is good.
The other thing about fan fic is that no matter how badly written, no matter how juvenile or stupid, it never fails to make me feel like a voyeur. Which never fails to make me feel a little dirty.
Not naughty.
Dirty.
Big difference.
Fortunatley for me, I usually end up feeling more embarrassed for the authors than for myself, so it all comes out clean in the end.
But.
Then.
One early sleepless morning found me reading someone's fan fic about Leela, and well, one post led to another, and, well, I started picking up on a few things, followed a few links, and finally, checked out the author's profile...
No. I haven't found love via Blogger.
I've found a dirty little secret about someone I know.
Someone from the office.
Someone who is the last person in the Universe I would have guessed would write fan fic about anyone, much less Leela from Dr. Who.
But.
After a little more snooping around and connecting dots, there's no doubt and no denying the author and the person from work are the same.
It wasn't difficult for me to suss out the author. It was all but spelled out, they're not exactly shy about their identity. Which is totally cool. I laud their unabashed, unashamed ability to pretty much say: "Hi! My name is_____! I work at______! And I write really naughty and vulgar fan fic about Leela from Dr. Who!"
But.
I have to work with this person.
And now, all I can think about when I have to see or talk to them are the images they spelled out in great, exhausting, titillating, XXX rated detail about what they want to do with Leela.
I have to face this person, every day, carrying on as if I have no idea they are passionate about Leela. That they not only think some very rude and banal thoughts about Leela, but write them and post them online for all the Universe to read. I have to keep quiet about it.
Which is not a problem in theory. I'm not a spoiler or an outer or even very social at the office. I am really good at keeping secrets and keeping my mouth shut. I honestly do not care that this person is a Leela fan and writes science fantasy short stories. If anything, I find this person a heck of a lot more interesting now that I know this facet of their personality.
But.
The code of secrecy, honor among bloggers and all that. I cannot and do not want to let them know I know. I'm not going to be tempted to jocularly elbow them and say, "Leela, eh, har har" and raise a sardonic eyebrow. But I am afraid of my mouth. Afraid I'll make some unintentional offhand remark about something remotely Dr. Who-ish in front of them and then catch myself and I will blush and then they'll know I know and it will be all awkward and see what happens when you're an insomniac with no love life? It's not all infomercials and chamomile tea.
I'm not shocked because at this point in my life nothing shocks me. That perpetual nonplussedness of mine.
I haven't lost respect for this person because, hey, we're all human, we all have our little fantasies and our little secrets. I blog and no one I know has a clue.
Or do they?
That's right: Paranoia.
I take great pains to be anonymous. Okay. Not always great pains. If anyone I know stumbled across my blog and read more than a few random entries they would probably suspect me. But that's giving my coworkers more credibility than most of them deserve. They're not the brightest bunch, nor the most aware, nor the most perceptive. Some of them might think, "Hey, she reminds me of what's her name at work" and that would be that. One or two of them, though, one who writes Leela fan fic and science fantasy short stories in particular, would assume the author is me.
So today I'm looking at everyone at work with new eyes. Evaluating their intelligence, perception and integrity. If they stumbled upon this blog, would they be able to figure out I'm the author? Would I care if they knew? Would I care if they read it?
Welcome to the dark side of blogging. Paranoia.
I'm not ashamed of any words I post. I'm not an author or writer or trying to be one. These are words I have to exorcise from my brain. Oh sure, many of them are words I would say if I had no diplomacy, tact or professional responsibility. Many of them are words I would say if I didn't care if I never had another date again in my life. Many of them are words I would say if I didn't care about whether or not I hurt someone's feelings.
But I do have diplomacy, tact and professional responsibility. I do care about dating. Well. Maybe not so much. I care about trying to date. I care about not wanting to be alone.
I care about other peoples' feelings.
There are people in this world who by nature of their personality or profession set themselves up for criticism or at least discussion.
Then there's everyone else.
And I'm not the sort of person who goes around wanting to hurt other peoples' feelings. I don't like a lot of people. A lot of people irritate the swut out of me. But. That's my issue, not theirs. I don't want to hurt them because they irritate me or do really annoying or stupid things. I might mock and ridicule them here, because, well...you know what? That's wrong of me.
Aw, Trill, you're just venting. You're just being a normal human being. You can't love or even like everyone, and besides, you work with and date some real losers, idiots and annoying people.
True enough. Thanks. But still. Just because I'm hiding behind relative anonymity doesn't make it right for me to ridicule and scorn those around me. If I had a spine, if I had real integrity, if I had a set of...
I wouldn't hide behind anonymity. I'd be out and proud. I say what I mean and mean what I say. Oh wait. I already do that. I just don't do it to anyone's face. I don't even do it so that it could be traced to me.
I'm a word wuss.
I already only post about 1/4 of the words fighting to get out of my head. Seriously. You wouldn't believe some of the words in there. You think you know me? Ha. My head's a weird, cluttered, scary place full of words. (Insert dark surreal Dr. Seussian animated sequence of words swirling and falling all over the place, fighting with each other, trying to get out of my head) Sometimes I scare myself when I read previous words I have produced in my personal journals. "What monster wrote that?" I'll say to myself. And I'll answer myself, "Oh. Me. I'm the monster. Sheesh, I really need therapy. Or a few years hard labor."
What? You thought I post all the words in my head? Really?
Huh.
I don't.
So, Trillian, tell me about yourself. How do you choose which words you will post here?
Good question.
Reading my coworker's fan fic about Leela has given me a lot of pause for thought. They have a very real purpose for their blog, their writing. They're honing their science fantasy craft. (Leela fan fic aside) It's obviously a creative outlet for them, obviously they have very real interests and a desire to write. They're hoping maybe one day they'll be published and leave this company, their job, behind them.
Me? Well. I have no idea why I do this. I cannot, even with all the words in my head, tell you why I do this or how I choose what I post. Oh sure, there are obvious things I do not post, because I really do not want to hurt anyone's feelings.
But as for the rest of it, or why I even do any of it, I don't know. I have no aspirations for being a real writer or even a wordsmith. I hide behind anonymity because I don't want the notoriety, "fame" or credit (good or bad) for the words which fall out of my head. So basically, I get nothing out of it publicly posting words.
Except that along the way, I've met some really swell people. Amazingly swell people. Intelligent, funny, kind, sincere people.
That's what I get out of it.
But what do they get from me? I haven't a clue. I have no idea why you are reading these words. Not a clue. I mean, if you like them and you get something from them, great, have at it, glad to be here for you and thanks for stopping by, maybe we can have a drink sometime.
But I'm curious.
What if I turned out to be the woman in payroll you can't stand? Or the woman you met online who turned out to be the psycho date from Hell? Or your best friend? Or your sister?
Then what would you think of the words? What would you think of me? Would it change your perspective on the blog? Or would it change your perspective of the woman in payroll/date from Hell/best friend/sister?
I ask this because odds are very good someone you know, other than yourself, writes a blog. Perhaps even a salacious/stupid/controversial blog.
Most people have words they don't say. Some people have to or want to get those words out of their heads. Blogs are giving those words a home. Which is opening a whole new field of personal and professional ethics for the species human to navigate.
If you author a blog, remember, more people are reading blogs every day. Chances are very good someone you know will stumble across yours. Hopefully they'll be tactful and keep their mouths shut about the scary fan fic or rant about your wife you posted. But be prepared for the possibility that they won't be as tactful as me. Or that somehow, some way, some day, you are going to encounter a situation which reveals someone you know reads your blog.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005 Local Woman to Receive Internet Service in Her Home
It was with rapt anticipation that Ms. Tricia McMillian arrived home Monday night. This was the night her internet service provider (ISP) told her she would have DSL service.
"I moved house 3.03 miles last week," Ms. McMillian explained, "and even though I spent a lot of time making arrangements for my internet service to move with me, well, there were issues."
Ms. McMillian is like many internet users. She uses her home internet connection for business and personal use.
"I'm a designer, so there are a lot of times I can work at home rather than stay late in the office. I just email my work files between home and the office," Ms. McMillian, Trillian, continues, "and a lot of times creative inspiration hits in the middle of the night or on weekends. My brain doesn't work 9 to 5. So my internet connectivity is a crucial component of my tool box. Also, my mother is ill and the internet helps me keep in contact with my parents, the rest of my family and research her various medical issues. Being offline for even a day could be serious for me right now. I don't like that my life has evolved to this point of internet dependency, but on the other hand, I cringe thinking about what my life would be like without the internet."
Poignant words.
Ms. McMillian's ISP did not meet their promised connectivity date. The phone company's move transition plan went off without a hitch. Even the US Postal Service was able to understand she had moved and delivered her mail to her new address. But her ISP fell far short of the mark. A mark they set, a plan they implemented.
When Ms. McMillian attempted to go online late on the night of her move, she had no service.
"I was tired anyway, but I wanted to dash off a quick email to family telling them I was safely at the new place. It was a long and difficult move, family and friends tried to reach me all day and evening but had difficulty because I was involved with the movers and various problems which arose with the move. I was disappointed I didn't have internet service, but too tired to care about it that night."
The following morning, Trillian again attempted to go online, but again, she had no service. That's when she began calling her ISP for assistance. She was met with conflicting claims by customer service agents and was told there was no record of her move request. When she recited the service request number to the customer service agents, she was told it was not a valid number. Furthermore, the phone number she had been given to ring for service for her "special move issues" was not in service.
"I was furious. A day I can understand. No big deal. But to find out they had done nothing in preparation for the move really annoyed and bothered me. I persisted and climbed higher up the chain of command. I finally got a technical advisor who 'found' my case notes and figured out what the problems were. Naturally they blamed the phone company. So I rang the phone company. Naturally, the phone company said they had done everything they were supposed to do. Which I actually believe because, well, my phone service worked just fine. So there I was, stuck in the middle, with no internet. I had taken a few days off work to settle into the new place, but had some work to do, email to check, and my mother's health issues," Trillian sniffles and wipes away a tear, "It was horrible, just horrible. I was reduced to going to Coughupalottabucks so I could go online. My ISP essentially made me pay insane amounts of money for tea and cider so that I could use Coughupalottabucks' internet service. Coughupalottabucks! Is my ISP going to refund me that money, that blood money? No! Of course they're not. They don't care."
Trillian's calls to her ISP were met with increasing insensitivity and apathy. One customer service agent told her she would have service in 10 days and that she was "lucky" to have service moved "that quickly."
"I couldn't believe it. The phone company and the swutting US Postal Service managed to grasp the concept of moving and transferred my information seamlessly. Yet my ISP, allegedly one of the leaders in technology and service, couldn't deliver what they promised and had the cheek to be rude to me. The swutting US Postal Service could figure it out for crying out loud!"
"I returned to work and I had to resort to staying late and using my company's network for some personal emails and to look up a few medical procedures for my mum, look up information on feline psychoses, when and how to sue a moving company, how to type with stitches in your knuckle, dealing with a slumlord who won't return phone calls, you know, the usual stuff. I'm not proud of this, I don't like to use my company's network for personal stuff. Our tech guys are not the most reputable people, they're bored and spend their days monitoring what we're doing online, even reading email sometimes. It's a huge privacy problem, but you know, I mean, it's work and we shouldn't be doing personal stuff there anyway, so none of us complain," Trillian confides. "Then I'd go home, check to see if I had service, and then spend hours, yes, HOURS on the phone with customer support at my ISP. Every night I got a different set of excuses, but ultimately, I didn't have service."
Finally, Ms. McMillian issued an ultimatum to her ISP. "I hate ultimatums. I don't issue them. I'm just not like that. But this is what they made me do. They forced me to stoop to a level which I do not stoop. I told them if I didn't have service Monday night, I wanted out of my contract with them because they were not delivering their end of the deal."
She then hung up on them.
"Yeah. I know. I'm not proud of that, either." Trillian quietly admits. "But what was I supposed to do? How long was I supposed to go on like that? There's only so much a person can take."
Then, The Storm hit.
When a blizzard hit Saturday, Trillian was certain that would be the next excuse, the next barrier to service. And sure enough, Monday night, when she arrived home from work, she had no internet service.
"I made my nightly call to my ISP, and was told because of the blizzard the crew who had to 'check my line' were running late, but that I should have service sometime that night." Trillian mimics, "I wasn't holding my breath."
But just before retiring for the evening, Ms. McMillian attempted to go online one more time. "My browser sprang to life. I couldn't believe my eyes. Internet. Dear, sweet, internet. It was like discovering fire. Of course, I couldn't think of one site I wanted to go to and wasn't in the mood to send email, but the mere fact that I could if I wanted or needed to was very reassuring."
Ms. McMillian is also a "blogger" (online journals, web logs) who had been posting sporadically from Coughupalottabucks. "I have some really great friends who read my blog. They knew I was going through a difficult move and many of them were concerned when I didn't post for a few days. I know. They're really swell people. I can't thank them enough for all their kind wishes and support."
When asked if she would publicly embarrass and ridicule her ISP via her blog, she said, "I'm sure it will be mentioned. Not by name, though, because, well, I mean, well, I'm not sure why, really..."
Ms. McMillian's blog can be found at www.triciamcmillian.blogspot.com Her ISP can be found at www.earthlink.net.
Friday, January 21, 2005
M-Day: Over.
Rations: Gone.
Injuries: One broken toe; lacerated finger (four stitches); numerous bruises; numerous claw shaped scratches
Cat: Will not leave darkest corner of closet and makes never before heard low growling noises which can alternately be described as the shocking finale of “When Animals Attack” or disgruntled mumbling. (See above, Injuries)
Finance: Way over budget. Um, if you're not going to eat that parsley garnish, could I um, have it?
Survivor: Barely a survivor. Exhausted. Frustrated. Forlorn. Fretting. (See above, Finance) But still breathing.
The biggest misnomer in moving is “Moving Day.” It is not A day. It is many, many, many days. You might think the days leading up to the actual relocation of possessions are more difficult than the days after a move.
Wrong.
Take it from one who wore the same clothes, and I mean the same clothes, everything the same, for three days, had sporadic phone service and no internet after the actual relocation, the days after the relocation of possessions are far worse than the days leading up to The Move.
I’m pretty tough for a girl. I am completely able to roll with a situation and cast aside girlish needs. If I don’t have to, you know, be presentable, I can manage with a toothbrush, toothpaste, a hair brush and some soap.
So I wasn’t concerned about anything other than getting everything relocated and my cat safely moved.
And really, in the final analysis that is all that matters.
But.
Moving is a nightmare.
No matter how organized (I was), how prepared (I was), how excited about the new place you are (I wasn’t), you have to rely on other people to handle your Earthly life. You hand over everything you own, including your Box of Essentials to complete strangers and depend on them to transport your life to your new home.
My movers were great. I guess. I mean. Yes. They were super nice and super experienced and super careful and super organized and super hard working.
But.
My Box of Essentials which was the last box loaded and allegedly the first box unloaded, was buried under a mountain of book boxes until yesterday afternoon.
My Box of Essentials contained fresh underwear, t-shirts and socks for three days, telephone, shampoo, towels, shower curtain/rings, sheets, scissors, and toilet paper.
But worse than not being able to find my Box of Essentials was not being able to find my Box of Important Stuff.
My Box of Important Stuff was plainly marked, “Box of Important Stuff” and had been moved by myself and a friend the day prior to the actual the move. When we arrived at the new place, the movers had very stern instructions that this box was not to be touched much less moved.
But then something bad happened. A long horrible story involving the five hours later than expected departure from my old place and my cat. Which separated me from the movers and my things for a period of 45 minutes at the initial move-in at the new place.
And the Box of Essentials was buried under a bunch of boxes of books. And the Box of Important Stuff was placed somewhere “safe” but could not be located when I showed up at the new place.
Which upset me. For a lot of really deep emotional reasons.
Because I was so careful about it. Because these are the few things I truly care about and would run into a burning building to retrieve*. Because I packed The Box of Important Stuff with the things which would devastate me to lose. The one box I had to open, or at least see, upon arrival at the new place. The things I have to know where they are or I can't sleep.
So not being able to find that box really swutting upset me.
A lot.
Even more than not being able to locate the Box of Essentials, discovering The Box of Important Stuff had been moved and could not be found was the straw that broke the camel’s emotionally thick exterior.
"Freaking out" would be an apt term.
I am not one prone to freaking out.
But there I was. Freaking out.
If I could have just seen that one box everything would have been okay.
But the movers couldn’t locate it. They “knew” it was “in there somewhere,” one remembered “putting it someplace safe” when they brought in the bed, the closet, he thought. But then other boxes were unloaded, space and time were tight, and, well, no visible Box of Important Stuff.
I just wanted my Box of Important Stuff. That's all. I didn't care about any of the other stuff.
I wanted my file containing my Important Papers. I wanted my folder with all the warranties and instruction books for my stuff which requires warranties and instruction books. I wanted my mum's bridal veil and I wanted it right then. I wanted my pretty rock from Ben Nevis. And if I didn't get my bear no one in three zip codes would be sleeping that night.
This is what moving does to a person. I don't go around thinking about these things on a daily basis. I know where they are, I am in control of their fate and I'm emotionally mature and balanced about them. But knowing I couldn’t go to the closet or the shelf and see them or touch them, that their fate was out of my control, I was disoriented and distraught.
I know “they're just things so shut up.” I know that. I know they don't matter to anyone but me. I know they don't really matter to me.
I guess.
No.
Wait.
Obviously they do. Obviously this little collection of things matters to me a lot.
Obviously I feel connected to and responsible for them. Obviously I have a long way to go on my journey to enlightenment. Obviously some of my possessions own me.
Okay, so I’m not a monk. I have stuff. I have emotional ties to some of my stuff. Species Human for $500, please, Alex.
The Freaking Out Incident of '05 will be making the rounds at moving companies throughout the country. If you move in the next ten years, you’ll probably be told the story by your movers.
This is what they’ll say:
“Nah, don’t worry, you’re not too emotional. Moving is stressful. You’re fine. I heard about this one woman who got so upset because her movers moved a box she told them not to touch that she threatened to post their photographs on the internet with a caption saying “Thief, Loser and Scoundrel” and then screamed, collapsed in the corridor of her new building and cried. You know? That choking, gasping, snot dripping kind of crying? Yeah, I heard it was really bad. The security people saw her on their monitor, you know, from the corridor security camera, and came running because they thought she was being attacked or something, because one of the movers was trying to calm her down and she was flailing her arms and I guess it looked bad on the security monitor, you know, I mean, he was trying to like calm her down, but it looked like something else, and she was carrying on, so you know, the security guys thought there was a (air quote) situation.(unair quote) So they get there and they’re all like Starsky and Hutch, ‘Get away from her!’ and she’s all still sobbing and snotty and choking and they’re all like, ‘It’s okay, we’ll handle it, are you hurt?’ and the mover was like, ‘No man, I didn’t touch her, we moved a box she told us not to touch and she got all mad and then this happened! I swear, man, I swear, I was only trying to help her!’ and the security guy was like, ‘Is that true?’ and she was like, ‘uh huh, but it’s my Box of Important Stuff and this move has taken almost 10 hours and I only moved 3.03 miles and my cat’s upset and my mum’s sick (sob) and HWNMNBS and (choke) I (choke) just (choke) miss (choke) him (choke) so (choke) muucchhhhh (snork) and (snork) MY STUFFFFFFFFFFFF’ and the security guys were all like, ‘You moved a box she told you not to touch?!’ and the mover guy was like, ‘We had to move it to get the bed in...’ and the security guys were like, ‘You should have had her move it!’ and the mover guy was like, ‘She wasn’t here!’ and the security guys were all like on his case, and then the other mover guy came up, and the security guys asked him a bunch of questions about the other mover, like if he was bonded and what was their license number and all this security rent-a-cop stuff, and the movers were all like, ‘Man, we’re professionals, we’ve been doing this for years, call our boss! She’s just crazy. Moving is stressful but she’s insane’ and the security guys were all like, ‘Moving is really stressful, you guys should know that.’ So the movers have their client on the floor of the corridor of the building like all wailing and stuff and the security guys getting on their case about being kinder and gentler and like totally not trusting them, so one of the security guys wouldn’t leave until the movers left, and he’s all like trying to calm down the woman, so he goes ‘Come on, let’s find that box’ to the woman so they systematically moved all the boxes until they found the box. So no, you’re not too emotional. You could be a lot worse. You could be like that woman.”
* Things I would run into a burning building to retrieve: My cat or any other animal, even ones I don't know, yes, really. A child, mine or someone else's. Yes, really. Another person if they needed help and I could be of honest help to them. My passport. The box of Special Photographs. Mum's bridal veil. A very pretty rock from a trek on Ben Nevis. (okay, this would survive a fire, but as long as I was in a burning building getting stuff, I'd grab it) My first edition signed to me personally by Roald Dahl copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and third edition signed to be personally by Roald Dahl James and the Giant Peach, and a Paddington Bear who has seen better days and looks to have not been looked after. My gran's button hook she used on her shoes (those billion buttoned bootie things from way back) when she was young and swingin' about in her victorian garb, one small and two large paintings.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Right. So. Today's the first day of the rest of my life.
Or whatever.
It's M-Day.
Yes. Martin Luther King Day.
And Moving Day.
I checked my horoscope, all the horoscope sites the Google God gave me had differing opinions of what today will bring, but none of them said, "Don't move house today," or "Don't bother," or "Redrum," so you know, I guess I'll proceed as planned. In spite of the run of bad superstition. But I checked my horoscope, so that should be enough unsuperstitioning, right? The mere fact that I checked my horoscope is huge, so the forces of bad luck should be very surprised with me, if not a little afraid. One of my horoscopes said I was a force to be reckoned with, and a few others said I might be moody today. Well duh. How does that differ from any other day? Swut. I get better advice from fortune cookies.
Right. So.
Provisions: Gone.
Life: Packed into boxes.
Cat: Eying me suspiciously. He'll be under the bed soon. He knows. They always know.
Me: Nonplussed. Well. A little anxious about the cat situation. But other than that, nonplussed. Moving. Whatever. If it's broken, lost or damaged, well, that's just one less thing I have to deal with in the new compartment.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
I'm not superstitious. Sometimes I wonder if I should be more superstitious. If maybe my anti-superstitious stance is actually causing what happens to me. But then I forget to be superstitious, and the corrective measures go uncorrected. Oh sure, every now and then I catch myself avoiding stepping on cracks in the sidewalk, but that's more childhood game ingrained in me than superstition. I don't pick up pennies. But if I drop one of my own I will retrieve it. I drop my comb at least two out of seven mornings and notice no fewer or more disappointments. I like to see owls during the day. I don't knock on wood. I don't think falling stars mean anything other than the end of a particle of Universe.
But.
On my way to the new place today, taking over a few pre-move items, toilet paper, soap and the like,
1) I saw a penny on the ground and let it stay there.
2) A black cat crossed the sidewalk in front of me.
3) The sidewalk to the loading dock was blocked by construction guys working on a rehab across the street. You guessed it, I walked under their ladder.
4) I put three hats on my bed as I was packing.
5) Opened an umbrella inside to see if it still worked.
6 A shaker of salt wasn't screwed on tightly and I spilled a bunch of salt.
7) I broke a mirror.
Should I be worried?
On the plus side, my hand itches and I saw a ladybug yesterday.
5:35 PM
Friday, January 14, 2005
Lastly..
Today was a milestone day in the LIfe(?) of Trillian.
I went through the regular motions of my regular days.
And did a lot of things for the last time.
I made my morning Blueline El commute for the last time. I wasn't sure what the protocol is for your last el commute. Do you say something, you know, "good-bye" to the people you see almost every day on the platform? Seems a little weird since we never, ever talk to each other.
"I know none of us ever talk, even though we see each other every day, so this is a little awkward. Eww Gross Girl, Sportz Guyz, Latino Sisters, Obnoxious, Pushy Muppetlike Man, we've been through so much together. Beginning our days together...most days yours were the first human faces I saw. Remember that time, back when had that really bad rain storm and the sewers flooded and they had to run a shop vac in the station and we had to step over swut knows what to get up to the platform? Yeah, Eww Gross Girl, I think that's when your face froze in that position. What about the time they were filming some Bruce Willis movie and the trains were all screwed up and we had to take a bus two stops? Oh, oh, and remember the time they were working on the tracks and the train came rolling up from underground and almost hit that worker guy on the track? Yeah. Good times. See, here's the thing. I'm moving out of the neighborhood. I know, I know, I thought I was going to end up a fixture here, too. But nope! I'm gone. No more Blueline commuting for me. So long, suckers, have a nice ride, I'm a walk to worker now. Enjoy that new rate hike Our Benevolent Leader and Supreme Tax Overlord Daley is going to throw your way in the coming months. Watch out for yourselves, don't get mugged, assaulted, pick pocketed or raped, while your commuting on the el, okay?"
Yeah. Seemed a little not right to me, too. So I didn't say anything. I just got on the train, glared at Eww Gross Girl for spreading out all over two seats and reading her Wall Street Journal as if she were on her living room couch, declined the offer of a seat from one of the Sportz Guyz, rode my few stops and went to work.
So caught up in my routine, was I, that I didn't think about this being my last commute again until after I was off the train and out of the station on my way to the office. "Ooops, forgot to give a wistful look back as I detrained and left the platform. Oh well. That's over. Check Blueline Commuter off my list of characteristics.
I didn't take the train home tonight, so that's it. No more Blueline commutes. Oh sure, I'll still take the train to O'Hare now and then. I wonder how it will feel to emerge from the subway portion of the line, the place where I pull out of my reverie and prepare to get off the train at my stop, when it's no longer my stop. When I just roll by on my way to O'Hare without Damen meaning anything other than just a stop on the way.
I wonder what it will feel to be looked at with disdain and contempt by the regular commuters when I board with my suitcase, obviously not a regular commuter, obviously an interloper using the train to get to O'Hare. Not a "regular" rider.
Coming home from O'Hare, I wonder if I'll ever forget I don't live at Damen anymore and exit the train too early. It's been such a part of me, such a part of my travel routine, I can't trust myself to not exit at Damen and trek the block to my apartment.
My apartment that isn't mine anymore.
The melancholy "what am I doing, why am I moving" has hit. I didn't think it was going to, but today it did.
Ironically, as I schlepped four flights of stairs to the dark, scary laundry room, the melancholy, "I'm going to miss this place," hit me.
I'm really, really, really, really glad to never have to schlepp laundry down four flights of stairs again. I'm really glad to not have to use the crappy washers which at best reach warm water temperature (usually ice cold is the temp, regardless of where you set the gauge) anymore. Ditto the dryers which also have only one temperature setting: Scald and Shrink. I wonder if people will be jerks with the lint traps in my new building. Maybe they have a lint trap overseer there. Maybe the lint traps will always be magically lint free.
I stopped by the new place, keys and all that. I took a look at my Lake view. It's better than I remembered it. Smaller than I remembered it, too. (The apartment, not the Lake.) The apartment is definitely a compartment. My new compartment. Furry Creature and I are going to be real close. Good thing we get along so well.
But. You know. It's nice. It was warm and comfy. In contrast to the frost caked windows in the old place.
The old place.
I haven't even moved, but it's already The Old Place.
Wow.
Guess I've made the leap.
I stopped at my favorite local place for my favorite falafel in the world. "Hey, Spice Girl!" the order prep guy yelled at me when I walked in. "Cold night, you need something to keep you warm! I make extra spicy?" he asked as he began preparing my falafel sandwich without even asking my order.
"Of course extra spicy!" I proclaimed in a you silly goose tone.
"Spice Girl!" he enthused.
I am known as Spice Girl at this establishment. I think any girl who requests "hot" or "spicy" when they place an order is dubbed "Spice Girl." I am under no illusions that I am the only Spice Girl. But. Still.
"Cold night! Hot soup?!" he implored.
"Yeah, of course, sounds good." he ladled the lentil soup into a huge container and swirled some hot liquid spice into it. After all, I AM Spice Girl. He knows the drill. This is enough lentil soup for a family of six. I paid for an order. An. Singular. One person. Small order.
I want to think I'll still frequent this place, and other places in the neighborhood, but I know how it is. It's only 3.03 miles, but I'll get busy, I'll find new places in my new neighborhood, time will pass, and the next thing you know, it will have been months, maybe even a year since I was in the old 'hood. I keep saying, "I'm still going to hang out here, I'm just going to live a few miles East." But I know I probably won't.
Maybe at first.
But probably not.
My Thai place, my pubs, my 7-11, my ghetto grocery...they won't be mine anymore. I'll be a tourist in the old 'hood. Like the commuters on the train, the locals will look at me with disdain and contempt because I'll be interloping on their turf.
Arthur, Bone and I went to my Thai place last night. We sat at our regular table. The food tasted really good. I'm sure it's the same principle as when you get your hair cut or go to the doctor: The morning you have your long awaited appointment, your hair cooperates and looks fabulous or you are feeling all better. Not that my Thai place has bad food, it just tasted extra good last night.
Po, as he has said for the last year, "So gwad you wawk in now! No more dewivewy." pantomiming walking on crutches. He brought my favorite plum wine to the table without me ordering it. I wonder if there will be a good Thai place in the new neighborhood. I wonder if they'll have this plum wine.
I've got a busy weekend. Final packing. The movers show up Monday morning. I intend to be ready for them Sunday afternoon. I won't be out and about in the 'hood. I won't have time for a walk around the 'hood, popping into the places I shop and eat to say good-bye. Not that I would. I don't think too many of these people care if I'm here or not. But I like to think they'll wonder what happened to me. I like to think when I do come back to visit, after a long absence, they'll say, "Where've you been?! We've missed you!" But I doubt they will. I'm not that important. Po and Lani will probably wonder what the swut happened to Miss Twiwian. They kept me alive with dewivewy when I was in bed with the broken ankle. Which is why I couldn't say "good-bye" to them. These are nice people in my 'hood. These are true neighbors.
Better for us to all delude ourselves into thinking the soon to be three mile distance between us won't mean anything.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Moving sucks, I am being told over and over by people in the know.
The thing is, it's never sucked for me until this move. I won't say I looked forward to past moves, but past moves happened because I was moving to another/better job, better apartment, another city to be with a boyfriend, go to universities...all exciting things associated with moving. This time, it's 3.03 miles away to a part of town which I never go much less want to live in, to a smaller box of an apartment.
I'm packing my stuff in boxes, moving to a building which is essentially a multistory box, into a compartment of that box. Yes. My new apartment isn't actually an apartment, it's a compartment. Of a big box. I'll move my boxes into my compartment, probably won't unpack most of them for a while, so it will be boxes in a box in a big box.
Which is why I've been in my current place as long as I have. Crappy as it is, it's huge and cute and convenient and basically, a nice little home. Oh sure, the muggings*, rapes**, break-ins, arson, gangs, drugs, prostitutes***, delinquent kids in the park****, drunk and rowdy people spilling loudly onto the neighborhood at closing time have all been a bit of a nuisance...but you know, it's home.
It comes down to the same basic issue: This job, this apartment, this city, were all temporary. I moved here because I had to land somewhere in the US, and I had a few friends here, and I knew this one guy here, and knew I could get a job and live fairly cheaply until I formed a plan for my next real move. Ahem. That plan got sidetracked by a certain man whose name must not be spoken.
Since that break-up I've been trying to get back to where I was before him, trying to sort out what it was I was meant to be doing with my life. Problem is, the plans He and I had were more appealing than any I'd had before (or since). I could go ahead without him, of course, but unfortunately, those plans were appealing and desirable because of him and us. I wanted to do those things with him. For us. We were a team. Those plans were the team goals. There is no I in team. Those plans, that life, is impossible, not even desirable without him.
The irony and joke is that this temporary gig (and apartment, and city) is the most permanent one I've ever had.
Which of course gets all drummed up with a move. Moving forces you to look at your life, your possessions, how long you've been there, where you're moving, why...
It's not just throwing stuff in boxes and schlepping them to a new place. Even though that is the new battle cry at my place, "I don't care, just get it in a box, I'll sort it when I get to the new place!" can be heard at least twice hourly. It's making a change, maybe long overdue, maybe not, and change can be good.
I like change. But I don't like the emotional wellspring which results from change.
I stayed in my current apartment because the future was looming with HWNMNBS, we chose and international relationship, so we had to accept the wait and frustrations that come with that territory. Why move? I thought, when I'll just be moving again, with him, hopefully soon. Our plan, my plan, was to leave this apartment and move to our home. He often shared a humorous but happy little vision he had of me, sitting amid packed boxes with Furry Creature, moving to be with him. This vision made him happy, symbolized the end of our single lives and me being emancipated from a temporary apartment and job and life because of him and us. Yes, it's a sort of Knight in Shining Armor Rescue fantasy, the type which I am strongly opposed, but, it made him feel good. It made him feel happy, that he and I were moving forward, that he was making me happy, that because of him (and us) I was leaving all this temporary foolishness behind me.
I lost him, I lost our home, I lost the goals, I lost my future. I've been trying to make my own future, trying rid myself of him, but mostly, trying to rid myself of the idea that somehow, some way, it'll all work out, with or without him. Preferably with. That life, those goals, normal and real and simple as they are, are out of reach for the likes of me. I've been trying to move forward, I really have, but knowing he's such a big part of me, the future we planned was the one I wanted most, has made forward progress difficult. Knowing that when I leave this place, it won't be to be with him in our home. I'm not saying that's the main reason I haven't moved, or the reason for this move, but it's certainly been in the back of my consciousness. Hence Miss Havisham and that bit of painful symbolism.
Now that I am finally leaving this apartment and moving to my new compartment, this is all brought into sharp focus for me. This is it. The final Truth I Have to Face that there is no I in HWNMNBS. I am not leaving this apartment for our home, or to be with him. I'm sitting in that room, amid boxes with Furry Creature, but HWNMNBS not waiting for me at the other end. We're not moving forward together, we're moving much further apart. My new compartment is only 3.03 miles from my old apartment. But we're moving a lot more than 3.03 miles away from each other. This is it. The end of that blissful little vision he shared with me.
Which I know is a good thing. And you're all sitting there thinking, "Finally." But it hurts, okay? It really hurts. I've given in and given up. And that hurts. It makes me miss him. It makes me feel like a huge failure. Here I am again, moving not to a home, but a small compartment. Just another address my friends and family will have to learn. I am back to where I was before I met him, but I'm older and wiser and carrying a new set of baggage and shouldn't be here. It's huge steps backward. Change is good? Yeah. Sure. It is. Change is good. But it's also painful.
*and still they continue
**one in my alley recently, a woman pulled into her garage after work, went to pull in the trash cans and Bam! he got her.
***going to miss stepping over spent condoms on the sidewalks and in the park, you know, where children play.
**** I'll miss them the most. It just won't be the same, going home after work and not having racial remarks thrown at me by teenaged boys. I might find I miss being called a why' bitch, a why' ho, a cunt ho, a bitch ho, or any other kind of ho. The day I was told, by what appeared to be a 15 year old boy, and I'm translating the Ebonics here, that he planned to rip my white cunt open til it bled, was certainly one of the highlights of living in my cool, trendy, million dollar condo neighborhood. The pink pussy remarks are always appreciated, too. "Da why' ho, rip her pink pussy into, she be like all beggin fo more an shi." I'd really like Jesse Jackson to explain to me why it's okay and even necessary for me to have my race held up and ridiculed, for me to be persecuted and threatened, to have MY civil liberties violated just because I walk down MY street, where PAY to live by drug dealing, rude, violent, potty mouthed kids (who do not even live on my street). Can you even guess at how much jail time I'd get if I made similar racial/gender/sexual/violent remarks to one of these darling children? Not that I would, I wouldn't, that's the difference, it would never in a million years occur to me to say anything remotely racial/sexual/gender degrading/violent to anyone. Thoughts like that are simply not part of my consciousness. Well. They weren't until I moved here and had my near daily verbal assault from the fine young men hanging around the park. Oh! The things I've learned! It will also be interesting to hear people speaking English in my new neighborhood. You know, in Chicago. US. Where the official language is, I think, English. I'm not certain, because in my neighborhood I hear mainly Spanish, Ebonics and Polish. Yes. I embrace all cultures and love that we're all here from somewhere else. But. If we cannot communicate with each other, we might as well have just stayed in our mother countries. What's the point of living next door to someone from a totally different culture, with whom you could become friends and learn so much about a different culture, if they cannot or refuse to speak a language other than their native tongue? Yeah. That's been bothering me a lot lately. And, note to girls in the Walgreen's? . Just because I'm white, never, ever assume I don't understand what you're saying. I know exactly what you said about the lady in line in front of me. It was a really horrible thing for you to say in any language, and I did, in fact, speak to your manager about it. She was at least 75 years old and clearly not very well off for crying out loud, those coupons and her change are probably the only way she could afford to buy the off brand tissues and bars of soap. How dare you call her stupid and slow and wasting time and holding up the line? How DARE you? Yes, sweetheart, I understood your Spanish tirade perfectly. You know, I heard jobs are sort of difficult to get in Mexico, long days, hard work, low pay...I don't know, it just seems like you'd be a little more grateful for what you've got, and a little more respectful to your customers who essentially pay your salary. But you know. Whatever. You have to wear a smock with your name on it to work. I don't. Neither does that lady you went off on in Spanish. So you know, I guess really we should be pitying you and your stupid smock with your name on it job. Funny, though, your store manager didn't seem to feel that way. He was not very pleased to hear that you were speaking Spanish at all, let alone yelling at little old lady customers in Spanish.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
"Hey, maybe there is a God"
Perfect timing, reality Wednesday.
Another one down, too many to go, but still. Another one gone.
Gee, I wonder who will be the heir?
Yoo hoo, Mr. Rancher guy with a small fortune and no heirs, I know a woman who works really hard and is really nice and could use a little financial assistance. You don't even have to die, she'll take your money while you're alive! And, she won't make you go on television and look like a pathetic idiot! What's that? You're an actor? You don't actually have a small fortune and no heirs? Gosh. Too bad the show tanked, you could have used a little extra cash, huh.
5:17 PM
This week's installment sees The Mover sitting on a floor amid large boxes and miscellaneous household and personal items.
She is laughing.
But it's not funny.
She is laughing hysterically.
Cut to on screen bullet point graphic:
Hysteric.
1 : a psychoneurosis marked by emotional excitability and disturbances of the psychic, sensory, vasomotor, and visceral functions
2 : behavior exhibiting overwhelming or unmanageable fear or emotional excess
Cut back to The Mover, amid boxes.
Emotional excess! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
That's a good one! Emotional excess! ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Disturbed visceral functions! ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Insert Beavis and Butthead clip:
Heh heh heh they said vasomotor heh heh heh heh
Cut back to The Mover.
Turn the camera off! I mean it! Seriously. I'm not some ditzy actress wannabe pretending to be a real person vying for a million dollar prize. I'm a real, actual person trying to move my life across town and the movers are going to show up in 144 hours. Yes. 144 hours. Do you see this stuff? Do you see all these boxes I've already packed? I have no idea where this stuff came from! I'm not an accumulator! Well. I guess I am. I didn't think I was. But the boxes and full dumpsters prove I've obviously accumulated stuff. How? When did this happen? When did I become "settled" into this apartment? Before I moved here I had my life packed in a few boxes and suitcases and stored in a corner of my parents' cellar. How did I get this stuff? What is it? I've parted with a lot of stuff, looked on in disbelief that I had some of it, made emotional decisions to rid myself of others of it. The tsunami forced poignantly timed perspective on all of this, they're just things, they don't matter. I thought I was down to the essential or "can't part with it" stuff. And yet, look at all these boxes! I try to not have emotional attachments to many things. But here's MY reality show: I do. (fit of hysterical laughter)
Abruptly stops laughing.
Hey!
Some of you youngsters have probably never seen one of these:
The Mover slides a Mac Classic from behind a box.
I loved this Mac. I still love this Mac. It's an icon of society and my life. It's what set me off on this so called career of mine. Yes. The very career on which I have lost perspective. It all started on here. (pointing to the antiquated Mac) Sure. I could pitch it. They're going for $75 on eBay, if I ever really want one again I could just troll eBay and get another one. But. It wouldn't be THIS one. It wouldn't be mine. All mine. This was the coolest thing I'd ever been given. It was a birthday present from my brother back when none of the other kids had computers. Or if they did, they had those geeky homemade cobalordosorwhatever things. My brother bought one the day they hit the market, thinking it was kind of cool and hoping to use it for work. I visited him and used it and took to it like a duck to water, a few months later this showed up for my birthday. Half my class came over to see it. For a brief (very brief) moment in my otherwise very unpopular and socially marred formative years, I was cool. The guys wanted to be with me (even if only to use me to get to my Mac) and some of the girls wanted to be me. Okay. Maybe that's an overexaggerated hope that maybe I had a brief shining moment of coolness at least once in my life. Still. The kids all thought it was really cool. Even though the fact that I could make that baby sing and dance and produce some very cool art should have put me firmly in the geek and loser group. But. I made art. Really cool art. Okay. "Cool art" considering heretofore the computer art we'd seen was those dumb pictures made from aligning keyboard characters to form "silhouettes" of cartoon characters the computer lab geeks showed off on open house night. Sure. Some of the girls called me Velma. That tart Julie, for one. Her skanky cousin Beth for another. But so what? I had my Mac and I didn't need to go to the dumb dances at school because my Mac was infinitely more fun and interesting...
Oh geeze. Sorry.
See? This is what I'm talking about...moving forces you to stare your life in the face. It's like that really intense therapy where you get confronted and bullied into facing your issues. You are forced to look at every single item you have in your life, from a Mac Classic to a tube of hydrocortisone, evaluate its worth - use, fiscal and emotional - and decide whether or not it's "worth" moving and keeping. Yes. I know. I'm lucky. I have stuff and a place to put my stuff. I am very aware and grateful for that.
But.
I'm still faced with these decisions and the emotional upheaval they cause.
And if, like me, you are moving to a smaller place, it's even worse. Because you won't have an inch of extra space. Physics takes over your life. The new place has less physical square footage than the current physical square footage. There is no choice but to eliminate things because fundamental principles of physics will not allow the same amount of stuff to be put into a smaller place. Physics, my friends. Laws of physics. They're unbending, unwavering and a real pain in the arse.
(Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha - hysterical laughing)
Jostling of camera. Voices of production people.
I don't know, I think there's something wrong with her. She just keeps laughing and pointing at stuff and sometimes she cries. Are we really going to air this?
We can edit a lot of it but we won't have enough for a show.
Screen goes black, then to a test pattern.
The producers of Survivor, The Move, apologize for the contestant's inability to do anything but sit on the floor in a fit of hysterics. You wanted reality. We gave it to you. Reality is not hot babes in a hot tub getting drunk and freaky in an effort to "win" money and a man.
The ultimate reality is: Reality is not pretty. It is sobering. It is ugly and painful.
9:35 AM
Tuesday, January 11, 2005 Move Survivor Countdown
7 Days to M-Day
Rations Consumed: Leftover Chinese food.
Kitchen: Packed.
Living Room: Packed.
Living Room Closet: Packed.
Bedroom: 3/4 packed.
Bedroom Closet: Packed.
Dining Room: 1/2 packed.
Office: Not packed.
Pantry: Packed!
Hall Closet: 1/2 packed.
No. She did very little last night. Okay? She just didn't. Feel. Like. It.
Sub-lease: Resolved. (fingers crossed)
Cat: Stress eating again, but in better spirits.
Survivor's Mental Health: Along with moving and personal life crisis, Survivor has decided to take this chaotic time to have a professional crisis of spirit, too.
Survivor's Physical Health: Eh, she's okay, surviving on two hours of fitful sleep per night instead of her usual four hours of fitful sleep per night.
Some how, some way, somewhere in all the chaos of the last six months of my life, I have managed to lose complete perspective on my "career."
I think.
Sort of.
Maybe.
Actually, I'm not sure.
Which is why I think I've lost perspective. If I knew for sure I had perspective on my career, than I wouldn't have cause to ponder if I've lost it.
A stands for my career. B stands for uncertainty. C stands for lost perspective. A = B, B = C, A = C.
At least that's the formula and logic I'm using. But then, maths were never my strong suit.
So this could just be a mid-career crisis.
Or the perspective which has forced itself upon my personal life forcing its way into my professional life.
Or I am utterly void of perspective on my life, personal or professional.
Or I am in an apathetic phase.
Whatever the case or cause, I have enough perspective and integrity to realize professional things are not right in Trillville.
It's no surprise to anyone who knows me outside of work, or anyone who reads this blog. I have long been extremely dissatisfied with my coworkers. I don't exactly "fit in" with the gang at the office. The swutting church lady has made a personal counseling visit, for crying out loud.
But.
For the most part, though not jumping up and down with unbridled enthusiasm, I like what I actually do for a living. Occasionally a project stirs up creative juices. Every now and then I get excited about a project. I can tolerate my clients - I even like some of them. Sadly, I thrive under pressure, deadlines aren't stressful for me. (I'm not bragging, I'm not proud of this facet of my personality. Just stating a fact.)
The fundamental requirements of my job are okay. Not exactly challenging for me, but that's because I know what I'm doing. I have experience, education and talent to carry out the requirements of my job. The fundamental requirements of a job shouldn't be the challenging part of a career, right?
In my career, the challenges should come from meeting the unique and special needs of clients. Delivering a quality, creative and most of all, effective solution to a client's needs, on time and under budget (or on a miniscule budget).
And I have those challenges. I stand up to greet those challenges. I welcome them into my office on a daily basis. I say, "Hello, challenges! Come in, have a seat! How've you been? Care for anything to drink? Let's talk. What do I need to do resolve you?" I embrace them. "Oh boy! Challenges! I love a good puzzle! I love to make those synapses fire!" Sometimes, if necessary, I even smack 'em around a bit to show 'em who's boss. "Okay challenges, this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you. You might feel a slight tingling sensation. Just relax, it will be over soon enough. I'll be as gentle as I can." See? It's not the challenges of my actual job. The challenges of my actual job have been what's kept me going the past few years. It certainly hasn't been the financial, social or "job well done" rewards which keep me coming to work every day.
Gosh, Trill, it sounds like you've got a decent perspective on things to me... Yeah. I guess.
But.
Along with the typical malaise which sets in after you realize your exciting career is really just a job, like any other job, there's something else lacking. I went through the malaise, wrestled with it, made changes, and still ended up with the malaise. You know that malaise, that bronze age of disillusionment most of us enter a year or two out of university. The age when we accept and maybe even understand the unused potential, the lower than expected rate of pay, the lack of any form of acknowledgement of a job well done by coworkers and higher ups, the buffoons to whom we report, the lack of deep (or any) emotional fulfillment and satisfaction from our careers is just normal professional and personal development.
Very few people have REALLY EXCITING CAREERS WHICH OFFER THEM FUN! CHALLENGE! CREATIVITY! DEEP PERSONAL REWARDS! every day. If you stick around at a job or career long enough, sooner or later, no matter what, it's just a job. Physicists don't unlock mysteries of the Universe every day. Or every year. Or every decade. In between discovering uncharted regions of the Universe or theories, there are a lot of boring days, long days, and unfulfilled days when that seemingly undiscovered quark is just a spec of dust on the lens. Teachers don't unleash the power of educational enlightenment every day. There are a lot of days the kids in their classes are unreachable and apathetic to learning. Musicians don't find an undiscovered and harmonic chord pattern every day, or play a sold out gig (or intimate venue) every day. There's a lot of down time and on the road time and press junkets and dumb record biz execs raping them of their talent and money in between.
It's just life. It's just a job. And it beats toiling at some other job we deem worse than our current job.
Ahh. The beauty of maturity and acceptance.
And so it was that I came to my current job. Expecting very little, hoping for some creative challenges, offering my skill and talents in return for a wage I could live on and health insurance. I quickly discovered there weren't a lot of people I genuinely liked here, that were it not for the fact that we work in the same office, our paths would never cross. But that's just more of the aforementioned acceptance of the malaise. I have never looked to my job or even career to offer me friendships and a social life. Don't want that, in fact. I have always wanted to keep my personal and professional life two very distinct and separate parts of my existence. True enough, over the years, I have stumbled into a few very, very good friendships via work. No one has been more surprised by this than me. But the people with whom I share at least 8 hours of at least five days a week in my current job are people whom I do not like or respect. There are some exceptions. They're not all lazy, selfish, rude, unaware idiots and swut-ups.
But.
A lot of them are.
I'm here on the island of misfit toys.
I set myself up for this, I guess, by virtue of my nature. I'm not really much for making small talk. I hate gossip and refuse to listen to it. I don't car pool. I don't smoke and so don't hang out with the smokers down on the loading dock. (If anything smacks the reality that work is just school you get paid to attend, cliques and all, this does: Sneaking out for smokes in a dingy area out of sight.) I don't care to "do" lunch with the gals I already spend my entire days with and don't really like. In fact, I don't care to "do" lunch at all. After a long day working hard on a project or dealing with a crisis, I do not like to unwind with alcohol with my coworkers down at the local for an unhappy hour or two. They're often the reason I want to unwind with alcohol after work in the first place. (What a good place to be, Don’t believe it, ’cause they speak a different language, And it’s never really happened to me...) I don't have a candy dish on my desk full of treats enticing passers by to stop and chat. I don't have plants which need watering when I'm out of the office for a few days. I don't send around email "jokes" to the gang in the department. I don't dash into work and tell everyone every detail of the past 12 hours of my life and how awful the commute was.
You know.
I'm not like other girls.
Or other people.
I'm sarcastic. And cynical. And do not suffer overpaid fools lightly. And I keep all but my professional self to myself. I do my job and get the swut out of here.
I have made efforts to socialize, not to fit-in, but to get along. I have not actively cultivated a persona of aloofness or indifference or snobbery or apathy. I have let a lot of apt but cutting remarks go unspoken (a lot, hence this blog - these words come from somewhere, mainly my discontent and decorum-leashed mouth). I have even gone to a few unhappy hour get togethers and put on my party manners for the event. (It's happy hour again, I think I might be happy if I wasn’t out with them...) I sang swutting karaoke with our division director in front of my coworkers for crying out loud. What more do I have to do? I have chosen my battles, fighting only for the greater good of the project or client and relenting for the greater good of office morale. I have been patient and kind and offered help and advice to the people who have proven themselves to be completely stupid and unable to grasp even very simple concepts. Even when those concepts are fundamental to their job descriptions. Meaning they are unqualified to perform their job duties. Meaning I have done their jobs for them. (Some people, no matter how many times you teach them to fish, will starve to death and take the village down with them because they can't remember to bring the fishing pole or nets. See? I am understanding. Like the Jesus simile? Perhaps overstating the case a bit, but honestly, sometimes I feel like Jesus - the patience, the enlightenment, the really strict Father, the persecution...)
But I don't really belong here.
But then.
I have yet to find a place where I really do belong. At least in terms of personality and socialization.
I know "the problem" is me, not them. I understand and accept that, too.
Let me state loudly for the record: I don't feel that I am lowering myself to be with them, or that I am in any way better than them.
Okay. Maybe a few of them.
But the whole socialization/fitting-in thing isn't the issue anyway. I think. Maybe. Well. I'm not sure. Maybe it is at least part of it.
The basic fact that's bothering me now is that I think I've lost perspective on my job, what I actually do. And if I think I've lost perspective, wonder if I've lost perspective, than it must be true. Because I've been wracking my mind for a reason why I do my job, a reason why I would willingly do most of what I do 10 hours 5 - 6 days a week for a salary that is not exactly life enhancing.
What's the point?
What's the use?
Who cares? I mean who really cares?
My clients? To a small degree. But like fickle lovers, they'll find someone to replace me a day after I'm gone.
So will my employer.
C'est la vie, Trill. You said you understood and accepted the malaise of work. So why this bout of professional existentialism? That's the point. I'm not sure. I've hit a point where I can't get enough perspective to accept it. I've tried to change it, tried really hard, spanned the globe in an effort to find another job. And yet here I am. Until I find another job, I've got to deal with the one I have. It's no longer just a case of bracing myself every morning to deal with the people in the office. It's now a case of bracing myself to make myself do my job.
Um, Trill? You know what? That sort of sounds like depression. Yeah, I know. And that's probably a huge part of it. I've always maintained personal awareness is the cause of depression. But that's another point: If my self awareness and introspection into my career are causing existential depression, then there's a bigger problem than my personal issues. It will effect my job. It will result in lackluster results on projects. Or at least result sub par to my usual results.
Really, Trill, it sounds like all you need is a new job, maybe a new profession. You sound like you might be burned out. Keep trying, something's bound to turn up sooner or later. Yeah. You're right. I haven't been hitting the job boards as hard as I could for the past few months what with my mum's illness and being assaulted and mugged and moving and everything. I guess I should make myself make time for a full-on job hunt. And you're right, I need to think about other ways to earn a living. Maybe I am burned out on my career. I should try to explore other avenues, whether or not I'm qualified for them.
I mean, that's never stopped anyone, right? Look at my (needs a new nickname) boss! She's completely inept and unqualified to do her job and yet she makes a very handsome salary and puts in minimal hours and doesn't actually do anything! And she's not very bright. If she found a way to get that kind of gig, surely I can find a way to find a job for which I am completely unqualified but handsomely compensated. Right? Being an inept idiot could be fun, right? Okay, yes. I'll do it. I will explore jobs, careers, for which I am not qualified.
So off I go, all hopped up high on excitement about the world of job opportunites just waiting to be hatched.
Job hunting online is like date hunting online. You go to the job sites, get a user name and password, post your resume/CV, and start sending letters of introduction to every ad you see which might vaguely be right for you. Seriously. It's exactly like dating.
Here are a few of the enticing offers I have found thus far. Remember, just like 50 First Dates, I am going to push myself to look at the job market with fresh eyes, consider every possibility, and be open minded about those who seek me out of the crowd of applicants.
Day 1 of the First Day Hunting for the Rest of My Professional Life. It's amazing how many jobs there are when you don't enter any criteria except city and state.
Driver. I am a good driver. I like to drive. This could be a good job for me right now. It would give me time to think, time to myself to sort out what I really want to do. And who knows? Maybe I'll discover what I really want to do is be a professional driver. Okay, so, no, I don't actually know what a 42' Freightliner Columbia Mobile Technology Center is, but it sounds cool. I love technology. Okay, so I don't know what a CDL A or B with airbrake endorsement is or how to get one. Okay, so faking those requirements is probably a lot more difficult than faking a knowledge and a degree in marketing. Okay, so my boss, in her infinite stupidity, stumbled upon the one career where you can know absolutely nothing about it, fake your qualifications, and no one except one savvy underling will ever know. Damn that pesky license for bribe scandal. Five years too late for this career path. Where's George Ryan when you need him?
Leasing "Consultant" Hmmmmm. If there's one thing I know, it's apartments. I can consult on apartments better than anyone I know. I just unloaded my dump, erm, subleased my spacious, sunny, charming vintage unit with high ceilings to a reasonably intlelligent person. I've got this one in the bag.
The catch is that I have to have my own car and be willing to travel throughout the South suburbs.
Next!
No really. There's only so much I'm willing to concede. I am not getting a car for the sole purpose of driving around the South suburbs of Chicago showing apartments. I know, like finding a man, I can't be choosey, because you just never know what might end up being really interesting or The One.
But.
No.
Distilled Spirits Event and Promotion Coordinator. I know a thing or two about distilled spirits. I know several things about event and promotion coordinating. This is actually a really good job for me. But. I'm supposed to be trying to find something outside of my usual career realm. Unfortunately this falls too close the design/advertising/marketing/promotions career on which I have lost perspective. Shame. Getting paid to drink on the job is always a positive perk.
Ahh, now. Here we're talking. Middle management, vague job responsibilities, large corporation, huge headquarter office (easy to hide, easy to blend in, easy to find someone else to do your job), and best of all: Has Government Compliance written all over it. Even if you do nothing, and everyone knows you do nothing, your job is required by the government so no one questions why you do nothing all day. Perfect. I hit pay dirt on my first time out. This truly is job hunt Nirvana:
Foreign National Recruiting Coordinator (Off to a good start right there with the job title. Nice long title which took an HR person three weeks to devise from the Big Book of Job Titles Which Mean Absolutely Nothing and Have No Relevance to the Actual Job) Responsibilities
Under guidance of an attorney (this is great, always look for phrases like "under the guidance of..." - no actual authority, you just have to do what someone else tells you to do, you don't actually have any real responsibilities) , candidate will support immigration matters; Assure proper completion of immigration forms, correspondence and applications for filing with appropriate government agencies (Until last Fall, I had two file drawers full of INS, Homeland Security and various other countries' immigration forms and documents and copies of emails to various immigration departments. Oh yes, I know lots about immigration forms, but don't worry if you don't, no one really expects anyone to be familiar with government forms or agencies); Assure integrity and accuracy of database information (Can you use spell check? Great. You're in.); Act as primary liaison between applicants, management and attorneys (blab on the phone); Respond to inquiries from management and applicants (write form letters dashing immigrants' hopes and dreams, yeah, I can do that, I have plenty of personal reference material); Prepare and distribute required reports (make copies and send inter office mail).
Qualifications
BA/BS Degree required (perhaps even more vague and nebulous than an MBA, the BA/BS degree is the most vague and easy to talk your way through at an interview); 1 plus years work experience (not my typo, looks like the "integrity and accuracy" aspect of the position is relative); Knowledge of immigration procedures is desirable (USCIS, DOL, work authorization, etc.) (oh yeah, come to mama and pull up a chair, I speak this language like a native. But don't worry if you don't, it's only "desirable" not required. Desirable means they don't really know what the swut those things are and they're hoping to hire someone who does so they don't have to deal with them. Meaning: You can either fake it and do a little online educating of yourself, or, don't bother because no one will ever know the difference); Demonstrates a sensitivity to cross-cultural communications (yeah, whatever); Demonstrates excellent verbal, written and interpersonal skills (shut up); Must possess strong organizational skills ("I set up an alphanumeric color cross reference file system, Mr. Lawyer, each country is a different color..."); Ability to prioritize and balance workload to meet deadlines (deadline schmedline, this is the INS we're talking about here, give 'em a form and they'll get back to you in 14 months); Ability to work independently with a high level of accuracy (translate: This is a government compliance job, no one in the department actually does much and isn't around very often so you're going to have to entertain yourself. Candidates with lots of friends and family they like to call during office hours are encouraged to apply); Maintains confidentiality as required ("as required" is another great nebulous vague term to look for in your job search. It can be the best of times or worst of times, be sure to get clarification of this during the interview. In this case it means: Keep your mouth shut when the civil liberties guys are around and squawk like a stoolie when the homeland security guys are around); Demonstrates sound business and professional ethics (Have you ever been convicted of an embezzlement of more than $50,000 from your employer? No? Able to shred classified and legally binding documents on demand from your higher ups? Yes? You're in.); Must possess strong computer skills including Microsoft Office and the Internet (gollleee, I know how to work a computer and I can even go on the Internet, I guess I must have "strong" computer skills); Experience with Access and PowerPoint highly desirable (oooh, Access and Power Point? highly desirable. Wow. lesseee, aren't most 12 year olds "experienced" with Access and PowerPoint?); Paralegal certificate preferred but not required (preferred but not required: Watch for this phrase, this is a good one. It means someone somewhere thinks the job should have some sort of certificate or diploma requirement, but no one who actually works with the person being hired thinks it's necessary. So to appease the VP of Who Knows What, the direct manager and HR person looked through their Big Book of Certifications and Diplomas and decided Paralegal sounded like a possible appropriate qualification and they put it as the closing requirement of the job. It means: Don't worry. We don't really want a paralegal. Someone, somewhere in this vast corporate headquarters, would "prefer" the applicant to have some sort of piece of paper saying they completed some course, somewhere. That MFA you have will be impressive looking and qualification enough).
Right. Perfect. My new career for the day is: Foreign National Recruiting Coordinator.
8:41 AM
