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<





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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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or Search by State

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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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