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/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<




Trillian McMillian
Trillian McMillian
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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






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.
Find Federal Officials
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Contact The Media
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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.)

Quasar
Hyperbole
Amenable
Taciturn
Ennui
Prophetic
Tawdry
Hubris
Ethereal
Syzygy
Umbrageous
Twerp
Sluice
Omnipotent
Sanctuary
Malevolent
Maelstrom
Luddite
Subterfuge
Akimbo
Hoosegow
Dodecahedron
Visceral
Soupçon
Truculent
Vitriol
Mercurial
Kerfuffle
Sangfroid




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue

Slanglish

It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"


















 
Mail Trillian here





Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.



Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.





Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"







Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.


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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

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, February 28, 2005  
Wedding Dress 4 Sale, New, Never Worn
You Must Do The Thing Which You Think You Cannot

Or some pith like that. I'm not a big Eleanor Roosevelt devotee.

But. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

I guess it's good to do the thing you think you cannot or the thing you don't want to do even though you know it's probably the logical or best thing to do.

I finally sold my wedding dress.

Seriously.

It's been hanging new in it's chic and protective bag, never worn down the aisle, in a closet at my parents' house.

My parents never, not once, brought up the topic of the dress. I'm sure they didn't want to hurt me. I'm sure they didn't know what to say, how to approach the topic, or what the right thing to do with the dress was.

What do you do with your daughter's wedding dress she never wore because the wedding was canceled because her fiancé broke-up with her?

Not a position which I would want to find myself, and one in which I really hate to have put my parents.

And really, apart from the heartache and loneliness, that's the worst part about canceling a marriage. Other people are disappointed and hurt. It's not just the personal humiliation. Other people have pride and feelings at stake, too. And no, I am not saying a bad or problematic marriage should happen for everyone other than the bride and groom. Of course not.

But.

In my case, my parents liked him. They were really happy for me and for us.

And they were really sad and hurt and disappointed for me when it didn't happen.

And I was embarrassed for them. They had to tell all their friends and extended family that their daughter was left nearly at the altar.

Those are not phone calls I would like to make. Because no matter how sympathetic and caring, the unspoken (and sometimes spoken, in the case of a few relatives) are: "What's wrong with her?" or "I knew it." or "Your daughter's a loser, and you're a failure as a parent."

In the old days my father would have been in the position of forcing, shotgun in hand, HWNMNBS to marry me. But fortunately for my father we don't live in the old days. My father's not the violent type. Even when it comes to defending his daughter's honor.

"Son, I hate to do this to you. You know Trillian's mother and I always liked you. That's what makes this so difficult. It's going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you. Or you could just marry her..."

Oh swut.

Anyway, the dress.

I didn't know what to do with it. Every time I visited my parents it was hanging in the closet. My mother tried to push it to the back, hang other clothes around it to try to conceal it.

But it's a swutting wedding dress. Those things are not easy to hide. Even at their tiniest, they're Real Dresses and come in big protective garment bags and take up a lot of space.

Mine was somewhere in the middle on the scale of Big Dresses. It took me a really long time to find it. My mother and friends and I performed exhaustive searches. Nothing quite suited me. This was complicated by the fact that I wasn't one of those girls who fantasized about her wedding day every day from the time she was three years old. I had only a vague notion of what I wanted in a wedding dress, but very concrete opinions about what I did not want. It was easy to find what I did not want. Much like finding the groom.

Brides are allegedly getting older, but the wedding dress industry is still catering to 18-year-olds fresh from prom with Cinderella fantasies. Tulle and bows, bows and tulle. Mountains of tulle. It was either a frothy mountain of tulle, or a stiff satin sheath cut so tight the bride would walk down the aisle reminiscent of a bound foot Japanese girl. Very little in-between these extremes. And apparently there are a lot of women who really like lace. Scratchy, ugly, Madonna circa 1983 lace. A few shops carry one or two token bridal "suits" for the second or third or fourth time bride. A few of these were actually quite stylish. For the office. I didn't want to look like I was on my way to work and stopped in for a marriage.

My mother and I reached the point we could dismiss a bridal shop within five minutes of entering.

We spoke with several seamstresses and custom shops about making a dress. None "got it." One woman, a self described better than Vera Wang designer, thought my ideas were "valid" and worth "looking into" but didn't want to tackle the project because she had other projects demanding her attention.

And finally, after a global search, we found the dress.

Or.

Well.

Almost the dress.

I won't bore you with the details.

But.

It was almost perfect. But was insanely expensive. The expense made even more insane because it was only "almost" perfect. The price put it on the "no way" list.

My mother and friends and I continued our search. It always came back to The Almost Perfect Ridiculously Expensive One.

Finally, exasperated and bored and sick of looking at wedding dresses, I returned to the "better than Vera Wang" woman if should would lower herself to changing a dress I'd found which was more than a little shy of perfect. She was intrigued. I gave her some sketches. She made her own sketches. We talked money.

I left, once again hit with my practical logic and brought to my senses before spending ridiculous money on something I would wear. Once.

Then I didn't think about it. I just didn't think about it. It hadn't been consuming me anyway, so I just didn't think about it at all. I would find something, even if at the last minute, there a loads of wedding dresses out there, worse case scenario, I thought, I would just choose the least expensive one which had the fewest details I did not want. Or one of those matronly second time around suit things. It was looking like I was not going to find a dress I really liked anyway, so why bother wasting time, energy and gray matter on hoping/trying to find The One?

Then one weekend I visited my parents.

They had bought The Almost Perfect Ridiculously Expensive Dress.

My mother was as sick of the whole thing as I was, my father was sick of hearing about it, so about the time I just up and stopped thinking about it, they put an end to the madness and ordered the Almost Perfect Ridiculously Expensive Dress.

I was stunned. Not that my parents would just go out and spend an insane amount of money on my wedding dress, but that they would do it behind my back, as a surprise. I mean, it's a wedding dress.

I tried it on. I had lost a few pounds since the first time I'd tried on the sample dress, so the new dress, my dress, fit almost perfectly. During our outings looking for a dress, my mother had learned my measurements to the millimeter.* And knew I'd require extra length (at extra cost, of course). The dress was even better than I'd remembered, and better still in my parents' living room. Was I a princess? No. Did I feel like a princess? I have no idea what a princess feels like so I cannot comment. But I don't think I felt like a princess. Because this was not a princess dress. This was a real dress, a dress of style and substance and incredible fabric and detail. I felt like me in a wedding dress. Which is exactly what I was hoping to achieve.

My mother had made an appointment with the better than Vera Wang woman the next day. We started the day shoe shopping. In 15 minutes I had my bridal shoes. (Oh come on, that was a no brainer for me, you didn't think I'd have a problem with shoes, did you?) We then went to the better than Vera Wang woman. Dress, shoes and sketches in hand, we marched in and began the modification process. I had to leave my dress with her, which turned out to be more of a wrench that I could have ever imagined - I was already feeling mother hawk-like over the dress.

I returned to visit my parents a few weeks later. I was to review the modifications and have my final fitting.

Let's just say: It was beyond anyone's wildest dreams of The Perfect Wedding Dress for Me. This woman truly is better than Vera Wang. She got it. She got me. She did it. I loved it. I really, really loved that dress. I had true, real, emotional love for that dress. When I appeared in it in her little sun room/office/show room, my mother cried. Better than Vera Wang wiped away a tear. No one said anything for a really long time. It got awkward. I thought maybe I looked ridiculous or hideous or didn't do the dress justice. I got upset. The whole sow's ear, silk purse thing. My mother and better than Vera Better than Vera took a bunch of photos. We paid her and I threw in a generous tip.

We took the dress to my parents' house. My sister and nieces came over for a viewing. My mother called in a few of the neighbors and served tea and sandwiches.

I put on the dress, with my shoes and my mother's bridal veil. My mother helped me as I gingerly made my way down to their living room for the debut.

"Trillian, it's perfect. It's you." they all exclaimed with teary eyes. My nieces, still young, unjaded and in possession of the ability to be awed, were afraid to get too near me for fear of what they might do to the dress. "Aunt Trillian, you look better than Barbie!" one of them exclaimed. (Which became the family line. "I saw Trudy at the market last week." "Oh yeah, how is she?" "Fine." "How does she look?" "Not better than Barbie...")

Many photos were taken. One of the photos of my father and I turned out really well. My mother even got an enlargement and a special frame and put it on her dresser. She gave me one and I taped it to my closet door.

Yeah. I know it doesn't sound like me.

You didn't know me then. That was back when I was happy and optimistic and, well, really swutting happy and excited about the future and spending my life with HWNMNBS. In my mind was already Mrs. HWNMNBS and I was thrilled not by the fact that I'd done it, that I'd become a Mrs. but because I was so excited about our life and future together, Mr. and Mrs. HWNMNBS. And that dress and those shoes and that veil would be the symbol that we were committed to each other and our future. That's why weddings and wedding dresses matter. Symbolic? You bet. Necessary? Oh yes.

I couldn't wait for the wedding so that HWNMNBS could see it.

But of course he never did.

Sometimes I ridiculously waste gray matter wondering if we'd made it to the altar if he would have liked it and if he would have seen the tear inducing vision my family and friends saw when they viewed me in it.

He probably wouldn't have liked it. He probably would have found something to not like about it. Or several somethings. He probably had a very different vision in mind.

After all, that's why he dumped me.

He had a very different vision in mind.

There is no dress in the world which is going to make me pretty enough for him to want to marry me. Sow's ear/silk purse.

And that is the lesson I learned the hard way and why I am sharing this with the world. A pretty woman can wear a hideous dress on her wedding day and still manage to be a vision of marital symbolism. Ugly women are still ugly women, no matter how pretty the dress.

I should have just bought the ugliest, cheapest rag we saw on the first trip to find a wedding dress. It simply does not matter how perfect or nice or beautiful the dress is. If the bride who's in it doesn't measure up to it's quality, it doesn't matter. In fact, she'll bring the dress down. You've seen those "same dress, different women" photos meant to teach women to dress for their bodies, not for trends. A less than pretty woman uglies up a dress just by wearing it. It's the same dress on the pretty woman who looks stunning, but the perception is completely different on the less than stunning woman.

And so it was that I rang my parents and said, "I'm going to put the dress on eBay and see if it sells. Valentine's Day is coming up, there will be a new crop of newly engaged women looking for dresses."

And with that I became another pathetic statistic.

A "Wedding Dress for Sale, New, Never Worn" statistic.

Yep.

That's me.

Seeing it in print, or well, on eBay, was the thing I thought I couldn't do.

That's it. Show's over folks. Go home.

I knew it would stir up a lot of issues for me. (It did.)

I knew my mother would be upset. (She was. And yes, I do hate HWNMNBS for that, I hate him for hurting my parents and for making them go through this, especially because of everything's that happened since.)

I set a high reserve. It was met on the first day.

This surprised me.

Yes. It's a beautiful dress.

Stunning, actually.

Tear inducing.

Made by a very exclusive label.

With custom modifications by a woman who has since garnered a very haute reputation.

But who buys a wedding dress on eBay?

A lot of women.

I wouldn't want the bad karma.

But apparently a lot of other women are not worried about a dress with emotion and karma so bad tied to it that an entire league Gods and Goddesses couldn't bless it and change it's karma.

A bidding war between 28 hopefuls broke out two days prior to the close of the auction.

The last half hour bidding can only be described as a frenzy.

The dress did well.

A very excited and eager young bride to be was jubilant about being the winning bidder. She sent me gushing and enthusiastic emails about the dress.

I had a nice sum in my PayPal account. Which I sent to my parents, yes, every penny. About half what the dress and modifications cost, but not a bad rate of depreciation considering the normal going rate for a wedding dress.

I made the trip to my parents' house to box the dress and ship it out to it's new owner.

Turns out the bride and I are the same shoe size so I threw in the wedding shoes for her. Just in case she might want those, too. It's not as if I'm going to have occasion to wear them. Might as well at least give them to someone who is actually getting married.

I waited for my father to take my mother to her round of doctor and therapy appointments to do the deed.

I did it fast. I knew I couldn't spend more than a second more than necessary on this project. Swoop it out of the closet, dash it downstairs, into the car and drive at break neck speed to the UPS store.

I thought once I got it out of the house, once it wasn't "home" I would be able to disassociate myself from it. It was no longer mine. A happy, jubilant bride to be was waiting for her dress, and I was on a mission to get it to her. I had to force myself to think of it as her dress. I focused on the image of my PayPal balance after she paid for the dress. I hoped that would make me think of this as merely a financial transaction.

It didn't. I cried all the way to the UPS store. I cried in the UPS store. The guy working in the UPS store probably wished he hadn't offered to work that day to earn a little extra money for his kid's birthday presents. He helped me carefully pack it in a box seemingly custom made for it. I paid the fee and ran out of the store.

I sat in the car sobbing for a really long time. A really, really long time.

Oh yes, that dress is symbolic, all right. Symbolic of my failure. And because of that, I know ultimately it's good that it's finally gone. I know common sense and practical psychology point to the logic and health in doing what I did.

But.

It was rough.

A lot of people will say, "It's just a dress!"

And that's exactly the frame of mind I am trying to get.

I didn't notice the local cop in the parking lot, stopping for lunch at Subway. Holding his half glass of soda in one hand, he rapped on the fogged up window, "Everything okay ma'am?"

"Yes" snork, "yes, I'm fine."

He lingered for a few seconds than got in his patrol car. And slowly pulled away, watching me the whole time. (It's a really, really swutting small town and I think he is the brother of the girl who was second chair clarinet and vice president of French club. What was her name...Andrea? Angela? Angie? Amy? Andy. Andrea. Andy. That's it. Andy. I wonder if Andy's married. I wonder if she's spent her life being second and vice-everything.

When I finally returned to my parents' house my parents were home. No one said anything. We just sat in the kitchen silently, pretending to drink tea. It felt like when you return home after a funeral. My mother in her wheelchair, my father working his Commit lozenge over and over which would normally annoy the crap out of me.

He finally feebly broke the silence, "Why don't you take a vacation with some of the money?"

"Naw. I don't have much time off and I'm really busy at work anyway. Thanks, though."
My mother smoothed a napkin over and over with her good hand. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

I have never hated anyone more than I hated HWNMNBS at that moment.

A few days later, back at work, I got an email from the bride-to-be who will be wearing a lovely dress at her wedding.

"I knew it was a nice dress, but I never imagined the fabric could be that great. (sumptuous is the word you're searching for, sweetie) And the beads are really nice. (They're pearls and Czech glass, you know, like I wrote in the description?) It fits like it's custom made for me! We must be exactly the same size and height except I'm going to have to take in the top a little, I'm not as lucky as you up there! (Yeah, lucky me.) And the shoes, what a surprise! Thank you! They're amazing! I've never had any shoes that nice! I never thought heels that tall could be so comfortable! Thank you!"

"Do you want to see photos of the wedding?" she innocently asked in her naive pre wedded euphoric the world is one big fluffy cloud mental state.

I know she was just being nice and thoughtful. In her own, deluded, naive, romance haze induced way.

Why would anyone want to see what was to be their dress for their happiest day on someone else on their happiest day instead?

Wanted to say:
"Sure. I didn't get to have a wedding or, you know, wedding photos, so please, send me yours. Show me how spectacular you, a complete stranger, look in my dress. Show me how everyone was teary eyed at the vision of you, a complete stranger, in my dress. I'll put it on my fridge. Or maybe pin it to my closet door. It will make the whole thing final and I can just get on with my miserable, lonely life, never worn wedding-dress free."

Instead said,
"No thanks, I'm sure you'll be a lovely bride. I hope you love the dress and you have a long and happy marriage."



*The humiliating side of wedding dress shopping: Nothing is sacred. Nothing. Those dressing rooms are a cross between the Spanish Inquisition, an architect's engineering room and Fear Factor. The women who work in those places can size you up to the last Tic Tac the second you walk through the door, but will whip out the tape measure for the sake of decorum, to make it seem like they don't know your exact measurements or that you'll need the next size up. And they will proclaim loudly in mock surprise, to the entire shop, "You're going to need a two and a half extra inches in the bust" as they wrap their tape of doom around your waist, your hips and your boobs. (and they all have icy cold hands) While leaving one dressing room, I heard two women discussing my boobs. "No, Marge, they're real, I saw them..." the woman who measured me and compromised my modesty with her tape measure and "assistance" in trying on the gowns said to another shop worker. Yeah. Good times.

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2:11 PM

Friday, February 25, 2005  
The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials.
That's a Chinese proverb. Young grasshopper must face trials and friction on the road to perfection and polish. Whatever. I never said I wanted to be perfect. Or polished, for that matter.

You know how life is never what you think it will be? There you are, trying to quietly make your way through your own miserable existence, when suddenly blam! the unforeseeable happens. And if you're me, then, blam! another unforeseeable thing happens, and then another, and will, in my case, then probably one or two more. Just because, you know, the Universe loves nothing more than to mock me, test me and put me through things which, well, you know, a lot of other people aren’t put through. Friction and trials.

You know, oh poor me and all that. Blah, blah, blah.

Whatever.

I don’t go around thinking “oh poor me.” My life has always been too much this way for me to waste any time thinking “oh poor me.” There’s typically too much which has to be done or dealt with for me to waste a second on self pity.

And there are always people in much worse situations.

And I steadfastly believe self pity will cause nothing but more trouble.

And I don't like other people wasting time thinking, “oh poor Trillian.” Or the other reaction, rolled eyes and “what now?”

It’s just life.

But after the last few weeks I am wondering if maybe there's something to be gained in self pity. No, not the “oh poor me” type of self pity, but the “good swutting Belgium, enough already! I’ve proved myself time and again, now leave me alone and go bother someone else” type of self pity.

Perhaps, the latter cry of exasperation and hostility will send a stronger, louder and more appropriate message to the Universe than “oh poor me” or “oh all right then I'll just deal with this, too.”

Yes. I’m wondering if I’m not angry enough.

Oh be quiet. I don’t walk around in a state of tyranny and disgust. I vent here so that in real life I can keep calm and nonplussed in, well, the real world. If the real world were all nice and cozy like the blog world there wouldn’t be any problems, friction or trials now would there? H8ers and all, this is a snug little place where anything is possible. There is always someone, at least one person, who agrees with you and thinks it’s not you, it’s them.

Right.

So.

Anger. Hostility. Rage.

I’ve always thought them to be useless emotions and feelings. Anger hurts everyone and solves nothing.

HWNMNBS always said my problem is that people mistake kindness for weakness.

I never agreed. Besides, what am I supposed to do? Go around being hostile and mean to people? Hardly something I want to do.

But maybe I should.

For instance, when my (needs a new nickname) boss told (yes, told, not asked) me I would be going out of town to represent “us” at a meeting where our company’s business practices were going to be put under scrutiny, some people, other people, people I have known, would have angrily said, clenched fist in air, “You (expletiving) (expletive)! I am not going to do your job for you! You are paid much more than I am, you allegedly have an advanced degree in this, you are the supposed expert, you go and face the music for your own incompetence. I will not be the scapegoat or the smooth it all over nursemaid for your ineptitude!” Instead of my ineffective response of, “That’s not really my area of expertise, boss, I don’t think I can really do us any favors at that meeting.” and then, “Oh, ice fishing, I see, yes, of course, it’s important that you go ice fishing with your husband, of course I’ll fill in for you since I gather all your information and write your reports for you anyway it’s probably just as well I go instead of you.” Logic, sarcasm and passive aggression are completely lost on her.

Her little brain is unable to comprehend the anger and hostility in sarcasm and passive aggression. It’s simply not a language spoken in her cozy little world.

And when the doctors and hospital administrators said “Your mother’s insurance won’t pay for further treatment, even though she would greatly benefit from at least a few more weeks.” Some people would have said, “You (expletiving) (expletive)! You will not jeopardize my mother?s health unless you want to pay an increased malpractice insurance premium, because I’ll sue you for withholding treatment which is malpractice, buster!” Instead of my response: “She’s finally making real progress because the treatments are working, so you are terminating her from the program?! That makes no sense! The treatments are working, you say she needs another month of treatments, so why would you abruptly stop them? If it wasn’t working, then I could sort of understand it might be a ‘waste’ of time, money and resources. But it’s working, she’s doing better, why are you punishing her for making progress?” and “Oh, not punishment. Insurance claims. She has to relapse before you can continue treatment. Of course. That makes perfect sense.” Logic, sarcasm and passive aggression are completely lost on hospital administrators.

And when the new HR guy called me into his office to tell me the already approved paperwork for tuition reimbursement for a new academic adventure I was going to take was being revoked and declined because I already have necessary degrees to do my job and by the way, I’m too white and too educated already and part of the problem in America, that I embody hundreds of years of repression, and I should be ashamed of what I represent and how dare I request tuition funding? I’d be taking money away from a much more deserving person, other people, people I know, would have said, “You (expletiving) (expletive)! That’s reverse discrimination! I am an employee and therefore entitled to the academic tuition and personal development money like every other employee! See you in court!” instead of my response of, “Oh, yes, of course, that white suppressor business. I always forget I’m white. I guess it doesn’t matter that I’m first generation American and my first relative to set foot on American soil didn’t do so until 1932, the rest not until after The War, though, does it? And just how many people in this company applied for the tuition money? One? Yes. I see. It’s not that I’m literally taking money away from someone else, it’s ‘figurative.’ Well, okay then, I better get back to my office so I can do my job, figuratively.” Logic, sarcasm and passive aggression are completely lost on HR people.

Yes. I think the people who get angry, really angry, and do not try to accept life as presented by the idiots, narrow minded, self serving people of the world are the ones who end up getting what they want.

I never thought that was true. “Those angry people, who are justifiably angry, are making a huge fuss and raising their blood pressure and not really solving anything because they’re fighting losing battles,” thought I. But now I wonder. Perhaps it is the squeaky, annoying, hostile wheel which gets fixed. Because the nice, even tempered, logical, sarcastic wheel isn’t getting fixed. It’s falling into a state of complete disrepair.

Or, perhaps anger is a natural by-product of regret.

Yeah. I’m still trying to deal with that first regret of mine. Not doing a very good job of it. Regret doesn’t suit me, I guess. Or at least not yet. I’m having trouble getting over the first hurdle: If I regret ever meeting him, then how can I, why do I miss him so much? It doesn’t make sense. Logic, sarcasm and passive aggression are completely lost on regret. I guess. This is all new to me. I’m still trying to figure it out.

9:15 AM

Monday, February 14, 2005  
heartnegate
Ooops. Fixed the link. Sorry. Scintillating reading behind the negator.

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10:04 AM

Saturday, February 12, 2005  
Tom Sizemore failed a drug test. Okay. Not really newsworthy. Who's Tom Sizemore again? Who cares? Doesn't matter. Why is this posted here?

Just observing and reporting, folks. I haven't done a Saturday OMG Check Out This Site post in ages. Slow news day yesterday led to a surprisingly detailed account of Mr. Sizemore's drug problems in my newsfeed list. It was there I found a product and its website which I feel compelled to share. Perhaps I'm the last to know, as is often the case with me and certain websites. Apologies if this is the stuff of old internet spam. But. If you haven't heard of The Whizzinator, or visited www.thewhizzinator.com, you might want to have a look. I was vaguely aware there are ways and products to aid those in need of help passing a drug test. (We had a little situation at the office a few years ago, if that coworker had known about The Whizzinator...)

I have to hand it to fine and funny folks at The Whizzinator. Their website has the effect of a Simpson's episode. It's schlocky enough to be a joke, but they are keen marketers. They know their target market. And they've done a great job targeting them. Way to go, Whizzinator. I don't agree with your product but you get my vote for Unwittingly Great Internet Marketing Scheme of the Year. (UGIMSY, no, there's no trophy or anything. Just a tip of the Tigers cap from me to you. Well done.)

And am I the only sophomoric one chortling over Tom Sizemore being busted for using a fake penis?

Do I need to get out more?

7:50 AM

Tuesday, February 08, 2005  
trillianbookcover

marisolbookcover

A young girl living in a dangerous West side Chicago neighborhood has recently caused a lot of controversy, publicity and outrage because of her move to a safer neighborhood.

I swear it's not me, and I swear I have nothing to do with it other than buying my nieces occasional overpriced goods from the marketing phenomenon known as American Girl.

However.

The similarities are, well, hmmm. Not startling. Not troubling. Not scary. Not poignant. Well. Maybe poignant. Yeah, okay, let's go with poignant.

Some of the people in her old neighborhood have expressed disappointment over her decision to leave the old neighborhood. Mine, too. I've heard comments like, "Fine, go on then, go be a yuppie." and "There is a lot of crime around your place, but it's like that everywhere in the city..." "If you move, you forfeit the game, you let them win." Those are a few of the less hostile comments made regarding the decision to move.

She lives on the near West side. Her neighborhood, while experiencing a rise in property values and the emergence of the loft condo phenomenon, is plagued with gangs, prostitution, drugs and all the crimes affiliated with those: Robberies, muggings, assaults, rapes and murders. Sound familiar? It does to me. Her parents are hard working immigrants who want to give their daughter every possible opportunity for a nice, safe life. Yeah, I know, sounds familiar, too. But it doesn't end there.

We even look, well, a bit alike. She's got very fetching honey blonde highlights in her long wavy dark hair, freakishly large dark eyes (okay, hers are brown), bucked teeth (I bet she'll go to the orthodontist once she's settled into her nice new neighborhood, Marisol sweetie, do it, go, get those teeth straightened. You won't regret it.) she's got kickin' style including a sexy little purple wrap top and cropped cargos, stripy scarf, carries an iPod and what darling shoes! Topping it all off is her pet cat, Rascal, who's furry and white with brown and gray highlights and big fluffy dark tail.

Here's her publicity photo.
marisolinthecity

Hey. Wait a minute. Now I'm getting a little um, well. Yeah. Freaked out. As I look down at my wrap top and cropped cargos and click a new song on my iPod while I dangle my stripy scarf for my fluffy white and brown and gray cat to play with. After kicking off my funky shoes from a long evening getting my highlights touched up. I was laughing at the similarities about the West side and bad neighborhood and the cat and all that, but when I wrote out just how similar Marisol and I actually look, it hit a little too close to home and sort of scared me.

I sent a friend the photo and broo ha ha story about Marisol.

Her response? "Expletiving expletive, Trillian, that's you! The story's the same and she (expletiving) looks like you before braces! Okay, she's not so, um pasty pale, but other than that Trill, she's expletiving you! Expletiving expletive, Trillian, Mattel is expletiving using you, your story and your style. You need to expletiving sue them for something."

Her husband found the similarities "creepy."

Frankie and Benjy sent me an mp3 of Oh! You Great Big Beautiful Doll.

My brother has not relented with email jokes about American Girl for a week. (This is a big brother dream come true, enough fodder for teasing to last several weeks if not months.)

My niece thinks it's cool and wonders if I'm going to take dance classes.

If you haven't heard about Marisol, you can read about her and the controversy in which she is embroiled here.

Or you can read my version here. (Apologies to Brendan McCarthy of the Chicago Tribune, whose article on Marisol ran in the the February 2 edition of the newspaper and can be found here.)

Girl's blog riles West side
71 inches tall, Trillian has raised a ruckus. In the blog the working girl moves from the West side to the Gold Coast.

It's usually a cause for celebration when a local girl becomes a national star. But that's not the case for a rosy-cheeked girl from the near West side of Chicago at the center of a controversy about the city's predominantly Mexican-American Wicker Park neighborhood.

Trillian, a character on the popular Blogger, seems innocent enough. But several phrases from the archives that accompany the 71-inch doll have riled some West side activists.

On the blog, Trillian moves with her cat from Wicker Park to the Gold Coast after she declares that it is "time we get out of this neighborhood."

In another passage, Trillian tells her readers that the neighborhood is dangerous, and that it is "no place for [her] to live." She mentions drug deals, dodging spent condoms on the sidewalks and gang violence.

An arts coordinator at one of the local galleries, speaking on condition of anonymity, said she and her friends are outraged by the portrayal of the neighborhood on the blog. "When I learned of this girl's excerpts, I was hurt. I had some drinks with friends and told them: `She has it all wrong.' It seems that the doll is getting away from her artist/musician/poet lifestyle and trying to assimilate somewhere else," She previously worked with Trillian on a fundraiser, and bought one of Trillian's paintings several years ago. The arts coordinator grew up in near-by Lincoln Park, where many of her relatives still live. Like the story line of Trillian, she and her family live in the better part of town too--namely River North.

A bartender, who represents Wicker Park, said the blog is misrepresenting the neighborhood.

"I applaud the blog for putting together an artist/working girl doll, but they made a mistake," he said. He plans to meet with Trillian, who writes the blog, to discuss the issue.

A blog spokeswoman, countered that a handful of people have taken passages from the blog grossly out of context. "We are very disappointed in the current reaction because it is very far off from the story's intent. When people read the story in its entirety, they will see that Trillian's community is vibrant and colorful ... She even calls it the `a convenient and sometimes cool place to live.'"

In the blog Trillian is upset because she must leave her memories and neighborhood behind, and she is worried when she doesn't spot any local pubs or galleries in her new neighborhood.

Trillian's move is an important part of the blog's drama. She is prompted to move to the Gold Coast so she can have a safe place to live, Lake Michigan at her doorstep and the opportunity to walk to and from work without fear of being mugged, raped or harassed for money, which is "not necessarily inherent in West side neighborhoods," she said.

Throughout the blog, Trillian questions her decision to move, weighs the choices for shelter and struggles with selecting an apartment and neighborhood because of the things she likes about what had been her West side home for several years.

As of Monday night, she had received several emails complaining about the blog and its portrayal of the neighborhood.

Several West side residents said they aren't ready to boycott the Trillian blog.
Ukrainian Village resident and long time reader Taffy Grappling, isn't worried about plummeting property values or misconceptions because of Trillian's blog.

In fact, Taffy wants to follow in the doll's footsteps. "I'm trying to move to a better neighborhood, too," Taffy said. "Parts of Wicker Park are really bad ... I know people who have died in this neighborhood because of gangs."

Taffy said she would likely continue to read the blog. Her neighbors should be proud the doll originates from their 60622 ZIP code, she said.

Trillian, who posts on blogger from Chicago, writes for free. She is a longtime blogger and will be posting off and on until the words in her head go away, the company said. Trillian's appearance was a tightly held secret until the unveiling of the Marisol doll.

9:25 AM

Friday, February 04, 2005  
Along with my monster headache, yes, I still have it, and frankly, I’m hoping it is an inoperable tumor because I’m better off dead anyway, I’ve come down with a terrible case of HWNMNBS. This is one of the worst bouts I’ve had in a long time and it’s all but debilitated me.

Love: The ugly underbelly.

I never could get the hang of Thursdays...
Or, why is everyone always picking on me?
Or, why do I bother?
Or, if this is just life, I’ll just decline, thanks anyway.
Or, Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, think I’ll go eat worms

It’s days like these when I really, really, really long for a very different life and for things which might have been.

Long, trying, tiring days at work with an idiot boss, demanding clients, surly coworkers (I’m going to go Postal on TEETH very soon and that both scares and pleases me.), headache which will not go away, friends with serious problems, my own problems and issues...this is when being in a good, solid relationship with someone you trust and love, someone who reciprocates that trust and love, is really helpful. This is what it’s all about. Someone who understands and cares and is there for you, to just be with you, to talk it out or quietly just be together makes all the difference at the end of this sort of day. I know because I had someone like that once. It was nice. It made the rest of life tolerable. A little oasis from the world, a place to lick your battlewounds, gain strength and courage to get up and get back out there, and once there, the smug safety and security of knowing you have someone who loves and cares about you, someone who understands and will be there for you when yet another difficult day hits.

It’s not about flowers or exotic trips or lavish gifts or, well, anything being heavily marketed for Valentine’s Day as romantic. (Something else causing a lot of stress in my life and making me hope I have an inoperable brain tumor) It’s just having someone who cares and someone to share a laugh.

It’s days and times like these when I miss him most. Because he used to get it. I never had to explain any of it. He knew when I needed to talk about it or laugh about it or talk about something else or just be quiet.

I don’t have regrets. I make the best choices I can in any situation, I try to be informed and look at options from all perspectives and then make a decision which is not always the best for me but the best choice for the situation or, you know, the greater good. Yeah. I’m swutting Mother Theresa.

The good thing about that course of action in every choice making situation is that you eliminate guilt and regret. You know you did the best thing for the situation based on what you knew at the time. You don’t spend time looking back on the past microexamining every detail about what you did and what you could have done and what might be different now had you chosen a different course of action.

The bad thing about that course of action in every choice making situation is that you sometimes end up wishing you’d been more selfish or not been so swutting “good.”

Which is a different kind of regret which isn’t really a regret at all.

It’s more of a self hatred thing.

I have always contended that I do not regret meeting and allowing myself to get involved with HWNMNBS. I love him, yes, present tense, even now, even after all this time and all that's happened and all that he's said and done to me. I hate that I can't stop loving him. I hate that I don't hate him. I hate that I'm ugly. I hate that I'm not good enough for him. But. I have no regrets about those things. I can't change any of those things, those are things beyond my control. I gave him the best I could, I put all of myself into making it work, I invested all of my heart, brain, body, soul, time, money and effort in him and us. I let him in my life and allowed myself to be vulnerable. And I've paid the price for that. Retail. Not on sale. No discount. Full, marked-up, high street retail price.

I’m sick of dating. I’m sick of trying to move on. I’m sick of knowing what and how I want to feel about and with someone, and not feeling those things with anyone. I’m sick of being judged. I’m sick of not being good enough. I’m sick of being a loser. I’m sick of being alone. I’m sick of missing him. I’m sick of trying to pretend I can get over this. I’m sick of deluding myself that I have any chance at any sort of a real relationship with any other man. I'm sick of hoping there's one man out there who will want to be with me regardless of my looks and, erm, um, baggage.

If I could have one do-over in my life, it would be the precise moment, and I know exactly when it was, the date, time (to the exact minute) and place, in which I decided to follow my heart and get involved with him.

If I could go back, I would ignore him. I wouldn’t look in his eyes. I wouldn’t listen to his words. I wouldn’t hear him laugh. I wouldn’t feel his hand in mine. I wouldn’t let him hold me. I would simply ignore him and walk away.

I hate that it has finally come to this, that I have reached this point. Because the times with him were the best in my life. I’ve never laughed more, never felt so alive, and have never been happier than I was with him. And I hate that I wish those times never happened because I know it’s not right to feel that way. If I were a better, stronger, more emotionally stable and well adjusted person I wouldn’t be going through this. I could smile at the good memories, learn from the bad ones and move on to the next one.

But I’m weak and sentimental and I love him and I miss him. And that really swutting hurts. A lot. Lots of a lot. I’m miserable and most of all, I’m lonely without him.

And so, today, I am making the milestone proclamation:

I wish I’d never met him.

I regret all of it.

Yes. She Who Has No Regrets, has finally achieved a milestone moment in her life.

Her first regret.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think my first regret would be HWNMNBS. Oooh, look how I've grown. Look how my life has changed. Look at all I've learned about myself.

I'm not saying I like having a regret. I don't. I don't like it one bit. But. There it is. I have one. A big swutting, horrible hornet's nest of a regret. This is a new feeling for me and it's going to take some time for me to get used to it.

This is going to sneak through the editorial board, from my HWNMNBS-Free zone, no less, because I’m really swutting suffering and I’m not sure if I can or will post for a while. If I can, I will. Take a look around the archives if you need a Trillian fix, I’ll try to pull out a few highlights.

1:26 PM

Wednesday, February 02, 2005  
Supersize This
I've been to Brobdinag.

No I am not delusional from an overdose of acetaminophen and codeine. Well. I might be. But I have been to the closest thing to Brobdinag those of us who are not Gulliver will get. I have a mega headache, going through acetaminophen like, well, like it's really good candy, and Bone is out of town and needed me to run some errands for him in his car, and there it was, looming on the horizon: Costco. Where I knew I could snag a two thousand count bottle of Tylenol for the price of a 500 count bottle at regular stores.

I have a love/hate relationship with Costco. Yes, they carry some really good stuff and really low prices. But. The whole jumbo economy family size thing is not exactly convenient or necessary for a single women who lives in a compartment. I learned something about myself on this recent trip to Brobdinag: Now that I'm in an elevator building I'm slightly less able to ignore the lure of 50 pounds of apples. When I lived in my old place, all I had to do to break the Big Savings! spell was to envision myself dragging jumbo economy family sized anything up four flights of stairs.

I admit I am weak willed at the thought of saving money or a good bargain. (hey, I am Scottish and single and do I seem like I'm made of money?) This makes me prime target for Brobdinag's, I mean Costco's, special brand of marketing. They don't actually have marketing. Per se. They don't advertise apart from a few occasional direct mail or newspaper inserts. Their marketing relies heavily on word of mouth and company enrollment. That's how they first got me. We got a free membership through work. Well. We had to pay for the membership but they gave us a $50 gift certificate upon buying a membership, so basically, Costco paid me $5 to join. How could I resist?

And you know what they say. Once you go warehouse club, you'll never go back. It's true. The jumbo size seduces you, awes you and satisfies you like no regular grocery can. It's a little scary at first, seems a little out there, what will your friends and neighbors think? I actually hid the fact that I had a membership, I was embarrassed and ashamed that I would stoop to that level. It seemed so, so, suburban. But now I'm out and proud. I've even converted a few friends and family members to swing my way. When I go to a "regular" grocery, in the back of mind I'm thinking, "it's a better deal at Costco." It does spoil and change you.

There is a seduction. The whole experience is very cleverly engineered. Do not be fooled by their bare bones appearance. That appearance serves two functions: 1) It's cheap and easy for them, 2) it fools you. Once you're inside the confines of the warehouse club (which should be the first clue something's amiss - it's a warehouse) it's very disorienting. You lose all sense of normal consumption needs. It's exactly like going to Brobdinag. Everything's proportionally big. The ceilings are extraordinarily high. There are no windows. This is intentional. If you could see outside to get a site line perspective on the parking lot, you'd realize that the gallon sized vat of olives enticing you is so large it's going to have to ride home in the passenger seat of the car. The shopping trolleys are oversized, proportionally, so when you thunk the 48 can case of baked beans in there there's: a) room for tons (literally) more stuff, and b) it doesn't seem like way too many cans of beans for a person who is not a cook at a state penitentiary to be purchasing. (I always feel like Lily Tomlin in the shopping scene in the Incredible Shrinking Woman wheeling the trolley around Costco. And I'm tall. I cannot even imagine how disorienting this experience must be for average heighted women.) Proportionally, 450 fl. oz. of laundry detergent doesn't seem like much when it's shelved next to 75 lb. bags of gerbil food. A mere case of Veuve Clicquot makes you wonder if just one case will be enough when it's placed next to birthday cakes big enough to be cut into 100 generous servings.

You roll the enormous trolley around, snatching up all the great over sized bargains. They have everything. Bicycles, cheese, booze, office supplies, clothes, computers, televisions (wide screened, of course), refrigerators (family sized, of course) live lobsters (I avoid the whole meat area, I strongly suspect they have livestock milling about somewhere in there, too. I see people with what appears to be entire sides of beef in their Costco trolleys. A = Live Lobsters, = B = Dead Lobsters in Trolleys, then by comparison, B = Enormous cuts of beef in trolleys, = A = Livestock), toilet paper, furniture (big, seriously massive furniture), condoms (I'm curious about a guy who has to buy condoms at Costco, is it the need for size or quantity which sends him there?), caskets, (I've only seen them online, so I'm not sure if they're economy sized, too, big enough for the whole family. Or available only in multi-packs) And even recently a Picasso. Yes. Real bona fide original Picasso was sold at Costco.

It's a merchandise carnival. And all those enormous sizes and quantities. And all those sample areas. They have all those people cooking and baking and brewing up goodies to try before you buy. This is not because Costco are great hosts or that they are concerned you might get hungry or thirsty while you shop. All part of the plan, my friends, all part of the plan. Because most of us will have a moment of insecurity and doubt before purchasing a jumbo sized package of anything we've never tried. It's one thing to buy a can of soup and not like it. It's another to buy 48 cans of soup and not like it. We might just roll that big trolley right past the display, admonishing it with, "eh, too much of an unknown, too much of a risk" if it weren't for the in store samples. "Here! Try one! See? It's good, really it is! Buy two cases!" This also serves as a way to entice people into buying something they would never otherwise purchase. I'm a vegetarian. Once, in a Costco far, far away, they were doling out samples of cute little salmon puffs. All the people trying them were oohing and ahing and grabbing up economy sized packages of the things. Caught up in the frenzy, I bought a box, too. So that I'd have something on hand to offer my carnivore guests. I served those things for months. Another smart move on Costco's part, they have a lot of frozen food which you can keep for up to six months in your freezer! And yes! They sell freezers! Big ones! Pick one up on your way to the check-out!

The check-out. Ah, the check-out. The moment of truth in most stores. But in Brobdinag, erm, Costco, the delusion continues. Still under the spell and seduction, I always find myself looking at the contents of other peoples' trolleys. I always see stuff in other peoples' trolleys I either: a) didn't see while shopping and want, or b) wonder what the swut they're going to do with that much of that. "Crazed, dazed and super economy size brainwashed victims," I'll tut-tut as I plunk my 40 can case of baked beans and case of Veuve Clicquot on the check-out conveyer belt. Also proportionally huge and heavy duty. Look under the check-out conveyer belt sometime - the mechanics rival anything Henry Ford could have imagined.

They don't have grocery bags, only boxes leftover and hastily cut into what is supposed to be carrying shaped and sized cases. But they're never sized or shaped to easily carry. They claim this is ecologically friendly and also helps keep their costs, and ultimately their prices, low.

These are lies.

If they offered grocery bags we would come to our senses at the checkout and return items which would not fit into a grocery bag to the shelves before purchasing most of the items.

So the first slap of reality hits doesn't hit you until you've paid your money (and look at your savings!), had your receipt examined and highlighted (I have no idea why they really do this other than to make us feel, well, I'm not sure) and you get to your car.

You see a lot of SUVs at warehouse clubs. And moving vans. Do these people shop at warehouse clubs because they have over-sized petrol guzzling vehicles, or do they have over-sized petrol guzzling vehicles because they shop at warehouse clubs?
The rest of us, who either own, borrow, rent or ride in regular cars, spend an hour in the parking lot trying to fit the six items we purchased into the car. "But I didn't buy that much...I normally fit a month's worth of groceries in here...four of us went on a three week cross country antique buying trip in this car and had room to spare...it's just one jar of olives..." If you can tear yourself away from your personal space and organizing dilemma, take a look around the parking lot. The same scene is being played out in cars across the lot. Arguments and even outright fights among spouses and friends are common. "What the Hell are you going to do with 80 rolls of toilet paper?" "What do you mean it's 'a good deal?' We don't even have a dog!" "I don't care if it is your membership, this is the last time I'm bringing you here! Get your own car!" Ahem. That last one hit a bit close to home.

I was strong on my last trip to Brobdinag. I went in for a jumbo size of Tylenol, and I came out with a jumbo size of Tylenol.

And a big jug of laundry detergent. And a bulk pack of CD-Rs. And two Gregory Peck movies on DVD. (Yes, even their swutting movies are in multi-packs.) Two enormous bottles of ketchup. (but I'm keeping one for a friend, really I am, as soon as he's home from out of town I'm giving him one, really) And that's it. Really.

That's all I could fit in my friend's car.

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2:51 PM

Tuesday, February 01, 2005  
There are 4 billion people on earth. 237 are Scanners. They have the most terrifying powers ever created... and they are winning.

10 Seconds: The Pain Begins. 15 Seconds: You Can't Breathe. 20 Seconds: You Explode.


eh. At least it’s quick.

Day 2: The Pain Continues

Yes. My life is imitating art. But I seem to be stuck at the 10 second mark. Someone please get in touch with David Cronenburg and ask him how one moves on from the pain part to the explode part.

Someone is apparently scanning my brain (could it be my (needs a new nickname) boss? TEETH? The director of my company? A client? Who? Who is doing this to me?! So many plausible possibilities...)

Make. It. Stop. Please. Kill me or leave me alone. The pain! The pain is torturous. I’m no good to you in pain!

(I have a massive headache.)

Shhhh. Don’t talk so loud.

I HAVE A SWUTTING HORRIBLE HEADACHE, SHUT THE SWUT UP.

No. I can’t “just take something and go to bed” because I’m managing 5 projects all of which are on ridiculous deadlines which is why I’ve been at the office 12 hours a day for the past week.

What’s that?

Oh.

Yeah.

I suppose that could have something to do with it.

But I don’t usually get stress headaches.

Here’s a weird coincidence.

This headache hit me around 2:23 AM. At least that’s what time it was when I woke up because my head hurt really badly and I thought maybe I was dead or dying from a head implosion.

When I was getting ready for work I put on my watch and checked the time.

My watch battery apparently died at, you guessed it: 2:23. That’s where the hands were frozen.

I’m not kidding.

I am not superstitious, I don’t believe in ghosts and apart from karma and love, there’s nothing which cannot be explained rationally and scientifically.

But.

It’s kind of weird.

Will you please be quiet? I’m suffering here.

Suffering.

And must the lights be so bright? Must we really have an office bathed in fluorescent lighting? Really? Is it really necessary? I’m sure it’s unhealthy.

Turn down the bass on your radio. Please.

Oh wait. Sorry.

That’s my heartbeat thumping in my head. Why does that happen? Why when you’re sick or have a headache can you hear your heart beating in your head? It seems cruel to me that physiology would allow such a thing to happen in our bodies.

Brain: “I’m bored. I can’t believe she’s actually sleeping. Do do do, da da da, do do do, da da da, they’re meaningless and all that’s true....bored bored bored. Bam thwok, wakka wakka wakka. Bored. Bored. Bored. I wish she’d wake up and do something. This dream she’s having is really stupid. I’m going to send a bunch of really weird images to her maybe that’ll wake her up. Hey, eyes, get ready, I’m sending some really bizarre visuals your way.”

Eyes: “Shut up, we’re trying to get some sleep.”

Brain. “Bored. Bored. Bored. I know! I know how to get her attention! I’m going to give her a headache of Scannerlike proportions. Bwa ha ha.”

Heart: “Brain, that seems pointless and mean, you know better than any of us she needs her rest. Poor back and knees are aching from all the lifting and moving she’s been doing the past few weeks. Poor toe is only now able to bend, and finger four, well, I mean, that’s going to be some scar. And she’s under a lot of stress, what with moving house, a lot of projects at work and that date and HWNMNBS.”

Brain: “Shut up Heart, not everything is about HWNMNBS. Get over it.”

Heart: “I try, but I can’t. I know it would be the best thing for her if I could just, you know, heal, but I’m broken and broken hearts don’t just up and mend themselves, now do they?”

Brain: “Yeah, whatever. I’m sick of that argument. Get over it so she can have some sort of a life. The rest of us shouldn’t be made to suffer just because you’re all broken and fragile. ‘Poor old broken heart, wah wah wah.’ Cry us a river.”

Heart: “You can’t possibly understand. It’s not all rational and logical and explainable. Brain, you’re smart, but when it comes to matters of the heart you don’t know the first thing...”

Brain: “Borrrrinngggggg. Brain to heart: B - O - R - I - N - G. I want to play. Let’s wake her up, really give her something to complain about. I’m thinking headache. I’m thinking Scanners. I’m thinking let’s get the ears in on this, too. You know that thing you do when she’s sick, you know, beat really hard, like pounding, so she can hear it in her head?”

Heart: “Awww, come on Brain, that’s so irritating. It just makes her mad and everyone else suffers because of it, especially you. Remember the last time we did that, when she changed the light bulb and fell, and aw geeze, Brain, no. The poor girl has suffered enough.”

Brain: “Silence! I mean, Noise! I want heart pounding echoing in her head noise now! I command thee!”

Heart: “Oh brother, you’re not pulling rank again, are you? Because I have no problem wallowing in self pity and ignoring you.”

Brain: “I’m telling you for the last time, Heart, pound in her head NOW!!!”

Heart: “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll do it. But I’m not going to enjoy it.”

Brain: “That’s it! That’s it! She’s waking up! Ooooh, good one heart. In the silence of the night that’s very effective. Good job! With the thoughts I'd be thinkin' I could be another Lincoln if I only had a what, people?”

Body parts, in unison, resignedly: "A brain."

Brain: "That's right, a me!"

Yeah. Not a pretty place inside me.

Someone, somewhere in this zip code, is smoking. No wait. It’s smoker’s breath. Someone on this floor has had a cigarette in the past 24 hours.

You know, I guess it’s not really so bad if I close one eye and keep the other eye half closed while propping my neck with my hand which is propped on the desk.

It’s so swutting cold in my office. No wonder I have a headache. It’s probably Legionnaires' disease from the gale force wind masquerading as ventilation in my office. I go home and wrap myself in as many layers of sweats and fleece and blankets as I can so I can warm up from a day in the office. Apparently we’re in training for relocation at the Antarctica office. I can’t even say it’s because we didn’t pay the utility bill because they’re blasting swutting air conditioning. In January. In Chicago.

Pound. Pound. Pound. Beat. Pound. Beat. Pound. Pound. Pound.

Yeah. I’m real cranky when I have a headache. Real cranky.

So, what happens when you exceed the maximum daily dosage of acetaminophen? By a lot. Like if you take two day’s worth in 8 hours? Liver damage? I can live, or die, with that. What if you add a bit of codeine in with that? Not that I would abuse codeine, of course. Because I wouldn’t. The US government doesn’t allow you to have codeine without a prescription anyway. I trust my health to the US government. If they say I can’t have codeine without a prescription, then by George W I will not bring codeine into this country or into my body without a prescription. But you know, I’m just wondering, you know, for curiosity’s sake, what would happen if a person did take codeine after exceeding the maximum daily dose of acetaminophen. Unborn children? Hah! You’re joking, right? I’m so past thinking I might have children one day I’m considering a hysterectomy. I’ve even slacked off worrying about eating enough folic acid. Yeah. I know. Let’s not go down this road right now. I’ve had a pounding, near blinding headache for two days. I don’t care about my liver or unborn children because neither are going to be of any use to me if I can’t work and lose my job and have to live in a box under a viaduct and die of exposure.

Delusional?

Really? It causes delusions? Seriously? That might not be a bad thing.

Especially if I can get a few dates lined up for this weekend.

2:24 PM

 
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