Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Thursday, March 31, 2005 You've got a methodist coloring book And you color really well But don't color out side the lines Or God will send you to Hell
I went to church.
Yes, really.
I wasn’t struck by lightening and the church didn’t crumble into a burning pit of Hellfire.
It was a “real” church, an organized religion recognized by most Western governments.
It was one of the churches in which I was raised.
Because I was there with my parents.
And, you know, hey, I’m not against church or God. Per se. I’m always open to the idea of spiritual epiphany. Just because it hasn’t happened to me doesn’t mean it can't happen. Right? Okay, those pesky doubts, questions and loathing of hypocrisy of mine. Well. You know. Whatever.
Every time I go to a church I go in thinking, “Okay God, let’s try this again. Maybe this time it will take. Bring on the enlightenment. I could use an epiphany.” This is to a) assuage my guilt over the hypocriticality of me entering a church, you know, a house of God, a God whom I don’t exactly see eye to eye with let alone, you know, believe in; and b) warn whatever deity(ies) which may (or may not) exist that I’m trying, with a mind as open as it can get, to give the whole supreme being thing another go; and c) get in a proper frame of mind for church. A mental warm-up. Stretching those piety muscles I don’t use very often.
I don’t do solemn very well.
Never have.
It’s been an issue.
No, I’m not the one laughing at funerals or making jokes at people praying. I’m not callous. I can do somber. I am somber a lot of the time. Please, did you really think I'm little miss levity? And we all know how sensitive and emotional I can be. Sensitivity is not the issue.
It’s solemnity which is the challenge. I just don’t take myself seriously enough to publicly introspect. That’s what blogs are for.
See? There I go again. That’s exactly the issue.
I can’t even talk about my inability to be solemn.
So church, even without my, um, well, god issues, has always posed a problem for me. Easter, in particular, is difficult for me. I blame my brother for a large portion of my Good Friday/Easter issues. I know. I’m not one to bandy about blame. But this is one case where I disavow myself of some of the responsibility for my swutted up condition human. Jesus, or anyone, being nailed to anything, upset me when I was kid. It upsets me now. And the resurrection bit? A man rising from the dead and rolling away a big huge rock, from in front of a tomb? Scares the bejesus out of me, in fact.
I find it difficult to be solemn when the bejesus has been scared out of me.
So yeah. Church poses a particular solemnity challenge for me.
I look around at all the solemn people, all with that solemn introspective enlightened look on their faces. And I feel every ounce of the big huge hypocrite that I am. Sitting there. Trying to tap into some awareness, reaching out for, well, whatever it is that’s supposed to happen at church, and getting nothing.
Maybe I am of the devil.
Maybe I am soulless.
Maybe I just think if a supreme being wants to come a callin’ on me (or anyone else) it’s not going to be all planned and organized for the 11 AM Sunday service. Well, I mean maybe for people who haven’t actually read the bible and they hear a particular passage for the first time during a Sunday service. But even then that’s more being moved than being personally called upon by a god.
But that may be Satan speaking through me or words spoken by a truly soulless person. I’m willing to admit and accept either.
What the Hell. God and soul haven’t exactly done me any favors. Why not try the Satanic or soulless thing?
Because in spite of my doubts, questions and loathing of hypocrisy, I’m not a bad person. Just potentially soulless. I may not actually possess a soul, but if I do, my soul is not up for auction or possession.
You know. Unless I get a really good offer. Enough money to never have to worry about money, good health for my family, friends and me and a lifetime of John Depp mesmerized by me and at my beck and call ready, eager and happy to oblige all my requests.
I think it’s safe to assume if I have a soul it’s safe from possession or sale.
Right. Solemn. Problem.
The solemnity thing rears its ugly head when I go to church. Maybe if I didn’t feel so swutting hypocritical it would be better. But until I Believe, the hypocrisy thing isn’t going to go away.
Right.
Learn to deal with it then.
Church is important to my parents. I respect them. I respect their religion and the role it plays in their life. (See? Really. I’m not Satanic or evil.) In fact, I yearn for the things they get from their religion and church. I wish I could just get on board with the whole thing. Life would be so much easier. Instant excuse or reason for everything and consequent acceptance. "It's God's will..." But that would be blind faith. Something which I simply cannot bring myself to have. And the crux of my hypocrisy issue.
But this isn’t about my religious issues.
This is about going to church. With my parents.
Their church has undergone some changes. It used to be a very traditional, old fashioned church with all the decorum and levity for which old small town traditional churches are known. But like most old small town traditional churches, the old small town traditional members are dying and taking their money with them. (Okay, you can’t take it with you, but if you’re not alive to generate money, you can’t give it away, so in theory, you actually are taking it with you) In an effort to increase membership (and membership revenue, praise Jesus) this very traditional small town church has gone hip to try to attract new young members (with money at the ready to save their souls).
My parents, and the other long standing members, are not happy about this. My parents are open minded and pretty darned hip, but when it comes to God and Jesus and, you know, the dogma on which they base their actions, they’re quite conservative. There have been some intense meetings up at the church. The minister, not exactly a Spring chicken himself, spent some time visiting other churches. Churches with huge memberships and lots of money and shiny new sanctuaries with state of the art audio visual systems. Yes. He saw the future and realized the future is a maximum capacity convention center where four services per Sunday can be held. He also picked up a lot of way out ideas on that tour. Modern art. Interpretive dance. Poetry slams. Jeans and t-shirts. Christian rock music. All part of the Sunday service.
None of this set well with the existing membership. But they went along with it, what with them being Christians and all. They agreed they needed to reach out to new members, and the bake sales and softball games weren’t doing the trick.
But then it happened. The minister crossed the line. The line which all the old members instantly drew on that fateful Sunday the minister paraded up to the pulpit sans collar.
An assigned representative was sent to the district and eventually regional council to discuss the proposed changes the minister wanted. And the lack of collar. How, they insisted, could there be any respect for a man of the cloth and his flock if he’s not actually wearing the cloth which designates him? Is he ashamed of his collar and what it represents? Oh yes. This was a huge stinking deal. (Hey, it’s a really, really small town. A really small conservative town.)
Eventually some compromises were made. None of the older members are at all happy about the “compromises.” Because they were not compromises. The pipes from the organ were removed from behind the altar to make way for speakers which would make Metallica jealous. There are gigantic screens on the back wall of the alter. Rear projection, of course. During the service the words to the hymns are projected up there because, you know, I guess looking in a hymnal is too difficult. Scriptures are also flashed up there like neon in Tokyo. Slides of miscellaneous inspirational pictures are flashed at five second intervals. Waterfalls. Sunrises. Emaciated Ethiopean kids. Flowers in bloom. A rainbow. Haitian refugees. Puppies. Fluffy clouds. Tsunami ravaged beachfront... Two of the stained glass windows depicting some rather gruesome scenes were removed and replaced with modern (and not modern in a good way) abstract stained glass windows (and not abstract in a good or interesting way. Seriously. I don’t know much about religion, but I know a thing or two about art, and those new windows are bad). There’s a move afoot to alter the altar. The handcarved by a long dead and very talented founding member of the church. The altering includes removing the pulpit. Because the minister strolls around the congregation with his lavaliere mic and battery pack (for hands free operation and genuflection!) pinned and tucked into his sport shirt and sans a belt slacks.
So yes, my parents and their friends have valid points and issues. They donated and raised money (bake sales, craft fairs) for that church. They built it and supported it. They married, christened and buried in that church. When the old roof leaked beyond repair they gave money above and beyond their pledge money to pay for a new one. Ditto the old furnace. They brought countless casseroles to countless potlucks when they could have had a decent meal at home or at a restaurant. And now they’re essentially being told: We don’t respect your idea of church. You and your kind are what’s wrong with church. You must conform to new ways.
Lots of the older and long standing members have left the church. They’ve found other churches which are still old fashioned and traditional. Yes. The irony here is that these old fashioned conservative members are taking themselves and their church dollars to other churches where they will be new members bringing in new money.
My parents are some of the few remaining old members. And that is what they are called by the minister and new members. I heard it myself. Out loud, to their faces, a woman all smarmy beatific smiley and very condescendingly said to my parents, “oh, you’re some of the old members. Nice to see you here today.”
Yeah.
And you wonder why I have a problem with church? And why I do not think (and really hope) God isn’t going to call on me during a Sunday church service?
If this can happen in my parents’ church, it can happen in any church.
You try to be solemn under those conditions.
And so it was that I made my way to a cram packed Easter church service. Showing respect and support for my parents. God and Jesus are really busy on Easter Sunday. I especially didn’t expect “anything” to happen. I was just hoping to get through the thing without being struck by a thunderous clap of lightening through the “new” roof or one of those ugly new windows. (Even though it would have been the best thing to happen to those windows.)
Seated in the pew ahead of us was a woman and two young children. Seated next to the younger of the two children was a couple with three children. I pegged the latter as a church lady the minute she sat down. She of the beatific smarmy smile. And beatific husband in a short sleeved dress shirt and tie (it was Easter, after all). And beatific daughters full of grace and solemnity.
She spoke to my parents. And the people seated in front of her. And even me. (though she sized me up before acknowledging me and only said Happy Easter after my father introduced me as their daughter. She was all like, “oh. I see. That’s okay then.”) But she pointedly ignored the woman and children in front of me, next to her. (Again I ask, “And you wonder why I don’t like organized church services?”)
The woman in front of me seemed okay. In fact, she seemed like the sort of person who was drawn to this church because of it’s old ways. She didn’t paste on a beatific anything. Her children were, you know, kids. They weren’t perfect beatific cherubs full of grace and solemn beatific beauty. The younger of the two, a boy child, was a live wire. He wasn’t bad, he was just all hopped up high on jelly beans, peanut butter eggs and his new Ninja Turtle action figure. (yes. They’re back. In case you didn’t know.) He had been hastily stuffed into his obviously new suit, tie and stiff shoes. Shortly after the service began, the boy had issues. There was an entry pageant worthy of, well, the word pageant. Complete with the most Aryan Jesus I’ve ever seen. Craftily tied to a cross being carried by what I assume were disciples but they looked more like guys who would have rather been home watching the game, any game, than carrying Aryan Jesus tied to a cross up the aisle.
Ten minutes into the service and this attempt at solemnity was over. I whispered to my mum, “I guess Mary Magdalene couldn’t get off work this morning. Busy night. Maybe she’ll catch up with them at the tomb.” This was delivered in my usual really bad timing - just as the loud swell of music suddenly stopped to dramatic silence. My mother giggled. My father did a bad job at stifling a guffaw at a) my usual bad timing and b) the fact that Aryan Jesus was okay but any reference to Mary Magdalene was not. Beatific Woman and her husband turned and gave me dirty looks. Live Wire Boy dropped his Ninja Turtle as he looked to see what the fuss was. He got a dirty look from Beatific Woman, too. As did his mother.
Live Wire Boy was shushed by his mother. He tried. Oh how he tried to be good. But with all that early morning sugar cursing through his veins, he didn’t stand a chance.
And so began the best hour of entertainment I’ve had in ages.
First he fiddled with his tie. It was a clip-on. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. His mother silently reached over and put his hand (still holding the tie) in his lap. He stayed still for about one minute. At which point he attempted to clip the tie to his older sister’s hair. She, good naturedly, played along and didn’t get visibly angry. (She was working on a project in the children's’ ministry activity book given to all kids attending the service - more membership pledge money at work. In my day we had the bulletin and maybe a crayon or pencil from our mum’s purse and we were glad to have that.) I laughed. My mum laughed. Live Wire Boy’s mother laughed. Beatific Woman scowled. Live Wire Boy’s mother pulled the tie from the girl’s hair and set it out of reach.
Live Wire Boy, undaunted, embarked on a fascinating journey through the many pockets of his suit. I saw him pull what appeared to be sunglasses from his inner chest pocket. But I nearly laughed out loud when he turned around and gave me a Risky Business movie poster look over his jazzy dark sunglasses he was now wearing. My mother also laughed at this.
Beatific Woman was not amused.
Oh come on. The sermon hadn’t even started and there was this really awful christian rock ensemble going on about being lifted up led by a woman with a femullet and a guitar player in stone washed jeans. I know. Who let them in here?
See? I really, really can’t do solemn. But then. This wasn’t exactly a solemn atmosphere.
Live Wire Boy, still journeying through his suit pockets, pulled out the ultimate in Easter accessories. Peeps. Classic yellow chick Peeps. Sticky, squishy, marshmallow Peeps. Stuffed into his suit jacket pocket.
Unwrapped.
When those little fingers pulled out five unwrapped yellow chick Peeps from that suit pocket I lost it. I swutting lost it. So did my mum. So did my father. So did the couple sitting next to me.
Fortunately Femullet and Stone Wash were still loudly begging to be lifted up. No one heard us laughing. Out loud.
Except Beatific Woman and her husband.
She did not approve.
She gave Live Wire Boy another scowl.
In his innocence, youth, good manners and sunglasses, he ripped off a Peep and offered it to Beatific Woman.
I’m with you Live Wire, maybe a little sugar will help. Clearly something's missing from her diet.
Beatific Woman of course did not want the Peep. He turned around and offered it to my mum. Who leaned forward as best she could and said no thanks. He offered it to me. Let me tell you, it was tempting. If it weren’t for the navy blue threads stuck to it, I might have taken it. “No, but thanks anyway” I whispered to him. He offered it to his sister. Who accepted it and gobbled it down in two bites. Navy blue threads and all.
But now came the part where I should have left.
The sermon was commencing. Aryan Jesus was off the cross and down with the disciples. Free at last, free at last. Praise Jesus. Wait. I guess Jesus would praise God. I don’t suppose he’d go around praising himself. I wonder if he ever thought WWJD?
See? I am simply not capable of doing solemn.
Show me Jesus, a real Jesus, and I’ll show you solemn.
Meanwhile, back in the pew, Live Wire Boy had taken it upon himself to go for the Peep Stuffing record.
Shortly after the sermon began, he turned to his sister (still wearing the sunglasses) and showed her his prowess with Peeps. The remaining four Peeps had been stuffed into his little mouth. They were bulging out of his cheeks and mouth. There was yellow sugar clinging to his face and lips. And yellow marshmallow Peep stuff frothing out of his mouth.
He looked like he had been bitten by a rabid Peep.
You know how people say, “I nearly died laughing?”
I did. Right there in my parents’ church, during the sermon, the Easter Sunday sermon, I nearly died laughing.
My parents laughed. The people next to us laughed. Live Wire Boy’s mother laughed. His sister laughed.
He then turned to face Beatific Woman. Beatific Woman’s husband broke his reverie and laughed. This made Beatific Woman very angry. She was not amused.
Live Wire Boy could take it no more. He was caught up in his own joke.
He laughed.
And spit Peep onto the pew.
And on Beatific Woman.
It was only a small Peep fragment, a mere cell of a Peep. But she was clearly furious. She’s clearly never had Peep spit on her. Her full of grace beatific children would never do something like that. I’m sure she comes from a home where Peeps were not allowed (work of the devil, you know). Live Wire Boy’s mother had regained composure and was making the girl switch positions so the mother could be between the two children. She leaned over Live Wire Boy with a fresh tissue, apologized to Beatific Woman and offered the tissue. (Live Wire Boy’s new navy blue suit was covered with Peep detritus)
Beatific Woman took the tissue and hmmphed Live Wire Boy’s mother. Who was now trying to wipe the Peep remains from Live Wire Boy. Once she had him as cleaned up as he was going to get, she plopped a Christian Children's’ Activity book on his lap and gave him crayons.
And just watch the fun ensue.
You didn’t really think Live Wire Boy would solemnly follow the directions and accomplish all the activities in the book, did you?
He was quiet. And worked really hard at a project.
And just before the benediction, he unveiled his work.
It was a masterpiece.
The project was a connect the dots color by number combo. He only had two crayons. The color by number required many colors. What’s a kid to do?
He ignored the connect the dots portion of the project.
The end result was supposed to be a big cross on a hill with a sunrise complete with multi colored beams streaming down on lilies on the hill.
At least that’s what I gathered from the work his sister was doing on the same project.
Live Wire Boy had a slightly different interpretation.
His picture depicted a giant green man, possibly the Hulk, possibly a Ninja Turtle, possibly Jesus, with arms raised in classic biceps flex position. There was a very well drawn concept car to the left of the Hulk/turtle/Jesus. And what appeared to be the Easter Bunny (orange) or possibly Bugs Bunny on the right. There was not a sun beam streaming, a cross or a lily in sight.
Yep. Live Wire Boy’s got issues with solemnity, too.
Not that I am seeking vindication in the actions of a five-year-old boy.
Live Wire Boy’s mother viewed the drawing and patted his leg in classic “that’s nice dear” mother fashion. He held it up again, at arm’s length, to admire his work.
Big mistake.
Beatific Woman did not approve. She scowled again. After all, Live Wire Boy had defiled the Lord’s work. On Easter Sunday, no less.
During the closing chorus of the benediction hymn, she started gathering her purse, coat and children. (Those kids didn’t move an inch during the service. I’ve never seen anything like it. They were either dead or sleeping. Whichever the case, if this is the future, given the choice I’ll take Live Wire Boy over The Dead Girls any day. Wouldn’t it be a riot if Live Wire Boy grew up to date a Dead Girl?)
As they waited to filter into the aisle, Beatific Woman took the commotion as an opportunity to loudly berate Live Wire Boy’s mother by making remarks to her husband. You know, because it’s church and everything. Not proper to berate the kid’s mother to her face, decorum, you know, spouting off to your husband loud enough so she can hear is the proper way to chastise the sinner. “Those activity books are there for the children to learn about Jesus.” “...no father around no wonder he’s such a problem...” “...needs better discipline...”
Live Wire Boy’s mother heard every one of Beatific Woman’s remarks. Everyone within a six pew radius heard. Live Wire Boy’s mother began apologizing to everyone. Everyone except Beatific Woman laughed and tousled Live Wire Boy’s hair with a, “That’s okay, it’s Easter, all that candy and no Sunday school...”
As I was helping my mother into the car, Live Wire Boy and his mother and sister walked by. His tie was clipped to the back hem of his sister’s pale pink poncho so it looked like she had a navy blue tail.
Atta boy.
Solemnity is overrated. Who wants to be a Dead Girl?
Guys be warned: Live Wire Boy’s behavior is cute when you’re five. If you are over the age of 12 it’s obnoxious, stupid and annoying.
You've got a methodist coloring book And you color really well But don't color outside the lines Or God will send you to Hell 'Cause God hates war And God hates crime A' but he really hates people Who color outside the lines
You've got a methodist coloring book Don't color outside the lines 'Cause if God doesn't strike you with lightning He'll at least make you go blind Good people get sent to the attic Bad people will roast in the cellar But there's a special kind a' Hell For those who just won't learn to color
God is gracious, God is good So let's color in his book God wears cotton, God wears rayon He can mend a broken crayon God is honest, He don't take payola Let's all thank him for our Crayolas!
You got a methodist coloring book! You got a methodist coloring book!
You've got a methodist coloring book And you color really well But don't color out side the lines Or God will send you to Hell
Never think you have sunk as low as a human can sink. There are always new depths to reach. New pathetic regions to explore. Once you've had your heart torn out and tossed around a few times, things like pride and shame become meaningless. They're just hollow ideals.
I've fought to maintain a shred of dignity with and about HWNMNBS. It's been a struggle. But I've tried. It's one thing to be a woman scorned, another to actually act like the Hell hath no fury kind of scorned woman. I'm not that sort of woman. Though once scorned, I suspect every woman is that sort of woman. But I'm not typically that sort of woman so I try to rationalize and repress those Hell hath no fury feelings. Sometimes I'm pretty good at it. Other times not so much. But generally, you know, given the circumstances, I don't think I've embarrassed myself.
That was, until last weekend.
I'm going to share this with the class for the greater good. Read and learn, people. Do not do what I have done.
I've hit a new low. If there are deeper depths than this, I shudder to imagine them with what little remains of my dignity.
Universe: 1 soul
My Self Esteem: 0 and forfeiting the rest of the season
Gosh Trill, why are you laying your soul to bear like this? Is it really necessary?
Listen to me, please, learn from my mistakes. It's too late for me but you can save yourself.
You know how sometimes something you would normally never consider doing, wouldn't even think of doing, in fact, suddenly, for no good reason, seems like a really good idea? And you know it's not a good idea because you wouldn't normally even think about doing it. But it's compelling and maybe you've had a drink or two and it suddenly seems like a darned good idea.
Okay. Fair enough. That happens to everyone.
But thinking it's a darned good idea and actually following through with a plan and executing that plan are the new depths which should remain uncharted.
And that's what you need to learn.
No matter how good the idea suddenly seems, it's not. Definitely not a good idea.
Because the next day, or in my case, the day after the next day, you realize you actually did something really, really, really, really stupid.
Enter: My newfound emotion and apparent best friend: Regret.
Yep. One leads to another.
Or. One regret leads to behavior which causes more regret.
Geeze Trill, what'd you do? It can't possibly be that bad.
Hooo boy. Yes it is. It's the Mother of All Dumb Things You Always Regret.
Okay. Out with it. Who'd you sleep with?
Ha. If only...
No, it's a bazillion times worse than that. That can be explained away and rationalized with hormones and alcohol.
Oh no. You didn't. Aww geeze, Trillian, please tell us you didn't...
Yes. I did.
But it's not who you're thinking. Nope. I was strong. I kept HWNMNBS out of this. My HWNMNBS Free Zone remains HWNMNBS free. And really, that's not surprising or even that embarrassing. Come on, he's my best friend and I was going to marry him, I am absolved of all responsibility for irrational behavior involving him.
No. I told you. This is a new low.
Because I didn't just ring an old boyfriend. I had to ring two people, and then send and get a reply to an email to get his phone number before I could ring him.
I had to make serious effort to get in touch with him. Which would give a normal person ample opportunity to realize what they are attempting to do is a Very Bad Idea.
Even worse? By the time I got his number it was 2 AM. He's several time zones away from me, so it was 9 AM for him.
Worse than that? He wasn't surprised to hear from me. At 9 AM on a Sunday morning. I was surprised he answered his phone.
Which is the even worse part. I was expecting his voice mail and had this little speech all rehearsed. When he actually answered I was stymied and speechless and squeaked out a "Hi Old Boyfriend."
"Trillian? Hi. How are you?"
I know. 'Hi? How are you?' How the swut do you think I am? I'm ringing you in the middle of the night, after, well, a lot of years, a lot of years, no, not that many years, I'm not that old, and after a weird break-up. Obviously I'm not great.
Learn from this people, learn.
"Erm, yeah. Hi. It's me. Trillian."
"Right. Trillian. I know. You said. How are you?"
Again with the how are you?
"Well, you know, okay. You?"
"You know. Okay."
Yes. A great conversationalist. Actually, he is. Yet ironically, communication was a big problem for us. Learn people, learn.
"Great. Glad to hear it. Friend said you're going on tour..."
"Yeah, next month."
"Cool. So I was wondering if you are going to be in Chicago."
"Yeah, just signed a few more gigs. Chicago's one of them."
"Cool. So, um, you know..."
"Drinks?"
"Yeah. How about it?"
"You know I want to, Trill. I begged Friend to tell you to ring me when your wedding got canceled. Sorry about that, by the way."
"You did? Really? She never told me. Thanks. By the way."
"She's protecting you."
(He's right, she was. She never liked Old Boyfriend and was really glad when we broke up.)
"Not anymore, I guess. She had (her sister's brother-in-law) email me your phone number."
"Yeah. He rang me an hour ago to ask if it was okay to give you my number."
So much for the swearing of confidence. I'll remember that, brother-in-law of sister to Friend. I'll remember that.
"Oh. Right. Of course. You didn't seem surprised to hear from me."
"I always hoped you'd ring sooner or later."
"Turns out it was later."
"Later than you think."
"Why?"
"Is this a bootie call?"
"What? No! Swut, Old Boyfriend, you haven't changed, have you? Not one minute into the conversation and you're making accusations and assumptions. I heard you were going on tour and I thought about you and that's it, that's all, I just thought if you were going to be in town we could have drinks or dinner. You know, just talk, have some laughs. And what if it is a bootie call? So what? It's not as if you've never made bootie calls. I hate that term. When did you get all street? And now you've got me saying it. You know what, this was a really bad idea. I'm sorry I bothered you."
"No, wait, I'm sorry. It wasn't a bad idea. I would really like to see you again. Drinks. Dinner. Talk. Laughs. That's it."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Really. I've missed you. I still think about you."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"You mean think think about me?"
"Sometimes. Mostly it's just regular thinking about you. I hated our break-up. We could have done a lot better job of it than we did."
"It's never easy. It's always weird."
"I heard you're having a hard time with your fiancé."
"Ex fiancé."
"That's obvious and implied, Trill."
"Right."
"Sorry."
"It's okay."
"No it's not. I heard you've been a real mess."
That new depth I was talking about? Yeah. Right there. Your ex ex boyfriend has heard you're a mess over a break-up with someone else and he tells you he's heard you're a mess. Doesn't get much lower than that.
Worse? Okay. There is worse. Even my friends are gossiping about me and my inability to cope and rebound from a break-up. Gossiping to my ex boyfriend, no less. Lovely.
Still. It beats the office gossip about my cat.
"I have bad days and every now and then a not quite as bad day. I am functioning, though. I mean, it's just my love life that's a mess."
"Of course, good old keep it together Trill."
(ooooozing with a smarmy tone)
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. I don't know. Nothing. It's just you."
(really, really, really, really long silence)
(you might want to go get a cup of coffee or walk the dog)
"I should go. Isn't it like three in the morning there?"
"Two"
"Right. So this is a bootie call."
(huge uproarious laughter breaks out)
(followed by a long silence)
(I think the dog needs to go out again)
"Sorry Old Boyfriend. I shouldn't have called you. I just, you know, I was just..."
"Thinking about me and ripping up your sheets with longing and passion."
"...wondering how you are, actually. That's all. Just thinking about you and being a grown-up and calling you after all these years because I couldn't think of a good reason not to."
"How about because we could never make it right and had a bad break-up and you moved on and still love him and the very second he wants to try it, again, you'll dump me like you never knew me."
(long silence)
"So I guess you heard about last Summer, too."
"Trill, it was the subject of much speculation, concern and a few wagers among those in the know. And I was in the know."
Swut you Friend and sister of Friend and brother-in-law of sister of Friend. Is nothing sacred? This is my ex ex boyfriend. You're supposed to make me sound really good when you talk to him.
That's it. I trust no one.
"Wagers? Did you bet for or against?"
"For."
(short silence of surprise)
"Really?"
"Yeah. I was hoping it would work out for you. I heard you really love the guy. I never hated you Trill. I want good things for you. I lost a lot of money on that bet."
"I'll buy you a drink."
"If you think it's a good idea, then yes. Give me your number. No promises, though Trill. Drinks. That's it. I'm on tour again. You know how that is. If it goes okay there'll be more gigs. And I'm, um..."
"Oh swut. Are you married?"
"No!"
"Seeing someone?"
"Sort of."
"Old Boyfriend, don't do to her what you did to me. If this will in any way hurt some innocent woman forget I ever called."
(Thank you. I told you I have a little dignity left. And besides, I'm not awful. Desperate. But not awful. Trillian doesn't do other women's men.)
"That depends on what this is."
"It's nothing. It's drinks when you're in town."
"So no one needs to be worried or jealous."
"Right. But if you lead her to believe she has a reason to be jealous I want no part of it."
"I don't do that crap anymore."
"Ah, a new and improved Old Boyfriend."
"Version 4.5"
"Now with more enlightenment."
(he laughs) "That's good. I'm going to use that."
"My gift to you."
"Give me something I want."
"No, Old Boyfriend, really. Especially since you're seeing someone. No way."
"Your phone number Trill, your phone number."
"Oh. Right. Okay."
So. There you have it. The ultimate depth of shamelessness. Calling the ex ex boyfriend.
Will he ring me? Probably. Will I see him when he swings through town? Probably.
Should I? No.
More regret.
And that is why you need to read and learn. Do not get yourself into a situation which is not only pathetic, but will lead to a lot of turmoil and regret.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
I've got a favorite new place. I haven't had a favorite place in a while. Or at least not a favorite place which is easily accessible on a daily basis. I still have my Most Favorite Special Place in the World, so far that hasn't changed. But it's kind of a long distance from where I currently live, so, you know, not exactly the most convenient retreat.
My favorite new place probably won't stay that way for long - it's the sort of place people like to go when the weather is warm and the drinks are chilled. But I like it now, "off season." Icy wind, no one around...I find myself there almost every day. Sometimes just for a few minutes, other times I "zone out" when I'm there. Time doesn't stand still, but I lose all sense of time. Sometimes. Other times I am very aware. Crystallizingly aware. That's why this has become my favorite new place. It evokes things in me. Some good. Some bad. Some useful. Some stupid. Most inspirational. If I am ever going to find myself again, this is the sort of place, maybe even The place, that will happen. Well. There or My Most Favorite Special Place in the World. Which I must get to sometime very soon. Because I really need to find myself. I am lost. I know that. Horribly, confusingly, scarily lost. Took the wrong road. Got blown off course. That compass spinning like a broken clock kind of lost. Which is really unusual for me because I have an incredibly good sense of direction. (literally and metaphorically) Which has made being lost so much worse for me. It's very disorienting and confusing. I don't like it. Not one bit. It's not the kind of lost that ends up leading to a fun new adventure. It's the kind of lost that ends up turning into a B horror movie. The kind where you can put a victim number on the actors' heads based on the degree of stupidity in their actions and nubility. Yeah. Not a good lost. I know. I have to find myself. I'm trying. It's not easy you know. Discovering a favorite new place, and the discovery that I still have the ability to find a favorite new place is a start. I think. I guess. Maybe. Let's just leave it that for now I feel better knowing I have my favorite new place. Whenever the mood hits, I can just go there. So, you know, that's probably a good thing.
Except.
It keeps evoking things. Really poignant things. Flashes of scenes. Snippets of songs. Brilliant, yet not clear ideas. The kind of things which make you think, in a snap of reality, "Wow. Heavy. This means something. I have no idea what, but I know it's important because I feel gravitas. Yes. I feel it. I can't explain it, but I can feel it." And then you go off puzzling over what it all might mean and wishing you weren't so darned lost.
Like this morning. I was standing there, in the sleet, icy wind, not thinking about much of anything - yes, really, nearly void of thought, which for me is a really difficult thing to do, I just can't relax - when I swear, I absolutely swear, I heard someone singing:
It was kind of cold that night She stood alone on her balcony She could the cars roll by Out on 441 Like waves crashin’ in the beach And for one desperate moment there He crept back in her memory God it’s so painful Something that’s so close And still so far out of reach
Perhaps Tom Petty is truly dead and his ghost was singing to me from beyond the pale. But I doubt it. And it doesn't matter. Well. I mean, it matters in the sense that I am now not only being given words faster than I can sort them, I'm hearing voices. But you know, whatever. What matters is that verse was exactly perfect for that moment of my life. I mean as if it were written specifically for that moment of my life. I've heard the song thousands of times, but not for a while. And right now, today, that moment, it meant something. It meant a lot, actually. Not just the literal and obvious, but the between the lines of the obvious. It was important. It was the absolute most perfect song and verse for that exact moment. Okay, sure, yeah, that happens. But this was different from those times when you think of an appropriate song or phrase to fit the mood or place. This was bigger than poignant. I heard someone singing it. I looked around because I was certain someone else was there. No one. It was 5:00 AM for crying out loud. No one was within earshot of me. The wind could have been carrying someone's voice, but even so, that doesn't seem right. I don't know. Don't ask me to explain it. I can't. It just, you know, means something. That's all.
I know. That's stupid. That's crazy talk.
Hey. I never, not once, ever, said I was sane. I told you this would be the diary of one woman's descent into lunacy. This is what happens when the censors, erm, editors turn their backs on me.
And now I'm stuck trying to shake the whole thing. Ever try to concentrate on your job when you've had, you know, An Experience?
It's not easy. Images fade but don't completely vanish. That voice is gone but I can remember exactly how it sounded. Questions nag. How'd Tom Petty know I would need that exact verse when he penned it in 1976?* Why Tom Petty? Surely someone else has written a song or words which would fit just as well. Or maybe not. I've got some Tom Petty on my Pod, but not that song. I grabbed it off iTunes before I left for work.** I'm driving myself nuts with it, but I am sickly compelled to listen to it, you know, just one more time, so I can try to hear something in it, hear that voice or just, you know, stop thinking about it. I even snapped a few photos thinking it wise to try to capture some images, catch the visual mood because it might be useful later.
Oh yes. My particular brand of lunacy is the compile lots of data type of lunacy.
You wanted it, you got it.
It's Wednesday, and it's so real it's surreal.
*Just to show you how serious I am about this, I looked it up because I had no clue when that song was recorded, and got even more, well, even more whatever I am, when I discovered it was on the Heartbreakers debut album in 1976. I mean, 30 years ago Tom Petty wrote that song, and now, 30 years later here I am having a very strange moment with a verse of it. Tom, dude,what's up with that? Are you really dead?
**Fortunately my This Means Something soundtrack can so far be easily accessed. I'll be in trouble when The Screaming Blue Messiahs mean something to me because iTunes doesn't have them and all I've got is a cassette stored away somewhere at my parents' house.
12:43 PM
Monday, March 21, 2005 Day in the Life Hey! Here's something fun everyone can do! Today is "Day in the Life of..." on Flickr. Snap a photo and post it to the DILO group and you are part of a global art project! Cool, huh? If you're not snappy, you can view the photos. Interesting stuff. Details here.
For scintillating photographic details of a Day in the Life(?) of Trillian, I'm going to try to post my photos throughout the day on Come Here, I Want to Show You Something. I said try. I have a job, you know. If they're not all up as the day progresses, check back later and tomorrow. There are a few up already, check out the great sunrise we had this morning.
9:59 AM
Sunday, March 20, 2005
The broody brunette is back. Okay, so she's still got some fetching honey blonde highlights. But not as many and not as blonde. I didn't have more fun as a blonde. Or, well, a blonder than I've ever been blonde. Maybe you have to, you know, go all the way to actually have more fun.
Nothing's ever just what it is. I can't just have my hair done without there being some catch.
No, my stylist didn't do anything we hadn't discussed. I was planning on going darker, less highlighty on this trip to the salon. I've been planning that a long time. My stylist and I went out about a month ago and the topic of my hair kept us occupied for far too long.
But there's this situation at work.
We’ve got this temp. She’s young, inexperienced, not exactly sharp as a tack, but generally nice and makes occasional sincere efforts at actually working. Comes in late, takes long lunches, leaves early, but in between manages to complete at least one assigned task per week. Our temps are not paid well, so, you know, we can’t exactly be choosy about our small pool of temp “talent.”
She offered to help Boob Job and I on a project concerning a huge *@#!-up by (needs a new nickname) boss. Since Boob Job and I are already very busy and really didn’t have time to be fixing (needs a new nickname) boss’ huge, horrendous *@#!-up, we welcomed any help we could get. Okay, sure, maybe because of the delicate nature of the *@#!-up it might not have been the best idea to trust a temp, a not so bright temp with unproven loyalty, with any part of the project. But we were careful to not give her any confidential data or issues, we simply gave her a few tasks, explained as little as possible about the actual reason for the job and regularly monitored her work.
I know you think you know where this is going.
You’re wrong.
Sort of.
But maybe not.
See, well, I’m not so sure what to make of this situation.
The temp has proven herself to be less than intelligent. She has very, very basic skills. And very elementary capabilities to grasp concepts. But she’s one of those people who has a lot of confidence. Okay. She’s overly confident. Okay. She’s delusional.
Which at first I chalked up to the cockiness and inexperience of youth.
But now things have taken a very strange turn.
At first I thought it was just me being overworked, overtired, overstressed and maybe a little paranoid.
But now other people are pulling me aside and sending me email regarding the temp’s behavior.
It's not just me. (Nice change, yes, but, well, I mean, it would be nice to know it's not just me who thinks my boss should be fired, for instance.)
Right. The temp.
She’s um, well, she’s imitating me.
It started with her clothes, which were kind of slutty when she first started temping. Okay. Really slutty. Okay, girl in the L’il Kim ‘hood slutty. Okay, girl on the street corner slutty. Okay, to the point “we” had to tell her about our dress code, gave her a written copy and delicately try to explain to her that we have some rather conservative clients who visit the office and we try to maintain a professional atmosphere. “We” all know who the elected “we” was who had have that little discussion, so let’s not waste time wondering how or why “we” were the ones elected for this particular difficult discussion. And yes, there was a vote. And no, it was not an honor just to be nominated and no, this is not a position “we” campaigned for. (needs a new nickname) boss was supposed to help “us” but of course didn’t. Except to tell “us” something had to be done about the temp’s attire. One case where (needs a new nickname) boss was right. The temp had a thong sticking out of the top of her low slung mini skirt and cheeks almost hanging out of the bottom, and her boobs (complete with butterfly tattoos) hanging out of her top. I’m not going to get into the actual discussion “we” had with her about this. The alcohol and medication are still numbing the memory and “we” want to keep it that way.
The good news is that the temp was very receptive to the concept of our dress code, admitted she knew she was “pushing it” but, I’m not kidding, was “waiting for someone to tell her to stop.” Erm. Okay. But. Oh nevermind. “We” told her she did not have to, certainly wasn’t expected to, purchase new clothing for a temp job. More or less. She merely had to wear more clothes. Less revealing clothes. She got it. She said she had “lots of things” she could wear and her sister has a ton of stuff but she hadn’t been “bothering” to worry about it. Erm. Okay. But. Oh nevermind. She really loved working here and really wanted to become a full time employee here. Erm. Okay. But. Oh nevermind. “We” apologized for having to bring up the issue at all, she thanked “us” for being to the one to tell her because she likes “us” and would have been really embarrassed or offended if it had been anyone else.
Our dress code is actually quite lenient. (Translation: Vague.) It’s not anything goes, but it’s anything which isn’t offensive, foul, or sexual goes. Jeans are frowned upon except on Fridays, though it’s not a huge deal if they appear on a day other than Friday. Most of us are adults who have worked other jobs. We know what’s “okay” and what’s not. We bend and push that occasionally, but have an ounce or two of professional decorum. It’s never been that big of an issue. And here it was rearing its ugly head with a temp.
Right.
Okay.
The next day the temp showed up in a very sedate trouser suit. Same garish make-up and bedroom hair, 4” platform vinyl boots, but at least her bum and boobs weren’t sticking out.
Great. Situation resolved.
She worked with Boob Job and I on the project. She began dropping less than subtle hints about what she’d like to do, what sort of projects she wanted to work on and what skills she wanted to use. Okay. Great. She’s eager. That’s great! Except remember those delusions I mentioned? This is where they became apparent. She said she really wants to be a designer. Okay! Great! I could sure use the help! What skills do you have? She rattled off an impressive bit of program mastery. I was a little surprised because she is quite young and quite inexperienced, but, you know, hey, let’s see what she can do!
Nothing.
She can do nothing.
She lied.
She asked me questions every 3 minutes. Basic questions. “What’s does jpg mean?” for instance. “What’s CMYK?” for instance. “How do I download an image?” for instance. “What’s an FTP site?” for instance. Okay. Many of you are thinking, “I don’t know that stuff.” Are you an art director? Designer? Production person? Web designer? Artist? Then of course you don’t. But anyone who claimed to have the prowess she had would know these things as well as they know how to breathe.
It became painfully obvious she had none of the skills she claimed to have when she spent an entire day dropping a logo into a Word doc. I mean, we’re not talking fancy design programs here. We’re talking Word. Which is something all temps are supposed to be tested on before they walk through our doors.
So much for that design help I was hoping to get. I knew I’d have to teach her some things, but I mean, this is more than showing the new girl a few inside ropes. This would be showing a girl barely out of high school with zero background, skills or aptitude how to, well, do everything. It’s not that I mind sharing the love and teaching and helping anyone who is interested, but, I mean, she’s a temp. And not a very bright one.
And a delusional one.
She told Boob Job and a few other people in the office that I told her she is doing great and will make a great assistant.
Okay. Maybe she misconstrued my support and encouragement. Maybe she’s one of those people who hears, “Wow! That’s incredible! You’re a genius! Where would we be without you! You’re going to make a great assistant!” when all that was actually said was, “Thanks. Great, now could you make those copies of the agenda?”
And the true delusion became obvious to everyone when she told them she knows more than I do about PhotoShop. I’m not saying I’m the font of all knowledge about PhotoShop. But. I do know a lot about it. Enough to lead some training sessions on it. Enough to have the tech guys call me with questions about it. Enough to bail out anyone with a looming deadline and “problems” with their art. And the temp is not exactly scoring intelligence points with anyone in the office in other capacities. So even to my usually ignorant coworkers this seemed a bit of a stretch. It came to my attention when Boob Job said, “Is she really that good? She keeps making a lot of mistakes with the stuff I give her to do.” (I know, I loved the irony of that statement. If Boob Job catches mistakes, this girl has to be really bad.)
Okay. So here we have a delusional girl temp. A delusional girl temp with big aspirations.
She’s young. She’s trying. Give her a break. Let’s see if she gets into the routine and calms down a bit and stops making mistakes. She’s so eager. She really wants a full time job. Maybe she’s nervous.
Yeah. I was the delusional one.
I’ve been really busy. Super busy. And out of the office a lot.
So I didn’t really, you know, notice the day to day appearance of the temp except that she no longer dressed like she was open for businessmen.
People started saying weird things to me. Like, “All you had to do was talk to her about the dress code. You didn’t have to actually give her clothes.” And, “Single White Female already left, I’ll make the copies.”
When an account person who is one of those people seemingly doesn't notice anyone who is not a client or senior executive stopped by to wave a letter in my face and ranted, “Mini Trill sent the wrong letters to the mailing list,” I decided to bother to care.
“Mini Trill?”
“Yeah, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed what she’s done to herself.”
“Done to herself?”
“Yeah, you haven’t noticed? Really?”
“No.”
“She’s had a total Trillian makeover.”
“Huh?”
“You really haven’t noticed how she wears something like you wear the day after you wear it?”
“Erm, no, I guess I haven’t noticed that...”
“You’ve been working too hard, Trill. Everyone in the office has noticed it. It’s been going on for weeks. It’s not even funny anymore, it’s just weird. Especially today with her new hair. You know that gray pinstripe suit you wore yesterday, with the funky blouse?”
“Yes...New hair?”
“Check out what she’s wearing today. And when you do, you’ll also notice she’s done something to her hair. Something which very much looks like yours. And she’s not wearing all that make-up anymore, it looks like yours looks. Sort of. I mean, like a copy of yours.”
Ye gads.
Imitation. Sincere flattery. Not.
Creepy. Weird.
Because if you’re going to imitate someone because you’re impressed with them and want to be like them, you choose someone who is successful and has their swut together and, you know, isn’t ugly. If you’re imitating a pathetic, lonely, overworked, underpaid, ugly social outcast of the office who has to troll online dating sites for men and spends her days correcting and covering up her boss’ borderline illegal business practices, you are either a very messed up individual or are working undercover.
So no. I do not find this flattering. I find it scary. And really weird.
The day after I wore that gray pin stripe suit with a funky red/black/white/gray blouse, sure enough, she was wearing a gray pin stripe suit with a funky red and white blouse. And her odd shade of straw straight hair gelled at the crown and falling into her face was now dark brunette with fetching honey blonde highlights cut into long layers and curled in flippy tossles neatly tucked behind her ears. And all that make-up WAS gone, replaced by what I swear is my custom blend lip color/gloss and lash tint. Even her shoes were Trillian-esque.
Okay. I mean, “we” had that chat with her about the dress code and she’s just trying to fit in and thinks “our” opinion of her is the one which matters so she might naturally mimic “our” look. But. I mean. There are loads of much more successful, prettier women in my office who dress really well and have cute but professional hair and makeup styles. Go to any of the ladies bathrooms in our company in the morning and you can get a full makeover by a team of trained professionals getting ready for their day in the office.
What I am saying here is, why me?
And now that it’s been brought to my attention, I of course notice what she’s wearing every day.
And every morning when I am getting ready for work, I of course find myself thinking, “The temp will be wearing a simile of this tomorrow...” And sometimes I deliberately try to wear something difficult to simulate. But the sad fact is, even with some of my more outrageous clothes, mimicking my office style is not exactly difficult. Oh sure, she can’t get an exact duplicate, particularly the blouses and shoes, but if I wear a purple and pink circley blouse, the next day she’ll come in with a purple polka dot blouse. If I wear a black skirt and boots one day, the next day she’ll be in a black skirt and boots. Skirt. Trousers. Skirt. Trousers. Sweater. Blouse. Jacket. Sweater. Blouse. Jacket. Black. Gray. Black. Gray. Embellished with color. Monotone. Embellish with color. Monotone. Scarf. Necklace. Scarf. Necklace. Yes. She’s even started imitating my jewelry preferences.
You might think casual Fridays would pose a problem for her. No. Not her. Silly. That’s easy. She’ll mimic whatever I wore last Friday.
It was bad enough when Smellly Coffee Woman started cobbling together outfits like my friend and I wear. But at least she comes right out and says, “I liked it so much on you I wanted it too.” And she always puts her spin on the outfit. So much so that it’s not actually a mimic at all.
No, the temp is a different breed of cat. A potentially scary cat stalking and waiting to pounce on her prey.
When I got back from my last client junket, instead of going home as planned, I went into the office. There were some issues which needed tending and I didn’t want them to linger over the weekend. It was not a planned sneak attack.
But it sort of turned into one for the temp.
I walked through the office, rolling my suitcase and our bag of tricks.
“Hey, Trill, how’s New York?” “Hi Trillian, you’re here! Can you stop by my office later to look at those budget changes?” “Hi Trill, I sent the new copy to Big Guy an hour ago and he said he liked it, we can proceed.”
See? No big surprise or weirdness. No cloak and dagger. I kind of made a scene entering shuffling my suitcase and our cases. No sneak attack.
But there, in my office, was the temp.
I wasn’t totally weirded out by this. I assumed she was probably trying to figure out how to do a project or looking for something.
I marched right in like I owned the joint and said, “Hi temp.”
She jumped out of her skin. Yes, really, almost literally.
Okay. I didn’t want to think so before this, but by her “Oh swut” reaction, I now know she’s up to no good. But. I don’t have anything “hidden” in my office. Anyone could paw through anything and would find nothing incriminating, personal or professional. The worst they’d find is the photo of HWNMNBS which fell behind the drawer and is stuck in the case part of the drawers in my desk and even I can’t get it out of there. (Because yes, I have tried and would have gotten it out of there if I could and I alternately hate/love that it’s stuck in there because it’s a fitting metaphor on a lot of levels. Maybe I’ll share my thoughts on The Man in My Desk someday. Maybe not.)
She was doing that eyes darting around thing and I swear her hands were shaking.
“What’s up?” I asked nonchalantly as I took off my coat.
“Not much, I’m just, I was trying to find those logo sheets for Boob Job.” She’s not very bright, but she knows where the logo sheets are. And Boob Job keeps electronic copies. I mean, there is an off chance this was true. And like I said. No big deal. Nothing to incriminate or scare in my office.
“Remember, they’re in the client file room. With the tear sheets and other client information. The files you organized a few weeks ago?” I said, trying to make a joke out of her obvious lie.
“Oh yeah. I forgot.” But still she sat, at my desk. Silently. Wearing a replica of my last Friday’s outfit. Natch.
I gave her one of those “Yes? Is that all? I’m sort of in a hurry here.” looks.
“Who takes care of your cat when you’re gone?” she asked, pointing to Furry Creature’s photo on my desk.
Okay. Right then, at that exact moment, I freaked out. Too many movies. Too much talk around the office.
It may have been a totally innocent comment. It probably was. But swutting Belgium, it was weird. My antenna were up and sensing something Not Right.
“Uh, look, temp, I just flew in, I’ve got tons of work to do, I really need to make sure the client got those emails I sent this morning....” motioning for her to leave.
“He’s really cute. I heard he’s sick.” she continued with one of those over emphasized pouty faces. Okay, my life has sunk to a new low. Not only am I the subject of office gossip, but the subject of the gossip is my cat. Really. Seriously. I have to get a new job. A new life.
“He’s fine. He’s going to be absolutely fine.” I told her, again, motioning for her to get up and get out of my office.
“I’m thinking about getting a cat.” she continued.
“Great! I’ll send you information on a couple of shelters. I really need to get to work here, temp” I said, again motioning for her to leave.
She took the hint this time and got out of my chair.
“I like your shoe rack. That’s a really good idea.” she said, stooping over to point out my under the desk shoe rack.
“Yeah, makes commuting easier when you’re not toting shoes back and forth. Okay then, I’ll be getting to work now. Boob Job probably needs those logo sheets.” giving her an excuse to get the swut out of my office.
She finally left.
I attempted to log in. Big surprise: "Three failed login attempts. You must contact customer service to reset password."
A HA!!!! I knew it.
Boob Job and my (needs a new nickname) boss know my password. If anyone needed something on my drive either of those two could have retrieved it. And they are the only two who would need anything.
But there's me, being all "oh please, don't jump to conclusions, get ahold of yourself, you're overreacting, it's nothing, this is stupid, you're busy, forget about it." So I did.
Until yesterday when I got my hair done.
My stylist supreme was ready, "I've got a great idea for your color!"
"Bring it on!" I beamed.
"And I've been thinking..."
"Yes...?"
"What about some shorter layers in front?"
"Okay, but not too thick or too short. Bring it on."
And she did. And I love it. And all should be happy in Trillville, right?
Wrong.
Because now, on the eve of going into work with my "new" old hair, instead of not really giving it much thought, I'm all, "people are going to think I changed my hair because the temp copied my hair and I'm either mad because she did that or I'm testing her to see if she'll change her hair again." I'm wasting gray matter on this inanity because my co-workers are petty, gossipy, suspicious, catty people. Seriously. I have to get a new job. But until then, I have to deal with them and with this situation.
And yes. Yes. Okay? Yes.
Even though this brunette redux was in the works for a while, and the new cut was an impromptu "yeah, let's!" I know it's going to look like I'm trying to trip up the temp, or was angry that she changed her hair to my style and color.
And I don't a) don't want to look like I in any way care, b) want to look like I am paranoid, angry or spiteful, or c) want to hurt the temp's feelings by changing my hair the first chance I had after she changed hers to look like mine.
Yes. For some bizarre reason I'm worried about her feelings. (Note to self: Stop being such a swutting nice girl. Nice never got anyone anywhere, don't give a toss about her or anyone else's feelings. It's all about you. You. You. You.)
Oh sure, she's probably plotting some huge scheme to learn everything about me and then somehow make me look bad and then get my job. Or at least that's what would happen in the movie. Well temp, if you want it that badly, go ahead, take it. I hate it. You can have it. That's the movie they never make. I'll be interested to see how it ends. Just let me find an alternative source of income first.
Spending way too much time dwelling on this? Oh yes. I am well aware of that. And that's what's got me bothered. The whole situation is so weird that it's got me all weird. Other people in the office are spending a lot of time dwelling on this. The temp is spending a lot of time dwelling on this. And now, I'm spending way too much time giving it more than a passing thought.
I'm better than this. More mature than this. More professional than this.
And yet...
There it is. There she'll be.
Tomorrow's going to be a rough day for her. I wasn't in the office Thursday. So she'll have to mimic Wednesday's outfit. But in theory she would have worn that Thursday. What will she wear? What WILL she wear? And how will she react to the new 'do?
9:21 PM
Friday, March 18, 2005
I love my job! It's the greatest job in the whole wide world! (this woman is lying) I get to see the world and have exciting adventures and go to important meetings and wine and dine at some of the best restaurants and clubs in the world! (she gets to go to points up and down the Eastern seaboard during blizzards on the last flights allowed to land in the storms because her boss did something very naughty and doesn't want to face the client and now it's her job to explain (without incriminating anyone, you know, specifically, by name) and clean up the mess and try to smooth things over with a board room full of (understandably) angry executives who are so annoyed they are reviewing the contracts to see what it will cost them to fire her company and they don't want to have lunch or dinner or drinks or anything to do with her outside of the board room so she'll order room service but because of the storms the hotel kitchen in short staffed and undersupplied so she trudges out into the cold snowy night to find something to eat but she's really not in the mood because she's tired and worn out and mentally drained from being raked over the coals and having to think fast! and tactfully on her feet so she shuffles back to the hotel and finds a vending area and has stale peanut butter crackers and Twizzlers for dinner accompanied by a Barbie sized bottle of wine from her room's mini bar which will cost her $22+ tax because her company will not reimburse mini-bar items or anything without a receipt. And vending machines don't give receipts.)
I get to meet new and interesting people! (The airport security people who are so nice and helpful and friendly when they're tired and cranky. The cranky co-travelers. The screaming, puking babies who always sit across the aisle. The flight attendants who bump into her with their beverage tanks. The taxi drivers who are, well, taxi drivers the world over. The hotel staff who bear no resemblance to the smiling, helpful, friendly hotel staff on their chain's adverts. The legion of administrative staff in the client's office, the tech geek reconfiguring the client's network because of a little "challenge" with a little, ha ha, virus which was sent by someone in our office, the client's lawyers who have detailed files full of cites and legalese explaining how they can discontinue using her company, legally. The airline telephone agents who have no information and refuse to offer speculation on when flights will be departing (I know it's horrible job, but do they have to be so snippy and mean?)
Sometimes I even get to take an extra day or two for myself when I travel on company business! Shopping! Museums! Spa time! Take in a shows! (Ever tried to get out of Boston after a snowstorm? Days my friend, days. Stuck until planes can be flown in from other locations. Locations not on the Eastern seaboard because they're all closed and snowed in, too. There will be nothing but boutiques and expensive department stores in the vicinity of her hotel so she will pay a premium for the minimal items she requires during her weather imposed stay. She will not be reimbursed for these items. She could go "out on the town, see the sights!" but it's one huge snowy mess, and she's traveling light, meaning clothing and undergarments are in short supply. She will have to (minimally) procure underwear or clean her existing few items with shampoo in the hotel room sink. Besides, the only museum open is the Maritime Museum which offers such educational displays as "Harpoons: Then and Now" "Scrimshaw Artistry" and "The Many uses of Whale Blubber." So she retreats back to her hotel, does some work, takes a bath and chooses between Kindergarten Cop and Cumming Around Again from the hotel's free in room movie service.)
It's great to get out of the office! (None of her work is being handled while she's gone. She will return to several projects behind schedule because of these last minute extended trips. Her boss is incapable, unmotivated and apathetic to helping her while she's out of the office. Out of the office helping her boss. Even though it seems like the least her boss could do is handle a few phone calls while she's gone. You know. Gone covering her boss' behind to a room full of angry clients.)
I'm single, footloose and fancy free so traveling is not an issue! (She will spend a lot of time and money on phone calls arranging care for her animal companion who can manage on his own for a day or two, but since the short trip turned into a long trip the animal will need care and feeding. The arrangements for this are nothing shy of CIA tactical procedures. Dating? Ha! Try to arrange a date around a travel schedule which is completely unpredictable. She will get to hear the words, "Maybe you don't really have time for dating right now," from potentially really swell guys who actually want to meet her but think she's playing games or trying to be evasive or coy with her seemingly crazy work schedule.)
I get to accrue airline miles on my personal account! (But when will she get to take an actual vacation? She's busy, real busy. And every time she thinks she's going to take a long weekend she ends up having to go somewhere for work, somewhere not on her list of weekend getaway destinations. And when she gets home she's tired and behind with home stuff, like laundry and vacuuming and you know, maybe now and then when she's got more than a few minutes to herself, family and friends and pets. Vacation? Dream on. Finding time for and affording a haircut would be like an island getaway for her.)
1:14 PM
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Apparently there is some confusion as to what constitutes class. As in, "the dame's got a lotta class."
I'm not confused. Then again, maybe I am. Maybe I've been schooled incorrectly. Maybe I misunderstand the meaning of class. Maybe I'm old and outmoded and stuffy.
I'm not saying I have class. I have been known to breach my definition of class. I know when I'm doing it, aware that I'm doing it, and may even be doing it intentionally. I have my limits, there are lines I will not cross. But knowingly breaching one's definition of class is a classless act. I'm no better than anyone else in this regard. Sometimes. Most of the time I try to maintain at least a shred of dignity for myself and those around me.
But I have never aspired to have people look at me and describe me as classy looking.
Why? You might be wondering.
Because by my definition of class, a person who has true class is blends in with their surroundings. If I stick out to the point of looking like a "classy dame sitting at the bar" then I am overdressed for that particular bar. Accidental overdressing happens. It's excusable. But if I know I'm going to a bar frequented by blue collars, struggling artists/musicians/writers/anything, or those whose beverage of choice is brewed in Wisconsin, I don't go strolling in wearing professional/symphony/church with the parents garb. It will bring attention to myself like teased, permed hair, red vinyl boots and a mini skirt on ladies night. I'll look and feel out of place, be more prone to self consciousness, which puts other people ill at ease, too.
I went to the old hood after work last night. Very odd. Seems like I never lived there. Very, very strange feeling. I felt like a tourist. I met a friend at an old local. One of the staff greeted me with, "Slumming it with the little people tonight, eh Trill?"
I fumbled a "Slumming? No way! I miss you guys!" The bartender overheard this and came to my rescue with, "Trillian! Thank God you're here! We need you to class up the joint!"
I was embarrassed by all of this.
I'm still sensitive about the whole Gold Coast thing. I keep telling people I live "near North" instead of the proper real estate and zip code specific "Gold Coast." I'm more comfortable with the generic "near North" because I do not embody the usual characteristics invoked by the term "Gold Coast." Plus it just sounds snobby and showy.
I wonder how Marisol is doing out in Des Plaines. I hope she's accepting her ritzier digs better than I am mine.
Don't get me wrong, I like my new neighborhood. I truly do. But the perception of the people who live there, which now includes me, is not well accepted by a lot of people outside of the area. Especially people from the old 'hood. Yes. Just like Marisol. The unspoken words are: Social climber. Snob. Rich bitch.
An interesting point to note is that in my going on two months in the Gold Coast, I have met more people, encountered more nice, courteous, friendly people in passing than I ever did living in the old 'hood. The old 'hood which is billed as a blend of working class, artisans and immigrants. A regular Sesame Street of multicolored/furred harmony. Yeah right. No one in the old 'hood ever said good morning to me or even acknowledged my existence. I rode that swutting train every day, saw the same people on the platform every day, and never, not once except during Cubs Fever, did any of them ever acknowledge me or return my "g'morning" smile. Without exception everyone I see in passing on the streets or in the shops in my new neighborhood acknowledges me, usually before I get a chance to greet them first. The people in the old Sesame Street, gritty, "real" neighborhood are much snobbier in comparison. Okay, sure, a lot of people in the old 'hood didn't speak to me because they don't speak English. Still. There are immigrants in my new neighborhood, and they're bothering to learn the language of the country in which they have chosen to reside. I'll get a somewhat fragmented greeting which might take me a few seconds to decipher, but they're trying. They're saying hello and trying to do it in the official language of the country in which they are inhabiting. Now that's class.
Yeah, the slumming it and classing up the joint comments further aggravated a lot of issues already swirling and occupying too much space in my brain. Coupled with "everyone" talking about the new Billionaire report, it's been a quasi issue lately.
I realize by even mentioning any of this I am being a classless snob. I assure you, in real life I don't go around educating people about class. Correcting or pointing out the rude or classless behavior of others is rule #1 in the Big Book of Snobbery.* No one with true class would presume to correct the behavior of others.** I'm breaking my silence here because something must be done, someone must break the silence and speak out about the alarmingly prevalent misconstruence of the term class.
There's a huge difference between a person with class and a snob. They are, in fact, diametric opposites. A truly classy person does not brag about or show off their wealth or knowledge. If they are wealthy or exceedingly intelligent, you'd never know by their words. Speaking about money or knowledge, especially one's own, and the personal effects it affords, is rude. Period. (That goes ditto for asking a person where an item was bought, or, shudder, how much it cost. The former can be excused if in the right context and among close friends and relatives. The latter: Never. Got it? Good.) Class has nothing to do with personal financial wealth, education or intelligence. You cannot buy class. Even at Barney's. It's difficult to learn class, too. (Though I don't think it's exclusive to those born with innate class. I think it can be at least honed in anyone.) Poor, downtrodden, huddled mass-like people can have loads of class. Class is about manners, dignity, empathy and making other people feel comfortable.
The final straw broke the class camel's back last week. I'd heard the rumors. I didn't believe them. But then, as I clicked through the channels trying to find a weather report, I saw it. It happened. The rumors were indeed true. And the full horror was right there in front of me. Frozen in front of my television, unable to move, I stood there mouth agape as I watched Faye Dunaway critiquing a lesbian kiss scene by aspiring actresses. Faye I've Got a Functioning Brain Dunaway. Faye Chinatown-Network-Bonnie and Clyde-Dunaway (and yes, yes, Faye Towering Inferno-Mommie Dearest-Village of the Damned - Eyes of Laura Mars Dunaway (I actually like Laura Mars)) I wanted it to be a joke. I wanted it to be a Mad TV skit. But no. The truth is so much worse than fiction. Faye Dunaway. I know, I know, she's done some classless things, kissing and telling, beauty pageants. Still. She's, well, I mean, she's Faye Dunaway. Maybe she really needs the work, but there are product endorsements and indie movies. Why is she stooping to reality television, and a bad imitation of American Idol, at that? Why Faye, why? My new place is really small, but you can stay with me until you get back on your feet. You can have the bed, I'll sleep on the couch. There's a great roof deck and fresh flowers in the lobby. Please, just don't lower yourself, don't ruin your image of class and respect, at least by Hollywood standards. Please Faye, I'm begging you. Stop the insanity. You're no Paula Abdul. You were somebody. You are somebody.
This is a new low even for the WB, but an even lower low for class.
I've got to say this in hopes of reminding a few people of the basic differences between class and snobbery and money's role in all of this. I fear we're too far off course to go back, but maybe if we all try really hard we can at least try to turn this ship around.
Right. (deep breath) Here we go.
Do you have class? Are you a snob?
Points of reference: Donald Trump has no class (or apparent taste) and appears to be a snob. Ghandi was loaded with class and not a snob.
Lady Macbeth: Social climbing, classless snob. Lady Guinivere: Class by trying to do the right thing for her country, victim of circumstance and timing.
Henry Higgins: Affected snob. Eliza Doolittle: Guttersnipe with class. (However, Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn both get my vote for off screen class acts not often seen in Hollywood types. Ummm, Faye, you might want to take a page from their books.)
Do you volunteer/donate time and/or money to charity? No? No points for you. Yes? Good for you. 10 points. Do you do it quietly? 10 bonus points. Or do you make a point of telling anyone who will listen about your charitable deeds? "It's not what you do when everyone's looking, but what you do when no one's around which matters." is a well worn phrase you might want to mull over. -10 points.
Do you give (not loan) your friends and family money when you know they need it but don't want to ask? Yes? 10 points. No? 0 points. Maybe you don't have spare cash to offer. That's fine. But you could offer to give them a spare train pass or a few Lean Cuisines growing ice in your freezer or a ride or the cat food your cat hated but theirs might love. If they're out of work and trying to find a job, there are tons of things they need, everyday stuff. New socks/tights, dry cleaning of their interview outfit, copying of their resumés, faxing or internet use. Don't make them ask, offer first. If you do give money, never, ever speak of it. Forget about it.
Speaking of money, don't. Do you ever talk about money? No? 10 points. Yes? 0 points. Speaking about money in general terms is okay. "Gosh, that train fare increase is high." "Wow, I got a great deal on soap at Mega Mart, here's a spare coupon if you want it." "Brown Bag's got a new lunch deal, you can get a decent lunch for under $5." Are totally acceptable. "Wow, my 401K did great last quarter!" "How much did that cost?" "My new shoes cost $594 dollars." "I can't have drinks with you tonight, I'm broke, the rent's due and my cat's sick." are not acceptable. (except in very close, close company, like that of your spouse, family or best friend)
Do you open doors, help people carry/manage things like strollers, wheelchairs, crutches, large packages, unwieldy grocery trollies? Yes? 10 points are yours. Do you do this as a natural reflex or do you have think for a minute and then say to yourself, okay, yes, it's the right thing to do? Do you do this with nothing but selfish motivation? (to meet a cute girl/guy, show off in front of your date/friends/parents, or to brag about it later? Natural, unselfish motivated reflex: 10 bonus points. Selfish motivated reasons: - 10 points. Helping other people, even (and especially) complete strangers, regardless of how they look or who they are, is the right and classy thing to do. But it needs to come from a natural reflex/desire to just help another person. I know this seems like Boy/Girl Scouting 101, but after spending several months on crutches I learned how many (most) people are rude, inconsiderate, classless people in this regard. Many people are either annoyed by or afraid of less abled people.
And then there were the people who went way overboard in their efforts to help me. Usually when I didn't actually need help, and usually something which required little (or no) effort on their part, and always in front of a huge crowd of peers. Never, ever when I actually needed help were these people to be found. Especially if there was no one around to see their good deed. One person in my office made a big gushy to-do about feeling so horrible for me and wanting to help me any way possible. I'd be halfway to the copy room, he'd have seen my entire trek from desk to the half way mark without saying a thing, but the second someone else came around the corner, he'd rush over to me and say, "Trillian. I told you to ask me to help you!" all loud and showy. If no one else chanced our path, he wouldn't say a word and wouldn't offer to help. Another such person made a huge stink in front of a lot of people about offering to help me get around, drive me anywhere I needed. I only asked once, out of sheer desperation. The answer? "Gosh Trill, I can't drive you to the doctor next week, I've got my tanning session that day." A few days later when I mentioned a tale of a painful bus trip to the doctor to someone else, said tanning session person had the cheek and classlessness to butt in and say, "Oooh, Trillian, next time let me drive you. I told you I'd take you anywhere." This was a particularly classless move because it put the responsibility back on me to be the bigger person, not slate them and keep my mouth shut about their tanning session.
Do you whine, complain or make a big huge fuss to get your way? No? Give yourself 10 points. Yes? No points for you. And some advice. Grow up. Being a pain in the behind might get you your way, but think for a minute why. Not sure? It's because you're a loud, rude, inconsiderate pain in the rear end and people will do anything just to get you to shut up and go away. Especially business owners and managers. If you find this behavior is "the only way" to get the good table, last week's sale price on an item, or whatever it is you want, you might want to consider the old parable: You'll get more bees with honey. I'm not talking about allowing yourself to be a doormat. I'm talking about not being so obnoxious that people will do anything to get you to shut up and go away so that other customers are not annoyed or inconvenienced. Still can't relate? Have you ever been in a check out lane in a store, ready to purchase one item, cash in hand, but delayed because the person in front of you is insisting all twelve of their items are supposed to be on sale or they're returning 12 items without a receipt and are insisting to the store manager and the cashier and sales person that they are operating a bad business? If that person is you, you are a classless and annoying person. When this situation next arises, and if you know beyond a shadow of doubt the item is on sale (or whatever), let the people standing in line with cash in hand for one item go ahead of you. Then, calmly explain your points. If the answer is still no, then the answer is no. It's their business, they can run it any way they want. The best "revenge?" Don't shop there anymore.
The few and only exceptions to this are 11th and above phone calls with utility companies, internet providers and "customer service" agents, especially those based in third world countries 6,000 miles away who do not actually use the service you are complaining about and have no concept of why you are complaining. I'm not advocating raising your voice or calling them names. Experience, unfortunately, has taught me to get to the "next level" of command you have to make it known how irritated you are and the illogic in their ineffective "service."
Are you an "expert" and happy to share your expertise with everyone? No? Give yourself 10 points. Yes? No points and further study on the topic. Has anyone ever called you a know-it-all? Do people tend to grimace or roll their eyes when you are sharing your expertise? It's very possible you are butting in where you are not wanted. I know, I know, you're only trying to help. Much like me writing this post. I know. You just know lots and want to share it with everyone. It makes you feel good. It makes you feel superior. It fills emotional voids in your life. It feeds your ego. You know more than they do. "Ha ha" implied. Well. That's one great thing about blogs. People like you can prattle on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on about how much you know. And by posting it on the blog, you are not actually boring anyone to tears or offending anyone's intelligence or skill by talking down to them. If they read your blog, it's because they want to read it. They might even seek out your advice via a search engine. Keep it that way. Unless someone comes to you and says, "Hey, you know a lot about pre war German abstract expressionism, right? I was wondering about this painting I saw, maybe you could help me out by telling me everything you know about it and the entire expressionist movement." keep your mouth shut about it. Not everyone shares your enthusiasm. Not everyone wants your opinion. Some people like to do their own research. And for those of you who think you know everything about everything? You don't. You, and everyone else on this planet, are ignorant. Shut up and let someone else speak. Think of it this way: You can learn a lot when you listen to other people. Still don't get it? You probably never will. But. One other thing to consider: The more of your wisdom you share with the same people, the less value your opinion has to them. I know, that can seem like nonsense to someone like you. Trust me. It's inverse logic and sociology. You're smart, look it up, do some research.
If you're a one trick pony, a good trick, but one trick nonetheless, do not steer every conversation to your one and only trick. Sample conversation don't: "That new restaurant on Main is really great. I had lunch there today and it was good. I brought a few take out menus if you want to check it out."
"What kind of art do they have?"
"Um, art? I don't know, regular art I guess. I didn't really notice."
"I suppose they don't have any pre war German expressionistic influenced art. When I eat I like to be in a Kirchner frame of mind. Any of the Brücke group, really. I find the graphic and violent themes make an interesting back drop to the process of processing and consuming food."
There's a thin line between being helpful or interesting and being an obnoxious, boring braggart.
Do you kiss (or any intimate act) and tell? No? Give yourself 10 points. Yes? -20 points. Get a room for your mouth. If you absolutely have to tell someone about your latest pull or even kiss, for the love of Emily Post, keep your tales of titillation to a very close friend who actually cares about you and might, possibly, be interested in knowing about your latest adventures in Kama Sutra. No one else wants to know about it or should know about it. This is not just for the sake of your reputation. This is a case where your words have a direct effect on someone else. Discretion = Valor. Valor = Dignity. Dignity = Respect. Respect = Trust. Trust = Successful relationship. Do the math and keep quiet about your romantic conquests. Besides, keeping quiet and discreet about your romantic life adds an air of mystery which will come in handy when you hit a dry spell or that super hot date fizzles into a cold night in front of the telly. No one will be the wiser and you will maintain a shred of (at least) outward dignity.
Do you over or under tip? Give yourself 10 points if you always tip 15% - 20%.
Tip more or less than 15% - 20%? No points for you. 15% - 20%. Is the rule. If you don't like it, don't go out to eat or drink, don't take a cab, don't get your hair done, don't use valet service, don't order lap dances.
Undertipping, except in very extreme and rare circumstances says: I do not care about you or your financial problems. I know the rules but I'm not playing that game. No one tips me for doing my job.
Okay. A slightly valid point. But you probably earn at least minimum wage. Yes. It's a game. And I agree, going out is expensive. By the time you get through an average night on the town with taxi/valet, drinks and dinner you can easily spend $20 per person on tips. I know. It's a huge hunk of money for service people who "did nothing except bring food to the table/coat from a rack/car from a parking lot." But it's the accepted norm and many service people are paid less than minimum wage. Very few have health insurance. They do not have the basics most "regular" jobs provide. Play the tip game or stay home.
Overtipping happens one of two ways: Bad math skills or the desire to impress by flashing a lot of cash to send a "hey, I'm loaded" or "hey, I'm a nice, charitable person - see how much I tip? See? Look at all that money I left!" message. In the case of lap dances, a "hey, baby, I've got cash to spend and there's more where that came from if you know what I mean." In some cases that same lap dance message is sent to wait staff, coat check people, etc. Most of these people are not actually prostitutes for hire. Don't treat them as such.
If overtipping is the result of bad math skills, it will be obvious to everyone you are not an egotistical show-off by your theretofore dignified and classy behavior. Take 10% of the total bill. That's easy math. Even I can do it. 10% of $24.75 is $2.48 (I always round up). Now double that. Oooh. That's tricky math after a few drinks and without paper and pen. I know. No problem. Round up to the closest easiest math. $2.50. $2.50 + $2.50 = $5.00.
And yes, you really are supposed to leave a few dollars a day for the housekeeping staff in a hotel.
Do you own diamond anything? No? Give yourself 10 points. Yes? 0 points and plea for you to learn The Truth behind those shiny hunks of rock. That ain't class, baby, it's bling. Bling is typically not classy. Because bling is showy. Bling is saying, "look at me! Look at me! No really! I mean it! Look at me! Dammit! Look at me! I'm wearing shiny stuff!" An engagement ring, smaller than 1 carat, or solitaire earrings or a necklace smaller than 1 carat can be tasteful, and yes, classy. If and only if they are smaller than 1 carat and set in a simple and minimal setting. If you're thinking, "Trillian, I really love diamonds and I'm not otherwise showy..." I would recommend a little research on the DeBeers family, the diamond mining trade and the human rights issues therein. If the image of Snoop Dogg doesn't convince you, maybe a little nagging at your social conscience will. ***
Do you own apparel with a name other than your own emblazoned on it? No? Give yourself 10 points. Yes? -5 points for each article of logo emblazoned clothing. I know, I know. I'm one to talk, I like my fashion as much as the next girl. And I just love the Puma cat and Campy the Marshmallow rocks my world. However. Draw the line at being a walking billboard. This is actually more of a subhead of bling. We all like nice things, nice clothes, nice shoes, I mean, it's part of the reason we work jobs we hate. But splaying that expensive designer's name across your chest/arm/bum is a) not classy, b) not impressing anyone other than other people with designers' names splayed across a part of their body, and c) a very snobby thing to do. Why not just go up to complete strangers and say, "Hi. I paid more for my shirt than you paid for that heap you call a car. It's from (the designer's) Spring collection which is very exclusive and expensive. I'm telling you this because you obviously don't know anything about fashion. I'm prettier than you. I'm richer than you. I'm better than you in every way because I can afford to buy overpriced clothing and walk around advertising the brand. Yes. I allow the brand to use me. I pay them to use me. It feels good. I like it. Because I'm prettier than you and richer than you because I have this designer garment. See? There's the name of the designer, right there. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. Just in case you don't realize I have class, you can tell I do by the designer name on my chest/bum."
Do you drop names? No? 10 points. But be honest. Yes? -10 points. Dropping names is not limited to "I had drinks with Quentin Tarantino at Dive." Dropping names, any name, is to assume and presume a lot about the person to whom you are speaking. You either assume they know who the person attached to the name you just dropped is, and presume they care. Or you assume they don't know the person attached to said dropped name, and presume you are better than them because you do and will go to great lengths to show off how much better you are because you can drop names. This goes for brands, restaurants, companies and jargon...and this is why I say be honest. Have you ever said, "I got some new Pumas at Fleet Feet!" or "We had cocktails at W." or "I'm interviewing with Giganticorp. They're an IPO on Hoover's hot list and they're offering me a position with stock options including an equity buyout." Okay. Know your audience. If you are speaking to a friend or relative and you know they understand that last sentence, no problem. If you're speaking to a friend who suggested or frequents W, or who shares your love of shoes or sneakers or Puma, then fine, go ahead, share the joy. But in general conversation, don't brag. Don't assume. Don't presume. Don't make other people feel inferior or out of the loop or stupid by throwing around names and jargon.
Are you a topper? No? 10 points for you. Yes? No points for you. You can get a life by working on your self esteem issues. What's a topper? A person who one ups and tops every conversation point. You might say, "hey, the new iPod Shuffles are finally in. You know what? I think I'm going to finally get one."
Topper will say, "I wouldn't get a Shuffle. I got a 60 gig photo Pod last Fall. I have a friend at Apple. I got it a week before they were available in stores. The Shuffles are fine for little kids. But I need real power and storage."
Not only is this person a topper, they're a geek. (Hey, I love my Pod, too, I know. I'm just saying. Be careful.) If this is an isolated incident, chalk it up to enthusiasm for a particular item. However, a true topper will one up everything. It won't stop at the iPod. Toppers know no limits. No matter what you have, they have a better one and have had it longer. Buying a car? They will be the first to tell you how bad your choice of model is, and how much better their car is, and all the great cars they have owned in the past. Brown bagging your sandwich to work? They'll analyze, critique and condemn the contents of your lunch compared to the high nutrition and quality of their lunch. Break your ankle? They will have broken their femur, knee cap and both ankles skiing in Switzerland 10 years ago. That's right. A topper's work is never done. They are also prone to obsessive exaggeration and lying.
Do you have a pet/child named after a resort area/hotel, expensive brand of anything, or a "famous" last name? No? 10 enthusiastic points to you. Yes? No points for you. Do you live in an actual soap opera? Words of gentle caution: Naming your pet or child Aspen, Dunhill, Lexus, or Windsor does not give them or you instant class. Would you name your child or pet Jackson Hole? Yugo? Vlad? (I'm sure it's been done so please spare me the email telling me of these poor children/animals) No one, I repeat NO ONE is going to say, "Wow, her name is Hampton. She must be really classy with a name like that. I bet her parents have Summer home in the Hamptons. I don't even know her but I already know she's rich and classy because her name is Hampton." No one is going to think, "Ahhh, his name is Dubonnet. Obviously he is well bred and full of class." Just because your child is going to be saddled with the last name Finklesworthens is no reason to try class up the kid's name with some pretentious or noble sounding first name. Even if your great grandfather was the Arch Duke of Lower Boravia, naming your child Boravia or Hapsburg isn't going to instantly pave their way into royal society so that you and your family can reclaim what it rightfully yours.
Unfortunate but acceptable exceptions: Portia and Mercedes. If, and only if, the child was borne of the cultural heritage from whence those names are native.
Calling "Here Windsor, come on Windsor" to your dog in the park is not going to make people stop and look around for Prince William/Harry/Charles. I promise. It is not going to make anyone think you are in fact a member of the Windsor family. It may make a few wonder if you're from Windsor, Canada. Which you know, hey, is not all bad. It has a great casino and lots of strip clubs, both even more classy with the Canadian exchange rate.
Ditto adding La, L', De' D', Le, L' to any old regular name in an effort to make it sound high class. These are French articles meaning "the." What you are doing by naming your child LaRochelle is naming her The Rochelle. Which sounds like a flea bite motor court. Like Chinese fortune cookie fortunes with the "in bed" trick, translating the French article in front of a name always works and never fails to produce a name which sounds like a flea bite motor court with hourly rates. And why French? Why not Das Rochelle or Den Mark? 50 years ago the French had a good run with fashion design. France is the home of champagne. They've turned out a few good artists. They make a darned good cheese or two. But they are far from the last word on class. Have you actually been to France?
And please use caution when choosing cultural or literary names. Borrowing from obscure Welsh poetry or choosing little known Shakespeare characters does not grant instant intelligence, beauty or class to a child. Be prepared to spend a lifetime explaining the child's name, how to spell it and what drugs you were taking when you made the selection. Be prepared for a lot of therapy along with orthodontics when your child is in high school.
Possibly even worse is the "trend" for naming a child after the place in which it was conceived. Consider that this is prevalent with the has been boy banders and soccer players coupled with 18 year old girls community and perhaps you will realize this is not a classy thing to do. (The worst I've heard yet is a child, I kid you not, named Peninsula. I think you can guess what hotel her parents got down and freaky in the night she was conceived. They call her Penny. How charming. They never fail to explain why they named their daughter Peninsula. Equally charming.)
Do you wear perfume/cologne/aftershave/heavily scented bath and beauty products to work or places where you will be in close smelling range of others with whom you are not intimate? Like movie theaters, airplanes and schoolrooms? No? Give yourself 10 points. Yes? -10 points for you. Okay, we all know this is a huge personal issue for me. But guess what? It's a huge personal issue for a lot of people. People rank it right up there with smoking as an offensive behavior. Yes. Really. Asthma's on the rise, and many perfumes "expensive" and "cheap" alike will send asthmatics into coughing fits. When I wrote about Creepy Perfume Guy, many people, many, many people, wrote telling me of dates and evenings gone horribly wrong because of perfume. Stinking up the joint, ruining complete strangers' night out at the theatre, or vacations due to being trapped next to a strong smelling copassenger on an airplane is not a class maneuver. I repeat: It is not about money. The most expensive perfumes are many times the most pure, meaning, directly derived from plants/flowers. Meaning, instead of wearing that flower blend which reminds you of Spring in Alsace, you might as well send an asthmatic out to roll in a field of ragweed. Save the scents for those special times with just you and someone special.
Story problem #1 You are at a business dinner. You are seated at a round table. There are a lot of plates and cutlery and glasses in front of you. You know the rules of etiquette about their uses and which ones are yours to use. You know the small plate on the left, the one the waiter just plunked a dinner roll on, is "your" bread plate. The person seated on your left, a colleague, commences buttering and eating the bread off your bread plate, leaving their bread (on their left) untouched.
Do you: a) Give them a dirty look, a scowl and roll of eyes indicating, "sigh, again with the breach of etiquette Simpson? Really, will you never learn?"
b) Address the table with thinly veiled humor, "We're all going to have to shift our bread gears to the right" with a pointed and prolonged look at Simpson who is just about to bite into his bread.
c) Say nothing, do nothing except forgo bread, you're trying to cut back on carbs anyway, there's a full meal ahead of you, you don't need a piece of bread, the table is crowded, the last thing you'd do is call attention to your colleague's confusion over a bread plate, it would make you and consequently your company look bad and it's a stupid piece of bread, it doesn't matter.
a) = -30 points and a bitch slap to your conscience. b) = -20 points and a copy of Emily Post as required cover to cover reading. c) = 10 points.
Story problem #2: The following two paragraphs describe the same events. Choose which paragraph sounds most like how you would describe a Sunday.
a) It was a freak warm March day. I rose early even though my new 800 thread count sheets were all but begging me to stay in them. I went up to the roof deck to do my pranayama in front of the panorama of the sunrise over Lake Michigan. I then read the Times and Journal which I have delivered to my door. I just finished Kristof and my Tazo Chai when the breeze off the Lake beckoned me through my shiny, sleek, smooth gliding thermopane windows. Feeling buoyed by a bout of Spring fever, I went to the bike room and retrieved the Panther, topped off the air in the tires using the complimentary air hose provided in my building and then rolled out for a lovely ride along the banks of Lake Michigan. I did a half century, with a break at 25 for a Perrier and veg classic rustico at All Sprouts. When I arrived home I was so re-energized I finally sorted my collection of rare and first edition books. I capped off the day with trip round to Masons with the MacPhersons for Sapphire and tonics.
b) It was a freak warm March day. I rose early and went up to the roof deck to greet the sunrise by doing some exercise on the deck. I then read the papers over a cup of tea while I enjoyed a nice breeze through the opened for the first time this year windows. Feeling buoyed by a bout of Spring fever, I took out the bike (boy is it great to have an air hose onsite) and then rolled out for a long ride. I haven't been on the bike in a while, so I broke up the ride with a lunch break at the halfway point. When I got home I finally started sorting the books I still hadn't unpacked. Later that night I met some friends for drinks.
If you chose paragraph a -10 points for you. If you chose paragraph b 10 points for you.
-100 - 0 - You are what's wrong with society. You probably work in network television or real estate. There's little hope for your class salvation. You probably aren't reading this because you think you ooze class and don't need to read some stupid blog to learn about class. If you are reading this, hi and welcome to my blog you classless, rude, obnoxious cad. Stick around, everyone's welcome here. This should be interesting for all of us. 0 - 20 - You've got issues. Work on them. I'll help if you want but some serious self introspection and a little counseling are probably what you need to get in the right frame of mind. 30 - 50 - Okay. Look. I'm not calling you a cad. But. Only because I'm trying to set a good example. Maybe you haven't had the opportunities other people have. Maybe you can grow and learn. Maybe you're a jerk. If you cared enough to read this, you care enough to want to at least make a good impression on someone. So try. Please. Try. 60 - 70 - You push your behavior to the limit, and then redeem yourself with a truly classy deed or word. If this is just how you are, 40% class, 60% rude or snob, well, I mean, you're not ALL bad. If pushing limits is a game you play, grow up and get over yourself. 80 - 100 - Hey! You're normal! If it weren't for a few items in your wardrobe and your need to share your knowledge with anyone who will listen you'd be a full class act. Why not put those garments to good use at a charity shop? Why not share your knowledge with people who could really benefit, like children or disabled people? Big Brothers/Big Sisters desperately needs volunteers to spend time with children who need a good role model who really cares about them and their future. (Trust me, this may be the single most rewarding thing you ever do.) 110 - 120 - Maybe you just haven't learned all the rules yet. Work on it, ask yourself a few questions before speaking or acting, remember the Golden Rule and you'll be oozing class in no time. 130 - 140 - Good job. You know the rules, but sometimes you break them. You're near the head of class. You don't want to be at the head anyway, because you don't want to be teacher's pet. 150 - 160 - You're a class act. Change your name to Mehatma. Seriously. You've earned it.
Do you see a trend emerging here? Yes? Do you get that class is about having manners, being a polite, selfless and kind member of society and not stooping to rude, stupid or showy behaviors for attention or money? Good. I'm glad. You're a class act. I thought so.
*Also includes pointing out and correcting the grammar, "etiquette" and matters of personal taste of others.
**Notable exceptions: Emily Post, Miss Manners, your grade 5 grammar teacher.
*** A word or two on Snoop Dogg. Snoop, you know I love you. But you are a good point of reference as the King of Bling. I know, it's your thing. You're the original and you do it well. I'm not saying you have no class. I know you quietly do loads of charity work letting the charities take center stage instead of yourself. Mr. Elton John, a mere bling rookie in your shadow, could take a page from your Book of Class.
3:07 PM
