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, April 28, 2005
Someone always beats me to the punchline.
Bo Bice, you are clearly more on your game than I am. I salute you. Dude, man, you so rock. You have succeeded where others have failed. You have made a mockery of the American Idol franchise and for that I am forever in your debt. Debauched, deflowered, tarnished and otherwise scared the daylights out of a lot of pabulum fed public. Oh sure, your plan wasn't as good as mine, but then, you've been laying the groundwork for a while. It takes a lot of time and effort to get a multi-offence narcotics rap sheet. Nice work. Dude, man, the part where you had Smoking Gun "reveal" your narc sheet? Man that was genius. So awesome. When your gig ends you've got a great career in marketing ahead of you.
I'm sure you'll be the clear candidate endorsed by George W., and the South American Tourism Board and White Castle are going to want to get in on the sponsor gig.
The only problem is going to be Tipper Gore and the gang over at PMRC and moral majority. I hear there's a "Just Say No to Bo!" campaign in the works. Thing is, dude, they didn't bring down Prince and I'll bet you can get Dee Snyder and Alice Cooper to speak out for you. Man that would be so awesome.
And dude, man, I cannot wait for Weird Al night! You are so going to rule with What if God Smoked Cannabis. I'm really sorry I missed all of your perfomances. On '70s night did you do One Toke Over the Line? That would be a good cover for your first cd. Clapton's doing a lot of sell out endorsements these days, I bet he'd be down with a cover of Cocaine.Do you like Dylan? I bet he'd be in on a little Rainy Day Women cover action. You guys could do a duet. That would be awesome. And please, please, please tell me you did Hash Pipe on modern hits night.
The offers are going to pour in for double billed tours. Phish and Weezer will be keen on having you open for them, though I think you should hold out for opening act on the Green Day American Idiot tour. That would be so awesome, dude. Can you see the guys at FOX and 19 cringing over that?! Sweet.
Is there a meth lab in the basement of the Idol mansion? I was just in LA and I noticed tin foil on windows of a big house. I just assumed it was Robert Downey, Jr.'s place, but maybe it was the Idol mansion.
You know how Kelly and Justin made that cd promo movie? You could do that, too! A remake of Blow with you in the John Depp role seems like the perfect choice. Or, better still, Courtney Love could use a vehicle right now, what about a remake of Sid and Nancy? Introduce the joy of heroin and the ugly underbelly of the punk scene to a whole new group of kids! And the great thing about that is that Courtney could still be a sleazy drug addicted punk rock wannabe. Isn't it great how she never changes? A real role model for young girls. That's why this would be such a great movie and vehicle for you and recording career. Working title: From Bo to Courtney Hey, I just realized Bo rhymes with blow. That would be a great title for your first cd. Bo Blows. Bo Does Blow. Blow Bo. The possibilities are endless, and the double entendres just keep coming.
You better be ready for all those new products they're going to have to hastily add to the merchandising line. Since I can't be Universe Idol, I thought I'd at least help you out with some of your marketing needs. I put together a marketing team and we've been hard at work on the re-imaging of the Idol brand. We worked up a little art for you to use:
T-shirts are popular, here's a basic design:
And you probably want to get in on the "paraphernalia" (he he he he) market. We think these are going to be very popular. 9:22 PM
Tuesday, April 26, 2005 LA Woman Well, I just got into town about an hour ago Took a look around, see which way the wind blow Where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows
Everyone else is doing it, why shouldn't I?
Why I Should Be the Next American Idol
By Tricia McMillian
I think I should be the next American Idol because I can't sing. I mean I really cannot sing. I couldn't carry a tune in a basket! Something happens to the notes on the way from my brain to my voice and they come out really off key and unpleasant.
But! That doesn't stop me from being passionate about music! In fact, it only fuels my burning fires of passion for music even more!
And I do have musical ability! I was first chair clarinet throughout my school years, I was in the orchestra, jazz and stage bands! I also played oboe and dabbled with saxophone! I was very woodwindy. If it has a reed I seem to be capable with it.
Okay, so, music isn't my life, because my life is my life. And I haven't picked up an instrument since school. But music is a huge part of my life. The soundtrack part. Which is a pretty big part of any show. Soundtracks get a bad rap, especially with the whole '80s soundtrack movies and subsequent teen music vehicle movies and shows like Dawson's Creek and The OC thing. I totally understand why soundtrack has a bad connotation. But most of us have a soundtrack to our lives. If a person doesn't have a soundtrack, even a few songs, I don't trust them. I once went out with a guy who claimed he didn't like music. Period. I believed him, I didn't try to change him or debate him, but the fact that he claimed to not like music, period, even if he was lying, was but one indication that he was not a) the guy for me and b) an altogether functioning human being.
I love, love LOVE, L-O-V-E music. I hear it all the time, even when there's no music actually playing I still have songs and tunes running through my head. All sorts of songs.
Which is one of the main reasons why I should be the next American Idol. Heck, I should be the Universe Idol.
You may be wondering why a person who admits she cannot carry a tune in a basket should feel she has a right to lay claim to the title Universe Idol.
Fair enough. Being passionate about music and being clever with a reeded instrument in school bands isn't really qualification enough. Just because Frank Sinatra managed to wiggle out a 50+ year career in music and all he ever did was talk and sing one word or two with heavy backing instrumentals doesn't mean anyone else can. I know. We won't get fooled again.
I should be Universe Idol because I know a ton of songs and because I know how the biz works and I know it's all marketing and hype and that musical talent has absolutely nothing to do with success in the biz.
I also have nothing but loathing, contempt and disdain for recording industry executives.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking why would I want to involve myself in a business, a biz, for which I have nothing but loathing, contempt and disdain? You're thinking that Prince fellow has much the same outlook and incredible talent, he can sing and does things with a guitar no mortal should be able to do and has something to say yet still pens a swutting irresistibly naughty and guiltily stupid but lovable song AND he's proved he can do it on his own, his way, so really, based on my theory, shouldn't he be the Universe Idol? Isn't that pretty much undisputed?
Well yeah. There's Prince. Everyone always brings up Prince. I know. I'm not worthy to even walk in his shadow. All hail Prince. I agree.
But. He's an actual God.
Not a mere idol.
And that's the next reason why I should be Universe Idol.
Have you looked up the term idol lately?
Here, I'll do it for you:
1 : a representation or symbol of an object of worship; broadly : a false god 2 a : a likeness of something b obsolete : PRETENDER, IMPOSTOR 3 : a form or appearance visible but without substance 4 : an object of extreme devotion < a movie idol >; also : IDEAL 2 5 : a false conception : FALLACY
That's right! While not comfortable with the concept of false gods (unlike recording biz execs whose souls are contractually bound to Satan and therefore have no problem creating as many false gods as the public will buy), I am a likeness of something (I haven't figured out what, yet, but I am certain I am the likeness of something), and I DO pretend and am an impostor when it comes to actually being able to, you know, sing, I am a form and visable appearance completely without musical substance, okay the extreme devotion thing might be an issue, but if Britney Spears can do it certainly I should be able to find a place, ideal? well, I have ideals, so that should count for something, and finally, false conception, a fallacy. My singing ability is indeed a fallacy. Just like Britney Spears.
I often wonder if anyone who watches Pop Idol, American Idol, World Idol understands what the word idol means. I suspect they haven't bothered to look it up. I suspect they aren't old enough to have studied for their college entrance exams, or they probably didn't score well in the verbal part of their exams if they are old enough.
Words are important. Language is important. Communication is key. You might want to be sure you fully understand the meaning of the words and terms you bandy about.
Because you can be certain the producers and lawyers have done their homework.
They are very, very aware of the ironic joke they're playing and laughing all the way to the bank. When anyone questions the talent, quality and substance of the show and the sickly sweet pabulum (insipid, simplistic, or bland) it generates, the producers are quick to say, "We're just giving the public what it wants." with a smug, self satisfied shrug of shoulders. Their lawyers then whip out the gazillion paged document outlining the responsibilities of the show, wherein the term idol is clearly defined. They'll even insert the synonyms to prove they are right and the viewing public is stupid: American False God, American Pretender, American Impostor, American Appearance Without Substance, American Ideal.
American Fallacy.
"See?" They'll smarmily say, "We never said we were going to give you talent or anything real or in fact any substance whatsoever!"
(I love the UK versions of those, especially Pop Imposter. So succinct. So double entendre. So funny.)
Right. So. Now that we're all clear on the meaning of the title Universe Idol, it's making more sense someone like me, someone who couldn't sing in tune to save her life, but who loves to sing anyway, who loves music and has a broad, broad knowledge of music, someone who hates the recording biz and the people in it and, probably most importantly, someone with a background in marketing. Speaking of impostors and fallacy. Wouldn't it be great if the Universe Idol was so false they beat the biz guys (and they are all guys, dirty old men in any other walk of life) at their own game?
Yeah. That victory would be sweet.
Right now some of you who know about these things are thinking, "Uh, Trill, this has been done. Last year there was this guy, William Hung, who was really bad and people loved him and he's got a recording gig and a tour and everything."
Ah yes. Mr. Hung.
I applaud him. And good luck to him. But. He's got a gimmick. He's cute. He's trying really hard. He's an everydork. He's the voice inside us that says "c'mon, give it a go, the worst that will happen is you'll make someone laugh." He's got that smarmy "I believe in myself and so all things are possible" attitude. Let's face it, the guy is likable. He's likable because he's too bad to be anything other than sincere.
I'm not.
I'm cheeky. I'm irreverant. I'm sarcastic. There is very little I take seriously. Yeah, I'm jaded. So I'm ahead of the game. We can skip the whole falling out with the record company over artistic differences bit and go straight to the long hiatus while the contract runs down. I know a lot about marketing. I have a plan. I have ulterior motives. And I want to do this for the sole purpose of sticking it to a bunch of dirty old men taking advantage of not only young hopefuls, but of the consuming public. (Okay, so yeah, I am sincere in that aspect. But it's an insincere sincerity.)
The really great part about this adventure is that I will have a chance to expose the apparently so pabulum fed they don't know any better public to some really great songs.
If I botch them so badly the original artists will rush to their programing buyers to get their originals on air so that people will understand these songs are actually really good, they were just performed really badly. (You can thank me later.)
And there's the subversively genius part of my diabolical plan. (bwa ha ha implied)
This is all about getting better music in the psyche of the population. Better living through better music. People are a mess partially because they've got really bad music being forced into their subconscious. Television advertising and the worst enemy: Music piped into public spaces. I happen to pay attention to piped in music in public spaces. You should, too. There's an entire industry based on music played in public places. There are researchers, psychologists, sociologists and recording company execs who study music patterns and how people react not only to certain tempos, but certain songs. Certain songs can actually plant seeds for needs, like, more pizza rolls, for instance. This is good for merchants and good for recording companies. You're humming along to the latest churned out fodder, you're buying pizza rolls, everybody wins except the consumer whose mind was messed with and came home earwormed with a song they hate and with pizza rolls they didn't really want. And to be fair, it's not just the churned out current fodder. Next time you're shopping pay attention to what you hear. You will probably discover at some point you will hear a song you actually like, maybe an older song, maybe something that reminds you of high school. And pizza rolls. The song makes you happy. Pizza rolls make you happy. You buy the pizza rolls, go home, go online, and lookee there! That song from high school is on a compilation cd due out next week! And look at all those other great songs on there! And there's going to be a reunion tour! Sweet!
This is not a coincidence.
Nothing in the Universe is random. Got it? Good.
Learn to live by that rule and you will have a long and prosperous career in marketing.
My plan is to foil the evil music empire by playing their own game. The above mentioned plan should get better music in the psyche of the Universe and maybe, well, who knows. Maybe better things will happen.
Hear me now, believe me later: Get some decent music in peoples' heads and things will get better.
And once I am crowned Universe Idol, I will disappear. Never to be heard from again.
And that is the best reason why I should be Universe Idol.
Perhaps the rest of the gang will watch and learn from me and the Universe will finally be rid of this evil empire threatening our very way of life.
Mr. Mojo Risin'
Well, I just got into town about an hour ago Took a look around, see which way the wind blow Where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows
Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light Or just another lost angel...City of Night City of Night, City of Night, City of Night, woo, c'mon
L.A. Woman, L.A. Woman L.A. Woman Sunday afternoon L.A. Woman Sunday afternoon L.A. Woman Sunday afternoon Drive thru your suburbs Into your blues, into your blues, yeah Into your blue-blue Blues Into your blues, ohh, yeah
I see your hair is burnin' Hills are filled with fire If they say I never loved you You know they are a liar Drivin' down your freeways Midnite alleys roam Cops in cars, the topless bars Never saw a woman... So alone, so alone So alone, so alone
Motel Money Murder Madness Let's change the mood from glad to sadness
Mr. Mojo Risin', Mr. Mojo Risin' Mr. Mojo Risin', Mr. Mojo Risin' Got to keep on risin' Mr. Mojo Risin', Mr. Mojo Risin' Mojo Risin', gotta Mojo Risin' Mr. Mojo Risin', gotta keep on risin' Risin', risin' Gone risin', risin' I'm gone risin', risin' I gotta risin', risin' Well, risin', risin' I gotta, wooo, yeah, risin' Woah, ohh yeah
Well, I just got into town about an hour ago Took a look around, see which way the wind blow Where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows
Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light Or just another lost angel...City of Night City of Night, City of Night, City of Night, woah, c'mon
L.A. Woman, L.A. Woman L.A. Woman, your my woman Little L.A. Woman, Little L.A. Woman L.A. L.A. Woman Woman L.A. Woman c'mon 8:49 PM
Monday, April 25, 2005
Here's a sentence I didn't think I'd ever say:
"So I was watching Star Wars yesterday..."
I worked Saturday. I drank Saturday night. I was in a bad mood Sunday. A funkier funk than normal. I was laid out on the couch. It came on, the cat was in my lap, and this is how these things happen. And so it was that I spent my one free afternoon of the weekend - my time off - tired, cranky, sock mouthed and watching Star Wars.
Maybe my mental state had something to do with my opinion of the movie. Maybe I just don't get it. So spare me the email. Don't try to convince me it's the best movie ever.
A) Luke Skywalker: Jerk.
B) Princess Leia: Typical "ooh ooh I'm woman hear me roar but oooh oooh a snakelike thing oooh help help save me save me, I'll come onto any guy I'm with, lead or otherwise, if it'll get me a part in the sequel" female sidekick/love interest. Though who can blame her in the case of Harrison Ford.
C) Harrison Ford: Hubba hubba. Hubba hubba hubba. Oh my. Hubba hubba. Sardonic smile, check. Sexy swagger, check. Trillian salivating and falling off the couch, check.
D) R2D2 and C3P0: Annoying and useless apart from George Lucas' pandering for "oooh ahh look, robots" attention.
E) Chewbacca: Who knew George Lucas read the Weekly World News? Apparently he's big on Big Foot. Or a Harry and the Hendersons fan. Annoying.
F) Yoda: Fozzy Bear without the humor. Though I will say this: Dobby in the Harry Potter series, whom I find equally annoying, is a total Yoda rip-off.
G) Darth Vader: Hot. I mean literally. He must be hot in that get-up.
H) Billy Dee Williams: Why?
I) Storm Troopers: Dumb plastic men.
J) Jabba the Hutt: Another stupid grab at the special effects Oscar.
Oh yeah. Obi Wan. Whatever. I'm not big on spectral visions who dole out sage advice but never really get in there and do anything. I could do that. The WWJD implication is too forced and too overused. That voice in my head thing is too forced and overused. Ben, you want to help the boy? Tell him to join a boy band and leave the bravado and integrity to Harrison Ford. Oh. And clue him in about Leia, would you? The kiss on the lips thing was really uncomfortable for everyone. It made Luke look gay, Leia look condescending and Harrison look like a loser. Harrison is not a loser. Even if he was frozen in carbonite.
A bunch of other characters who bring nothing to the movie or the plot. Pointless except for giving ample opportunity for re-writes and story modifications when needed later in the series and rounding out the ranks of re-enactors at conventions. There are always people who like to be obscure bit players claiming to actually be an integral and key role in the movie. (Simpson's Comic Book Guy voice implied)
So apart from Harrison Ford, an entirely stupid waste of an afternoon.
No offense Star Wars, um, "fans." Everyone needs a hobby.
But wow.
What a really bad movie.
I know, I know, the special effects, the ground breaking technical achievements. The story which never seems to end.
Whatever.
It's a stupid movie.
Still. Harrison Ford.
That's what's got me pondering.
Harrison Ford was enough to keep me in front of the television. Okay, Harrison Ford and a Wookiee sized hangover, but still. He's a draw. He's the reason I have seen Indiana Jones more times than a sane, intelligent person should view it. And I have a female friend who openly admits to having a thing for Mark Hamill. Don't ask, I don't get it either, but there are women who find him to be salivation worthy. These are usually the same women who find boys in boy bands "cute." So Mark Hamill: Boy band cute. No Harrison Ford, mind you. And Billy Dee Williams is not exactly lacking in sex appeal. Even though I cannot figure out why he was cast in that role, and the fact that I was distracted enough to be thinking, "Why'd they cast him in that role..." speaks to the weak plot of the movie, he's got a certain something certain women find very appealing. (In guy speak that translates to, "I'd do him.") And there are a bunch of guys in Star Trek rip-off costumes (I don't care what they're called, don't write to tell me) who are not lacking in the looks department. These are the same guys who play Nazis in movies like Das Boot. (Which is a good movie.) I'm not saying I find Nazis attractive. I'm not pro Nazi. I'm saying there's a look, a certain kind of guy who is always cast in that sort of role. They're supposed to blend into the background. They're filler. But they're usually pretty okay looking. (In guy speak that translates to, "I'd do him.")
There is one woman in the movie. One. Leia. And I like Carrie Fisher. Postcards from the Edge is very good. But. There's one woman in the entire movie. One woman. One not exactly Angelina Jolie woman. Oh wait, the Aunt Bea person. Again, not exactly teaming with the hottie factor.
Right. So. We have Carrie Fisher and a bunch of okay looking men.
And yet Star Wars fans are primarily men. I realize it's all about the battles and cool spacecraft and wild characters, after all, the name of the movie is Star Wars. You know how us chicks are, all weak and passive and everything. We don't like to get dirty or go to war.
I like a rollicking round of Space Invaders as much as the next person. Okay, maybe more than the next person. And I like science fiction. And I like science fact. And I love a good special effect. And you won't see me protest a good looking guy. So you'd think I would love Star Wars.
But I don't.
Maybe it was the hangover or the fact that Harrison Ford wasn't in the scene, but the whole Luke playing in the swamp with Yoda and R2D2 was snore inducing. Yoda in sentence misstructured, speaking, is really annoying and thin, wears. Who wants to work that hard at keeping up with dialog? Subtitles the guy, give. Overwith, get it. Ship lift already. Harrison Ford now, bring.
It was at that point when I thought, "okay, enough, comfy as I am I cannot watch any more of this."
And of course, sensing female dismay at the plot, they are, there's a break to Harrison Ford and Leia. A rather innocent yet fraught with innuendo and overtones and undercurrent scene which is enough to keep women in their seats.
But what about the men?
That got me thinking. I know men like to fancy themselves as Harrison Ford types, and some men fancy Leia types. But why would a guy like this scene? Why would a guy like this movie?
And then, like a vision, a message from Obi Wan himself, I thought, "Think about the average Star Wars fan. He hasn't had a date with a woman since...well...maybe ever."
And then I thought, "That's a cliché, Obi Wan. A lot of normal guys like Star Wars."
"Ah, young grasshopper, I mean Jedi, is too lenient and open minded about Star Wars fans. Did young Jedi not go out with a closet Storm Trooper re-enactor? And was it not one of the most miserable experiences of her life? Was he not odd in a bad way? Was he not completely inept at conversation and human interaction? Did he not beg young Jedi to fashion her hair in braids?"
"Well, yeah, but, I mean, there were other factors. I don't blame his lack of personality on Star Wars..."
"Silence! Young grasshopper, erm, Jedi, was given a chance to learn a lesson! She must learn, accept, evolve and move on! Star Wars fans are a breed apart from other people. There is no place for female interaction in their lives! Look! Look at this movie! The facts are right there in front of young Jedi! There's one woman in this movie! One! And she's no Angelina Jolie if you know what I mean! There are a bunch of hot guys and one woman! Good for her, bad for them! What man in his sexually mature mind would want to join this Empire?"
"You're right, Obi Wan, master, of course. You know all. Forgive my insolence. I will never date another Star Wars fan. I know it will hurt and offend some people. Maybe even people I care about. But I will no longer cut slack to people, men, who stand in long lines for tickets to Star Wars movies or go to Star Wars conventions. The ways of the Jedi dater are clear to me now."
Saturday, April 23, 2005
It does pay to study the seemingly stupid studies.
Ugly girls: Stare. Stare at men and don't avert your gaze. This will apparently turn the perception of you into that of a breathtaking love goddess. It may feel like you're coming across as a sociopathic freak pointing a gaze of death at men, what with your wide eyed unblinking stare in their direction, but apparently men will find you to be more attractive if you don't stop looking at them.
Funny, I thought it was rude to stare. I thought making eye contact, batting a lash or two to signify interest and then a polite (and coy) break of eye contact was how the game was played. I thought you're supposed to avert your gaze to give the other person an out if they're not interested or drive them wild with "I gotta have her now because she's aloof" if they are interested.
But apparently guerilla tactics, take 'em by force of non averting stare is a good way to increase the perception of your beauty.
And boost the male ego.
Ugly people don't need extreme makeovers or DNA replacement treatments, we just have to stare.
Sure, some people may find us creepy and weird (and impolite) but at least they'll find us less ugly.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Trying to get the hang of Thursday... Today, a Very Special Trillian
Trillian finds herself in an unusual dilemma and realizes she may have to take steps backward to go forward. In this compelling installment Trillian faces herself and her reality as she attempts to grow as a person and a woman and what it means to be both.
So I met this guy.
We didn’t hit it off, but we didn’t hate each other, either.
Which is pretty good for me.
Have you looked at my 50 First Dates Score Card lately? Abysmal. I’m a loser, baby, why don’t you kill me.
Not having mutual loathing, contempt and disdain for each other is quite an accomplishment for me and a man. I am more certain than ever the good ones are taken or gay. Cliché as that sounds, I am suspecting it to be true. Not that I’m first prize in the love contest. I’m just saying the pool of eligible men who I can tolerate and who will bother to talk to me or dare I dream, consider me as a romantic possibility even for a one night stand is more of a puddle than a pool.
Anyway. This guy I met.
Well. (heavy and long sigh of exasperation, hand run through hair, head hung, hand rubbing eyes and face)
Don’t get excited for me.
He’s all wrong for me.
At best it would have been a one night, or maybe two night stand.
He’s the kind of guy I used to date. The kind of guy I am attracted to but am no longer allowed to date. (There are people with strict shoot to kill orders if I so much as bat a lash at: an artist, musician, writer, poet, charming bastard, ne'er do well, nefarious but intriguing men with a sardonic smirk and sexy swagger. This is for my own good and protection as well as that of the would be suitors.)
I’ve grown up. I’ve matured. I’ve learned there are certain types of men I am attracted to but who are very, very bad for me. I learned from my failed past relationships. I learned a lot. Hooo boy have I learned a lot. I’ve learned so much I may actually be the leading expert on learning from past relationships. I could write a users guide on dating the above mentioned types of guys. (Okay, a certain HWNMNBS notwithstanding but that’s a different book entirely.) The crux of the issue is: These men are too much like me. Therefore I am too understanding, too sympathetic, too empathetic, too accepting, too deeply involved on levels below the surface.
Why too much of all those things? Aren’t those all good things? Isn’t that what love is all about?
No. Learn from me people, learn.
Understanding is good for a relationship, but being taken advantage of, being the agony aunt, whipping girl and bridge over troubled waters is bad for self esteem and consequently a relationship. Being used, whether via a conscious effort on the user and usee’s part or not, is unhealthy, unwise and unsafe at any speed.
The thing is, these sorts of men find me. Sometimes even seek me out. Like abandoned puppies and kittens, they know how to spot a sucker and turn on their unusual and unconventional brand of charm. I’m not implying there is always premeditated usury. Sometimes that’s the case (very often the case in the case of musicians). It’s one of those things unique to the humans. There’s an innate homing device inside all of us which without conscious effort on our part leads us to people who will accept and like us. It’s how we make friends. It’s how we socialize. The shy among us are lacking strong homing devices. We have to work harder and make more conscious efforts to socialize and make friends. (I know, it’s so unfair. Blame your DNA. It’s all the rage these days.)
Making friends and socializing is one thing. Forming romantic liaisons is another.
One day I (literally and figuratively) woke up to is dawn of realization: I don’t like me. Why would I want to date someone who is like me? It makes no sense.
And that was when I knew I was an adult. I accepted the things about me I don’t like, dealt with them, learned to change or live with them and vowed to stay away from romantic prospects who exhibited the characteristics or behaviors I don’t like.
And it just so happens those traits and behaviors are benchmarks of artists, musicians, writers, poets, charming bastards, ne'er do wells and nefarious but intriguing men with a sardonic smirks and sexy swaggers. There are certain things I absolutely need, things I don’t like about myself but accept and need in myself and in a partner. Fortunately this is a small, semi-manageable list of traits. Traits also inherent in the above group of people. I won’t list the short list of acceptable unacceptable traits. It’s not important to anyone except me.
The issue is trying to find a man who has the short list of qualifying traits but is not one of the above. After eliminating those men from my dating pool, there was exactly one man on the planet who was right for me. Lucky for me, just when I gave up, I met him. Unfortunately I wasn’t the one girl on the planet for him. Ah. There’s the rub.
So I’ve been toying with the idea of allowing myself to date someone in the above categories. I haven’t actually done it for fear one of my close and well intentioned friends might actually shoot to kill.
But then I donned the magic boots last weekend. Took them out for their first night out. I thought I was safe because I was with a friend who has the shoot to kill orders.
Apparently the magic is strong in this pair, too. (Consider yourself warned.)
For the first time in ages, since I can’t even remember when, a guy, of his own semi-sober and conscious accord, sought out my company. And, and this is an enormous and, the friend I was with is one of my former model but could still be modeling if she didn’t want an actual cerebral and purposeful career and life. (She's happily married and not interested in fooling around, guys, spare me the email.)
This is what I’m talking about with the homing device. Any straight male with functioning eyes and libido would immediately notice my friend and not even notice me sitting next to her. Even gay guys would see her, applaud her, aspire to her beauty and style.
But this guy, Danger Boy, who did notice her, of course, and noticed the mega carat ring and double wide band on her left hand, as well, (he actually knows her, too, remotely, so, there was already an established “no way” situation between them) bothered to check out her loser friend, and what do you know? The magic boots and his on-board homing device led him to me.
For the uninitiated, this is how it starts. It always starts this way:
“Cool boots.”
“Thanks.”
Guy shuffles onto a chair, (without an invitation or inquiry if he can sit there, without any further words spoken by either party) he may even schlump into the chair as if in the company of old friends, then he does the guy hair thing (hand briefly scratching frontal lobe of head and tousling his bad boy unkempt but not gross hair), motions to the bartender, pulls out a bunch of singles and orders two shots and a beer.
This is now a defining moment. Some will pull out a cigarette. At which point I will be annoyed and either leave, or if he’s intuitive, he will give a sulky apology but continue light up and blow smoke in a purposely theatrical (and what these guys deem as fetching and sexy and thoughtful) in the opposite direction of me. Oh. So thoughtful and sensitive. And annoying. This guy will not be getting Trillian.
Others will pull out the cigarette, at which point I will be annoyed and either leave, or, if he’s truly interested, will put the cigarette away. This guy might have a chance with Trillian if he is otherwise acceptably unacceptable.
Others don’t smoke and head straight to:
Part II
“You see the show?” he’ll ask (if there was a live act preceding his arrival)
“Yeah.”
Without asking any further, he talks about how it wasn’t as good as the gig two weeks ago, that the acoustics are bad here and the crowd wasn’t great. This isn’t limited to guys actually in the band. Random guys in the above group will make these remarks about the band.
Within moments, a few minutes, after an exchange of music banter and the downing of one of the shots, the dialog will turn to deep philosophical thoughts on a not so deep topic (who knew pencils were a hotbed of controversy and philosophy. Yes, these guys can (and will) be passionate, introspect, debate and eventually brood over anything) and then the conversation will turn to soul baring confession (on his part).
Yes. It happens that fast.
And if a girl is a willing and (shudder) eager co-philosopher/introspector/debater, an alliance will be formed which may or may not end in a romantic liaison.
It’s up to the girl. She can have him if she wants him, but he doesn’t care either way. If it’s not her, it will be another co-philosopher/introspector/debater. Or his roommate’s girlfriend.
And he’ll keep appearing, he might even occasionally call, he might even occasionally pay for drinks, he might even occasionally claim to “need” her.
So she’ll make excuses for him and his often bad behavior in front of or to her friends and family. That’s not to say he’ll turn up at any function or even a night out with her friends or family. He will not. The excuses she makes will often be more for his lack of appearance than his behavior if he does appear. “He’s got a gig.” (could be legit) “He’s working on a submission deadline.” (could be legit, even though he’s had 10 months to write his submission and blew the advance in the first month) “He’s not feeling well.” (Could be legit even though his sickness was caused by substance consumption.) “He’s with a potential backer/client” (Could be legit even though his sales and marketing technique includes bedding potential backers/clients.)
And she’ll dutifully appear at every gig/opening/signing/charity dinner and also be sure her friends are there to make him look good, too. As a side note, these men rarely have friends of their own, or at least real friends they’ve known more than two weeks. They may talk about friends, but when pressed you will find these friends are hangers on/ bar tenders/sex buddies/people to whom they owe favors. Huge clue to their personalities. They’re either loners or people who are not capable of cultivating and maintaining lasting relationships. Many of them haven’t seen their parents in years.
Yes. These things will always, always, always end badly and often in tears.
Relationships, if you can call them that, with these guys is like booze. Sure, a drink is good. Two is better. But an entire bottle of booze signals a problem. Sometimes, some people need a drink. But no one ever needs an entire bottle of booze. Especially people who have pre-existing drinking problems.
Yes. When it comes to deep, introspective, brooding, misunderstood, depressed, sardonic, wise, insightful, funny men I have a problem. A serious problem.
I learned this about myself. I had a few experiences. My friends were given orders to shoot to kill if I so much as bat a lash at one of those guys.
So when the boy (and they are all boys, no matter what their calendar age is. These are not men. They are boys and will go to their graves as such) and I began the philosophy/introspection/debate dance, my friend, a good friend, because I have good friends, pulled me away. She got me out of there. Removed me from the situation. She saved me from myself.
“Trill, I know it’s been, erm, well, a while, but really, you do not want to get involved with him in any way.”
“There’s no ‘any’ way. He’s just a guy. Besides, you know him. He’s technically your client. Do you honestly think I’d get involved with one of your clients?!” (parish the thought implied)
“Yes. I do. If I hadn’t got you out of there you’d be making sacrifices right now. Face it Trill, you’re a lamb to the slaughter.”
She’s right. I would have. Because he was intelligent. And funny. And capable of speaking in complete sentences containing actual complex thoughts and opinions. And morose. And aware. And jaded. And snarly. And completely what I do not need in my life because I have grown and matured beyond boys like him. But it’s been so long and he liked my boots and he was even tall and everything...(everything being all his physical characteristics which were suddenly my most favorite physical characteristics in a man. Yes. I am suddenly sheet rippingly attracted to men with thin but crooked noses, longish dark blonde hair cut dangerously close to a mullet, angley shoulders and long skinny thighs.)
But thanks to my friend, I have grown yet again. Watch me as I grow. See me mature. See me be a responsible adult. See me realize I was right to hand out shoot to kill orders. See me realize I knew more about myself and what was best for me 8 years ago than I do now.
Watch me go home alone, again. Naturally.
Here’s the evolving bit.
I knew I had to stay away from those guys. I have been good about keeping my distance. It’s best for everyone involved. Me. Him. My friends. My family. You.
And it was easy when, you know, I met HWNMNBS, because he had the right combination of required traits, all of the pleasure, none of the pain. Well, I mean, until there at the end.
Since then it hasn’t been as easy to stay away from guys like that. Because in my vulnerable, okay, desperate state, the easy option for a quick fix which wouldn’t last would be to don my magic boots and go out and pull myself one of those guys. I could have done it at any point after any of the break ups. Ugly as I am, with my magic boots and my “come on over here and cry on my shoulder I’ll understand and take care of you” vibe, there are certain men who cannot resist the easy target.
But I’ve been strong. I’ve been smart. I’ve been mature. I’ve been responsible.
I’ve been alone a lot.
The attention from this particular Danger Boy was nice. It felt good. Real good. I felt like a viable member of the human race.
Before you start flinching and the feminazis start dashing off emails, let me continue.
The maturation I’m talking about is that I know I need acceptance from a man to feel viable. And I know that sounds stupid and pathetic and we’ve come a lot further, as women, as humans, than to take steps 100 years back.
But maybe not really. I am a person. I have wants and needs. I am not ashamed or embarrassed of them (a little uncertain of them from time to time, yes. Ashamed or embarrassed? No.) I’ve come a long way, baby, and I can do whatever I want with whomever I want whenever I want.
If I’m not doing whatever with whomever whenever, I am suppressing my wants and needs. Oh sure, that’s being responsible, and lets not forget I’m not the prettiest flower in the field and willing participants are not easy to come by, but by suppressing this part of me, this part which requires a man, I don’t feel like a fully viable, functioning human being.
I question anyone who doesn’t need a partner to feel fully, well, full. We’re meant to be paired up. It’s biology. It’s society. It’s government. Oh sure, people can manage on their own, swut knows I’ve done it. And yes, sure, I, my job, my friends, my family, my interests, my hobbies satisfy and fulfill me in a lot of ways. I do feel viable at work and in my relationships with friends and family. But to be a completely viable human being I need those wants and needs for a man fulfilled, too. And for me it has to be a man because that’s the way I swing. Sorry feminazis. I like men. A lot. I am neither ashamed or embarrassed of this fact.
So now I am at another point where I have to make a conscious choice. A mature choice. A grown up choice.
A) I can put on those magic boots and go out and find me one of those guys, this time around knowing full well it’s emotionally bad for me on one plane (the this will never lead to what I really want in a relationship plane), but emotionally good for me on another so it’s actually okay and I have the maturity to deal with that plane (the see? I can get a man and this makes me feel viable plane), or, B) I can keep repressing, keep trying to meet a guy who’s not one of those guys, keep hoping I will meet one, keep spending a lot of time alone (but cultivating myself, oh yes, always working on me!), keep getting older, keep getting farther away from what I’d really like in my life.
Yes. I can be a band slut because I want to be, or I can continue on my journey of enlightenment and wonder trying to find a man with whom I can share my life.
Yes. I could do both.
But bar time takes time and money which will greatly cut into the 50 First Dates/getting myself out there with activities time and money.
Right now, after this last “awakening,” and especially after the horrific first date I had a few nights ago, I’m leaning toward the boots and bar time. But do I really possess the maturity to keep things all surfacey and insignificant?
Ah. Well. Now. There, see, that can be a problem. Because like I said, I do have a problem with those guys. It’s very difficult for me to have just one or two drinks and not the whole bottle.
So the bottom line question of my growth and maturity is: Have I grown enough, am I mature and responsible enough to have one or two drinks and stop? Can I say “when” and walk away happy and satisfied?
Can anyone with my particular boy problem ever say “when” and walk away sated and feeling viable?
If that answer is no, then I’ve got my answer. And continuing to say no is the next step in my maturity and personal growth regime.
If that answer is yes, then I’ve got my answer. And putting on those boots and heading out to the bar is the next (albeit timid) step in my maturity and personal growth regime.
And so help me Universe, if one person says, “Ask yourself, WWJD?” or “Why don’t you ask your new friend Sara?”, even as a joke I will personally pox them with a curse of religious and clairvoyant spam.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Soooooo, is being hired because you are old and going to die soon age discrimination?
3:38 PM
I would like to take a minute to publicly thank whomever spammed me with Sara Freder.
Who's Sara Freder? you may be wondering.
I didn't know who she was either until last week. But now, thanks to the internet and spam, I am on a close, personal, first name basis with this charlatan.
Ms. Freder, apparently French and apparently a clairvoyant of some sort, is also apparently one of the leading charlatans of the internet. I was unaware and naive. Now I am aware and enlightened.
Ms. Freder is remarkable.
She's sent me several emails and set up two websites just for me! For your entertainment you can read them here and here.
She's caring and concerned about me. She's been having visions and doing charts and saying ruminations for me.
This annoyed me at first because I don't want people whom I do not know ruminating or having visions about me without my consent. So I ignored the emails, hit delete and never looked back.
I took a day off from work. I had grand plans none of which were accomplished. But then, really, isn't that what days off are supposed to be? One thing I did do was clean out my junk mailbox. Even with filters set on high I get an appallingly high amount of junk mail, and a lot of it slips through to my "real" mail. Which is a whole other annoyance and blog. I have to slog through my "real" mail and look at the junk in there "just in case" it's a bona fide email from someone I know. It only takes a second or two to look and delete, I know, but multiply those few seconds by the ridiculous amount of spam that slips through the filters and junk box, and looking in the junk box to be sure there is no "real" email in there and you're looking at 10 or 15 minutes a day. 10 or 15 minutes which could be spent doing something else, or nothing at all.
Ms. Freder, Sara, if I may, found her way through my high filters, through my junk box and into my "real" mail box. As I scrolled through and deleted, up flashed the most recent emails from her. That's when I realized Ms. Freder has set me up with personal web sites. Which really annoyed me. Spam is one thing, but setting up an "account," is another entirely. According to the url I'm "client" # 15121739. Client? Oh no. No way. I have never given this outfit a penny and do not like them bandying about the term client in connection with me.
Before I dashed off an irate letter (I know, I've been doing that a lot lately) I decided to gather some facts to fuel my fires of contempt and accusation.
When it comes to business, making a buck, I am pretty lenient. Do what you do to make a living, buyer beware, blah blah blah. But I cannot tolerate charlatanism. Be it the likes of Sara Freder or an organized religion, sucking money from desperate, lonely or intelligence challenged people, usually people who are in the throes of a serious dilemma or situation and emotionally weak and vulnerable, is wrong, despicable and evil. It's a con game. Period.
Ms. Freder is sort of good at what she does. I say sort of because she's gone to the trouble of writing out the usual "something good and maybe something bad is going to happen to you" enticements in elaborate yet vague text, complete with "warnings" followed with the "I can help you bring on the good and fend off the bad" routine. Lots of ideas but no details. But she does add a few leading details, enticements, whetting the appetite of those who are vulnerable to her particular brand of marketing.
Which is what this really is. She's trying to make a buck online. She took a two day marketing seminar down at the extension center and she's online and ready to make big money. I'm not faulting her for that. Free enterprise. Love it, embrace or move to North Korea.
The subjects of my personal issues are money, luck and love. Wow. She really is good, isn't she? She knows my unique challenges with money, luck and love! Because no one else has trouble with money, luck and love! Her prophecies must therefore be true! OMG! I should believe her visions! It's true! "For some reason which we do not know, a superior force has established a link between us." I better give her the $29.99 so I know what to do on May 5 and May 11! She "has discovered the root of my current problem" Indeed! She knows "exactly why Love, Luck and Fortune seem to evade me--literally!" She knows why I "have never been truly lucky in my life (or only a little)," and she knows why "Love has never been part of my life and why I have all too often lacked money…" She then says "It goes without saying that, now that she knows the root of my problems, it will now be easy to find the Appropriate Remedy." Which is "the second piece of good news" that she has for me. She comes right out and says she "holds the Answer to all of my problems…"
Apparently Ms. Freder hasn't gone to a solutions for better management seminar. If she had, she'd know there are no problems, only challenges and opportunities. Maybe the extension center will offer that weekend course next month. Or now that we're such great friends maybe she can come with me on one of my mandatory drool inducing management sessions.
Here's my issue with Sara. She's trying to be all friendly and caring and insightful with me. (Marketing tool #1: Be on the side of the consumer, be their friend, establish trust.) But in true marketing fashion, she's not going to give away the goods.
I'm no clairvoyant. But. If I had a vision, especially a vision which disturbed or touched me enough to wake up and write down the details, especially a vision which offered insight, wisdom or specific help, I would a) call my close friends and ask them to get me to a therapist ASAP, or b) run like Henny Penny to the subject of the visions and say, "I know you're going to think I'm crazy and I'm sorry for bothering you but I have to tell you about this vision I had about you. You can believe me or not, but it was so vivid I have to tell you about it. I saw you as a child, that time on the playground when Julie and her skanky cousin Beth were teasing you and waving invitations to their party in front of you and telling you that you weren't invited and that you were too young to attend a boy girl party because you still played with Barbies (man, what horrible little girls, I felt so sorry for you) and then I saw you home reading and doing stuff on your computer when the other kids were at school dances (really, I mean, no disrespect but you've cultivated this pathetic lifestyle of yours, if you'd just not be such a nerd all the time) and then I saw you having a really good time at what appeared to be a university and then another one and then another one (sheesh, even I was getting bored with this vision, I mean, how much school do you really need? Still, it looked like fun) and then there was this guy and he ohmygosh he had the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen and a tooth that was slightly out of align and sometimes caught his lower lip when he spoke and then I saw you crying a lot (wow, yeah, in my vision I was crying, too, it seemed really sad, it looked like you two were really close) and then, here's the important part, on May 5 you need to stay away from speeding trains and be sure to go to a bar dimly lit by cobalt blue lights where they serve Belvedere but you need to order a Christiania martini and when a guy walks by from the men's room be sure to give him a coy look and, oh yeah, be sure to wear that skirt with the high slit and really killer heels and show a little leg when the guy walks by because this man will change your life for the better. He is going to keep you in martinis and shoes and a lot of other things so, yeah, that was my vision. I know it sounds crazy but what could it hurt to go out on May 5 and have a drink?"
That's what I would do. Free of charge. Wouldn't you? It never hurts to help. But charging money or making ridiculous promises (in exchange for money) does hurt. I know, I know, I'm not prone to visions and I don't go around getting grand ideas about how other people should live their lives. So maybe I don't understand all the ins and outs of clairvoyancey. Maybe there needs to be an exchange of money for the advice to work. But, I mean, my childhood friend's Ouija board always gave us really good advice and never asked for money.
Then again, Sara is offering "a radically new solution...one which was best suited to my particular needs." Because the advice other people gave "could not be of any help in my particular case as the problem which is plaguing me is so unusual and extraordinary." Wow. See. Sara is insightful. All this time I thought I was just another lovelorn disillusioned person with an unrequited love trying to earn a living at a job I hate to keep a roof over my head and food in the cat bowl. I thought everyone was like that at some point in their lives. I thought this was all just, you know, life. Good thing I met Sara, just in the nick of time, too, because she is the person able to help me with my unique and special problems. That is if I give her my consent. And $29.95.
I can't wait for my life to change. Apparently neither can Sara. And lucky for us, in just a few short weeks things are really going to be looking up for me!
Meanwhile, if you know you are particularly vulnerable to charlatans, if you have ever found yourself fleeced of any amount of money after being promised quick and easy solutions to serious or heartbreaking issues, please, please, please think twice before handing over another penny to anyone.
Those extension centers which offer courses in marketing should simultaneously offer courses in avoiding scams. Here's my crash course, free of charge. If someone can and wants to help you, if they truly have your best interest in their heart, they will not even consider asking or taking money from you.
If you're sitting there thinking, "but what about church, they need money to continue their ministry..." True enough, but if you truly do not have money to give, and a church makes you feel guilty or shameful (passing the offering plate for all the community to see comes to mind) for not giving money, you might want to take a walk on the Trillian side of organized religion for an afternoon. WWJD? Don't ask me, ask someone in the know about things religious. But I am quite certain Jesus didn't go around making promises but only following through with those who gave him money.
"But what about my trained therapist? They make me pay or hand over my insurance card...." True enough, but most trained therapists do not offer quick and easy solutions to difficult and heartbreaking issues. (I know, I know, that's so they can make more money. What's the joke about a therapist's best patient? A lawyer: They never get better and never run out of money.) A therapist who is honest and reputable will not take your money or your business if they cannot help you or if you are in need of a 12 step program. Do your research, don't go to just any psychologist or psychiatrist, and if you don't like them, don't go back, don't pay them another dime.
Basically it comes down to thinking twice before you take out your wallet. Because once that wallet's out, there's no turning back. If you've been fleeced by a con artist charading as a healer or helper in the past, stay away from them. Don't go to the revival, don't go to the palm/tarot/aura reader, even on a lark with friends, do not click that button online. And most of all, please, I'm begging you, do not forward any email to me which promises good things if you do, and bad things if you do not. Even if there is no money involved. I'll take my chances that the angels will or will not bless me, my friends will or will not hate me whether or not I receive and forward that email. And if you think forwarding that email to at least ten of your friends is going to bring you happiness and friends, guess again. It's going to bring you a lot of sadness when your friends put your email address on their block list because you send them chain letters. Yes. Those angel/kitten/puppy/are you a friend emails are chain letters. They are illegal in the US. You can read more about them here.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Dear True,
I use your dating site. I have met some nice people there. I have also met some jerks. I’m not blaming you for that.
I would continue to use your service because you do have a different group of men than other sites, and most seem to be nice people. Maybe not exactly matches for me, but then I’m not an easy match. eHarmony won’t even let me join because their in depth analysis of me is that I’m in the small percentage of people even they can’t match. Not one person in their vast pool of prospects current or prospective is a close enough match for them to go ahead, take my money and let me join. See, they don’t want losers in their pool. They’re trying to run an effective and high caliber operation. They want to advertise all the wonderful people and glorious matches they make. Having people like me in their database would unfavorably skew their success rate.
But you let me join. You even found a few “perfect” matches, some with a 105.7% chance of success. Imagine my excitement and anticipation!
So far, though, well, what looked so promising online hasn’t turned into reality in person. But that’s okay. It’s not you, it’s me.
However.
Your current online marketing campaign has raised a few questions and concerns.
You advertise that you are “the safer online dating site.” You claim to be the only truly scientific compatibility test online, measuring 99 relationship factors to help me find my most compatible match. You offer men coaching on writing “killer profiles sure to be a hit with women.” The coach is a former “lead advertising executive for a prominent magazine skilled in designing and writing winning ads.” Who feels “finding a soul mate (and helping her find you) is not much different from selling. Every day I’ll tell you a new secret to finding your special woman.” Gosh, what a swell service. Believe me, I’ve seen the good, bad and incomprehensible in online dating profiles. A lot of people need this service. Way to go, True.
I especially loved this bit of advice: The secret to start succeeding on TRUE, is to focus on the positive relationship you deserve. If you think positive, positive things will happen! Imagine that you’re in the perfect relationship. What does it look like? Feel like? What qualities would your girl most likely possess, and how would you relate to one another? Keep that picture in your mind and act positively. When you know what you want, it’s much easier to see just what needs to be done to attain that goal! Your goal this week: Visualize a positive relationship. That’s really great advice! Wow. How insightful. Especially since you laid out that bit of insightful text next to this enormous photo.
Apparently this advice is intended for men only. Men who are looking for a woman who looks like she could be a low budget or internet porn movie tart. (Maybe this advertising gig will be her big break into legit films. Or at least buy her some implants. Or a decent dye job.)
I know a lot of men. I’ve met a lot of men. When you tell a man to visualize what qualities a perfect girl would most likely possess, most of them will literally visualize someone they’ve seen in a magazine. Especially when they are not so subliminally barraged with that image next to this bit of sage advice. With the image of that blonde burned in their retinas, they are not going to start conjuring esoteric visual metaphors for things like good listener, faithful partner, intelligence, sense of humor and mother of my children.
Thank you, True, for planting even more physical beauty is perfection seeds in men’s minds.
I wasn’t terribly bothered by this, you know, hey, whatever, you’re just trying to get men motivated. I understand. Sex sells. See, I too, am not only a former lead advertising executive, but a current one, too. So I saw and read that with a wink wink nudge nudge to your efforts to get men encouraged and motivated. I was even hopeful that maybe once they were suckered in by the pink dress diamond necklace tart they'd do some serious work on their profiles and go on a journey of self discovery and enlightenment.
And they say I'm without hope. Ha.
But then this week I have been barraged with lots of True banner ads. Finally got some money in the old advertising budget, eh? Good for you! Show those other dating sites what for!
But.
Much to my disappointment and concern, you chose a confusing and offensive tactic.
Sex sells, True, I know, I know.
But this is immature, stupid and offensive to women, all women, and especially women who are current members of True.
Dive into love? With a huge pair of perfectly shaped boobs spilling out of a too small bikini? And a small inset of the same woman, but now an arm/neck/boob/torso shot, in the classic woman on top position, straining against the hurts so good enormous manhood of a guy she met on True who took the profile course and apparently passed because oh boy, look who he's doing!
For shame, True, for shame.
This is something I’d expect on one of those other sites. The don’t ask, don’t tell sites. But you, who claim to be the safer online dating site with a rigorous screening process complete with background checks (because people with criminal backgrounds or marriages are always honest and will use their real names so of course we trust your screening process!), personality profile assessment made by the experts at Psychology Today magazine, and an advanced matching system which tells us right away if we’ve got the stuff of successful couples or if we’re doomed before even meeting should be above this chauvinistic, degrading, objectifying, sophomoric titillation.
As a female member of True I am embarrassed and degraded.
Thanks for single handedly setting women back at least 35 years. Back to the days when women’s brains and abilities got a lot of lip service but they were grossly underemployed, underpaid and underused, while their bodies were even more exciting and objectified because of the new Pill and “worry free” sex.
Double standards, mixed messages and sexual harrassment were supposed to be a thing of the past. Remember? We’ve come a long way, baby.
But apparently your former advertising executive hasn’t got that message. Perhaps that’s why he’s a former advertising executive.
“Boys will be boys” of course. That’s not going to change. Ever. Sex does sell. It always will. Even to women! Imagine! But when it comes to the business of helping people who are by definition lonely and desperate, or at least lovelorn, find a prospective partner, a "perfect match" who is a good personality match (based on Psychology Today’s advice) a pair of obviously surgically enhanced boobs with with nothing but the message Dive into love and "take our compatibility test" is a very mixed and inappropriate message to be sending to the public about the services you offer.
Based on your apparent advertising strategy, I should forget the photos I have posted which highlight my green soulful eyes and nice, sincere smile which says, "Hi, I'm Trillian, I'm super nice and I have a functioning brain!" and instead post a photo of my more ample and more real than your model’s boobs with the message, “real and spectacular.” Or like the other inset photo of the same boobs but including a torso and wet stringy hair implying hot steamy woman having woman on top sex, (empowered! you go girl!) I should go one further and break out the video camera and artfully make an erotic composition of myself and post in your video lounge. Apparently that’ll get me the man of my dreams. A perfect match. Compatible in every way.
A guy who’s interested in my boobs and ability to have an orgasm.
I wonder what Psychology Today would have to say about that.
One curious aspect of this onslaught of banner ads geared toward men objectifying women is why they're geared toward men in the first place. Men outnumber women on dating sites by a huge percentage. You yourself, True, offer free services to women because, well, there are lot less of us on there and you give us ladies night every day in hopes of padding your database with eligible women. I know I'm only a current advertising executive, not a former advertising executive, and I hate to point out the obvious, but, um, really, shouldn't these ads be geared toward women? Shouldn't they be objectifying men?
Oh yeah. I forgot. Your former advertising executive is a man.
Silly me.
Thanks for clearing up the confusion and misguided notions I had about your site and how I should present myself to prospective “perfect matches.” With this advice and renewed outlook I am hoping to have more and better dates than ever! I can’t wait! Let the objectification begin!
Trillian
PS: I love the whole campaign, it was a toss up which ad I found more offensive and degrading, this was almost #1, but there was no sex scene so it came in second. The "Two good reasons" headline is real classy. Love the bikini and cowboy hat look complete with sassy snarl, gotta hand it to you for having your finger on the pulse of what men want. Unfortunately for the guys, I haven't seen women like this in actual profiles on your site. Funny, that...
This is another piece of good objectification work, too! Love the gauzy filter and the wanton come hither/reckless wild abandon of the outdoors! Kudos!
...and this one where you just come right out and say the words men long to hear.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Everyone who likes me better when I’m not in a good mood will be (ironically) happy to know the good day was just that: A good day. Not the start of a new Trill order.
I know you don’t want me to succeed. Because then you wouldn’t have a gauge. No one to hold up as an example of things which could be worse. I know this, I understand this. I long ago realized this is probably one of my main purposes for existing. Society needs people like me. Society needs losers. If everyone were all up and successful and happy there’d be even more dementia than there is already. It’s like the Christian excuse for why there is evil in the world. We need it to keep the good on course and to serve as an example of what will happen if we stray from the flock.
I strayed, look what happened to me.
Let that be a lesson and warning to you.
See? You’re sniggering. You really do not want me to be successful or up or happy. You need me to be the malcontented example of what happens when you don’t behave and do as you’re told and blindly believe anything and ask the uncomfortable questions and speak the realistic and honest words. You need me to do this so you can go about your life knowing there is at least one person who’s got it worse than you.
It’s okay, really. I don’t mind. I’m used to it. It’s my public service to the Universe. My gift.
Don’t sit there feeling all guilty and uncomfortable.
It’s not just you.
Even my friends feel this way about me. They need me to fail and be plagued with weird and unfortunate events so they can feel good about themselves and their lives. I’m the Rhoda, remember? Every Mary needs a Rhoda.
But then there are the foul weather friends.
Which are horses of different colors than Marys.
Marys genuinely like you. They subconsciously like that they’ve got it better than you, but they feel genuine compassion and concern for you. They’re there for you every time you get kicked, no matter how many times, no matter how weird or bad, they’re there, not judging and trying to help or at least listening, yet again, to another tale of woe or disbelief. They’re supportive. And hopeful that this will be the day things change for you and you get just one lucky break.
Foul weather friends, though, consciously like that they’ve got it better than you. They may feel genuine compassion and concern, and every now and then they’ll do their time and be there for you. Which is how they view it: Doing what they’re supposed to do only because it’s the thing they’re supposed to do because Rhoda’s always there for them and it would look bad if they didn’t return the favor once every three years or so.
I’m painting them in a bad light.
Which isn’t totally the case.
Foul weather friends don’t usually start that way. They’re usually just regular friends, maybe even Marys. Until they start to accumulate more success, more good things, more up moments than you. The disparity between your continued Rhoda-ish life versus their growing success makes them uncomfortable. After all, you’re working and trying just as hard as they are, maybe even harder. But success continues to elude you while they are making great strides in their life. They might even start to feel guilty. Especially if you are in fact smarter, more clever, funnier, harder working and nicer than they are. They have by rights what should be yours.
I’ve been through this a lot. My friends, for the most part, are all very successful in most areas of their lives. I’m genuinely happy and proud of them. I am not jealous. At times envious of what they’ve got in comparison to my own pathetic life, sure, but not of them. I wouldn’t wish my life on anyone. I like and care about my friends and would hate for this to happen to them.
Them includes you, too, so relax and stop feeling guilty and uncomfortable.
Unless you happen to be a foul weather friend.
Because as of today, I’m cutting foul weather friends out of my life.
I never do anything expecting anything in return. I do whatever I do because I sincerely want to help - be it a work or family or friendship situation.
Yeah. I’m a swutting saint.
Well. Used to be. Not anymore.
There’s this friend. A person I used to hang out with a lot. He worked in the biz, too, and we shared war stories and helped each other out with ideas or tech help or manual labor when needed.
I never thought about the give and take aspect of the relationship. He was a friend. It never occurred to me to keep score of anything.
He happens to be a bit of a stud. Okay, a lot of a stud. Okay, he’ll sleep with anyone. As long as she’s slim, petite, blonde or Oriental, preferably Japanese. He never, ever factors in personality when he’s seeking a bed partner or girlfriend. It simply does not matter to him. “That’s why I have friends. I don’t need another friend or a best friend. I’ve got a best friend and loads of friends. I just need someone to fulfill me sexually and be my date.” Those are not paraphrased remarks. Those are his oft quoted philosophies.
But he is a friend and so I never judged, always tried to understand his point of view on this and other topics and respected his opinions and ideas, even though they smacked of a shallow, chauvinistic, immature lout, this area of his life was not causing him trouble or making him unhappy. Interestingly, he never seems to run out of women who fit his criteria. Willing women. Eager women. If it’s working for him and them, who am I to judge?
Since I’ve known him he’s steadily increased his income by rising through ranks and changing jobs for better paying higher level positions. He’s carving out a decent career for himself.
This has not hurt his ability to find willing and eager women.
A few years ago, however, he started using people, friends and colleagues, the way he uses women. He would charm and be nice to whomever could help him in whatever his current need was. Okay, that’s just business, I thought to myself. He’s doing more of what I should be doing. And these people are not stupid, and if they help him it’s because they want to or because they’re thinking they’ll get something out of it, too. He burned a few bridges in this process. I defended him. Because in one of these cases, I know the miffed person would have used anyone, anyone to get the job our friend got. As the jobs and girlfriends got more exclusive I saw less of him. He wasn’t crying in his beer as often. He didn’t have much reason to cry in his beer. The life he wanted back when he was crying in his beer was becoming his. Except now the beer was very expensive martinis at very swank clubs. Playing the game. I know that. I knew that. Occasionally we’d have drinks, “like old times.” It didn’t seem like it was mercy drinks, that he was doing his bit to remember the little people who got him where he was heading. Because he would bare his soul to me, and usually, after the fourth martini, he’d end up crying about his insecurities to me. Because, you know, he trusted me. We’re friends. So when he rang, I’d go. Even though when I rang he was busy.
And if he needed help with a work related issue, he continued to ring me. I continued to help him. I knew he wouldn’t call unless he really needed help, and I would never let a friend down in their time of need.
Yeah. I know. I’m a swutting saint.
Then he met The Woman of His Immature Fantasies. (WHIF) I didn’t like her from day one. But then, I typically didn’t like any of his partners or girlfriends. These are not women with whom I share anything in common. I actually possess a personality. I seek others with actual personalities. I read books. I keep current with news, even the stuff with big words about places where there’s not a Prada boutique. I have a permanent address at which I reside. I don’t work on a tan. I don’t sleep with men who only want me for sex. (Not that I have a lot of that sort of opportunity these days...) I don’t sleep with or be the “girlfriend” of men who give me expensive items or take me to exclusive places and events in exchange for sex. I don’t sleep with men simply because they’re good looking and wealthy. (Not that I get a lot of this opportunity, either...) I don’t have breast implants, veneers, extensions, tucks or other plastic surgery. I don’t have a vague job at a vague company yet drive a car more expensive than many homes. I don’t have unexplained unlimited amounts of credit cards with which I go shopping at very expensive stores three or four times a week, maybe more. You know, I’m not a slut.
But he was really taken with WHIF. This one lasted longer than three weeks and a trip to Fiji. So, you know, I tried to like her. When I knew there was no way I would actually like her, I pretended to like her.
And let me just take a time out to say this: Never, not once, in any way, drunk or otherwise, did I harbor any sort of romantic or sexual feelings for my friend. Really. It has simply never occurred to me to think about him that way. So no, there is no jealously at play here.
She hated me. It was obvious from the start. Maybe she saw me as a threat, but I seriously doubt it. Because she’s her and I’m me and he’s him and if she’s the sort of girl he chooses to sleep with clearly he’s not interested in sleeping with me and clearly she’s got nothing to worry about in regards to me interloping on her territory.
To say they’ve have a tumultuous and volatile relationship would be candycoating it.
She doesn’t like it when he has to work on something that isn’t high profile or cool or glamorous. So on those increasingly rare occasions when he’s got to get down in the trenches with the rest of us mortals, she pouts and falls into the arms of someone doing something more high profile or cool or glamorous. For some reason, this doesn’t bother my friend. “She always comes back to me. She likes to make the scene. It’s important to her. She’s got to be careful about where she’s seen. She always comes back to me. I could use a break anyway, she wears me out in bed.” Ah. That would be some reason.
But hey, you know, he’s happy. He’s successful. He’s got almost everything he wanted back when he was regularly crying in his beer and so I am happy for him.
I haven’t heard from him in a while. I got a Christmas card. A few emails. (“We’ve got to have drinks soon...”) But that’s okay. I know he’s busy. I’m busy. I’m not fond of his girlfriend. She hates me.
You know, the slow descent known as growing apart.
And then yesterday I got a frantic call.
“Trillian, HELP!”
“Hi friend, calm down. What’s up?”
“Huge crisis, Trill. The (expensive gifts) we’re giving out at the big opening tonight are sitting at the freight company dock and they won’t release them to the messenger guy and all my people are busy, and your office isn’t too far from there Trill, can you go with me to pick them up?”
“Sure friend, no problem, I can cut out for a few minutes, when are you going to be here?”
“I’m in your lobby.”
“I see. That soon. Okay. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be down.”
“Thanks Trill, I knew I could count on you.”
So off I trotted to tell my boss I was taking a late lunch to help a friend, donned my ever at the ready sneakers, and went to meet friend, bail him out and get back to work.
I haven’t seen him for a while.
He’s erm, well, changed. He’s had something beyond Botox. He’s five years older than me but now looks 12 years younger. And his lips, which used to be, you know, regular thin guy lips, are now plumper. Poutier. Prettier. But that’s not what really caught me off guard. His hair. He used to have brown stubborn curls which would fall in his face if he didn’t get a monthly haircut. He’s now got jet black hair gelled, but not too much, into a slicked back ‘do.
Yeah. Wow. Whoa. Midlife crisis for $500 please, Alex. With a daily double of Pussy Whip.
But you know, hey, he’s a friend, I’m not judging. Who am I to talk? I recently had very blonde highlights.
It’s just, well, to me this was the final step which said, “I’m not the guy I used to be. I’m the guy I wanted to be. The transformation is complete.”
Worse? He gave me one of those air hugs. You know, the non embrace hug?
Which is fine because I don’t want this person I obviously do not know anymore touching me. And I don’t want whatever’s in his hair on me or my clothes.
Off we went to freight company dock.
I learned something. Freight companies share docks. I never gave it much thought. Until I was forced to think about it. We were at the Greyhound Bus terminal.
I’ll do anything for my friends. Really I will. I’ve done a lot for my friends. I’m not proud, I have no shame, I get in there and do what needs to be done.
Have you been to a Greyhound Bus terminal?
Yeah. Me either.
Let’s leave it at: They’re everything movies and television makes them out to be. Multiplied by 50.
Within 5 minutes of entering the freight area I was filthy. Dust and dirt covered filthy. My friend had a big swanky do in a few hours, and didn’t have time to shower again. So it was me pawing through pallets and boxes and bulk shipments of you name it to find my friend’s boxes of very expensive gifts for the evening’s swanky do.
There’s weird stuff on freight company docks.
It occurred to me I might like working at a freight company dock. If it weren’t for the dust and dirt. It’s sort of like a customs check area, only without customs agents. Seriously. It’s really interesting. You name it, it was there, boxed or otherwise, coming from or going to destinations near and far. Where else could you see this:
Yeah. I told you it was interesting.
But time was a wastin’ and I was a gettin’ dirtier and already wheezing from the dust which would inevitably turn into a full blow asthma attack complete with watering eyes and sniffly nose.
We found the boxes, the dock guy and me, and loaded them on a push cart, and rolled them to my friend’s car, and of course they didn’t all fit, so of course I got a cab and we loaded them into the cab and of course I tipped the loading dock guy out of my own purse and of course I rode in the cab to the big swanky do event site and of course I was filthy and coughing and eyes watering and nose sniffling and was in my sneakers and looked like the full blown loser I am in front of all my friend’s posh colleagues and new friends.
But that wasn’t what bothered me. Anything for a friend in need, right? Of course.
I schlepped the boxes to the area they had set up for the gifts, a very white, very pristine, very regal looking display table. A woman with very sticky and tall hair said, “Oh, just set them behind the table, dear, mind that you don’t get the table dirty.”
No one, not even my friend, who had been grabbed and barked at by all manner of people who needed him right this minute the second we arrived, offered to help me. No one.
No big deal. I plopped the boxes behind the table, minding to not soil it.
I saw my friend with a swarm of people around him, mobile phone to his ear while signing something and talking to people. He’s busy. I know. I waved a “see ya” wave.
“No, wait. Trill, hang on a minute.”
“I have to get back to the office.”
“Come by after work, you’re on the guest list.”
“Okay, maybe, thanks.”
Right. Like I was going to stop by the swanky do after work wearing my now filthy clothes, wheezing at coughing and sneezing and eyes watering. Like I wanted to go anyway. Like I wanted to spend the evening with people who think I’m a delivery person. He knew I wouldn’t show. I probably wasn’t even actually on the guest list. He was just saying that because it looks and sounds good to him and the people around him.
But that wasn’t what bothered me.
What bothered me, in final analysis, is that my foul weather friend used me. Blatantly used me. And as yet anyway, has not uttered anything remotely sounding like thank you.
And no. Normally I don’t care about things like thank yous with friends. I don’t do anything expecting something, even a thank you, in return.
But this time around, this guy, whom I haven’t seen in almost a year, this guy who is busy getting a face lift and collagen treatments, didn’t ask one of his coworkers, hoity toity friends or even one of his minions and of course not WHIF to do his dirty work. He couldn’t risk asking one of them to step foot on a dirty freight loading dock, but worse, he couldn’t risk looking like he hadn’t planned ahead, or that he cut this to the last second and almost had no expensive gifts to give away. He had to call on someone a) he could trust and b) wouldn’t mind dropping everything to get dirty and schlepp for him and c) wouldn’t think less of him because of it.
He got it wrong on count C.
I know I’m good ol’ reliable there when you need her Trill. I’m okay with that.
What I’m not okay with is his complete lack of gratitude for me helping bail him out of a potential work disaster. (Yes, at these things, not having an expensive gift to give away is a bona fide disaster. It’s all relative.)
He’s a foul weather friend. He calls when he’s down or when he needs help.
When things are good, he’s nowhere to be heard or seen.
I wasn’t feeling bad about being a chump, I helped him because I wanted to, and I’d do it again. But as I laid there trying to breathe last night, knowing he was on his 10th glass of champagne, WHIF on his arm all decked out in her cut down to here and up to there dress with her perfect implanted boobs and tucked bum, making the rounds, calculating what this event will mean to his bottom line, I realized how much I really don’t know him anymore, and that there is no way we could be construed as friends.
It’s not about “what’s he ever done for me.” I don’t think that way, I don’t want to think that way.
It’s about him becoming someone else. Someone I don’t really like. Someone who only calls when things are bad in his life.
Things are generally bad in my life, no one even asks anymore, they just assume things are bad and either don’t want to be depressed or don’t want to feel guilty for having good things in their lives. A roll of the eyes and “what now” are reactions I get a lot. I’m okay with that, too. I understand. So I keep quiet about most stuff and am honestly relieved when no one asks. But I can’t understand or excuse complete and total lack of appreciation or gratitude.
Friend expected me to help him. Friend expected me to drop everything for him. Because I haven’t changed, and my core values probably never will. I’m, you know, reliable.
And that bothers me. It wouldn’t bother me if we were still buddies. But we’re not. WHIF hates me, I don’t like her, and he’s whipped by her and by his need to be the person he wanted to become. The only place for me is as his foul weather friend.
And what really bothers me, to the point of resentment, is that he’s put me in the situation of having to decide, make a conscious choice, the next time he calls with a problem, to not help him. Either by way of polite excuse lie or out and out No!, I have to either stop this person from making me feel used and stupid and even lower about myself by refusing to help him, or I have to accept him, changes inclusive, WHIF inclusive, and continue to be a supportive, reliable friend and have these moments of feeling low about myself after the fact.
Yes. The irony here is that I am so reliable, I am so “good ol’ Trill” I even have to take on the responsibility for ending what’s left of the friendship, which, is just another way in which foul weather friends use you. They don’t even take on the guilt inducing role of never calling and just letting the friendship drop.
Do I miss him? Would I miss him? Not anymore. I did miss him when he first stopped crying in his beer. I mean, I didn’t miss him crying in his beer, but I missed hanging out with him. It was always interesting to watch him go from crying in his beer to drunk again and lookin’ to score with a slim, petite blonde or Asian. He could make that transformation in an hour on a good night. Very interesting to watch. But that was then. This is now. He’s changed. Things are different now.
Evolve or die aren’t just pretty words. I’ve got to change, too. So. This is day one of No More Foul Weather Friends. Fortunately, so far, none have surfaced so I haven’t been faced with a dilemma of conscious choice.
So actually, that makes it a good day. I haven’t had to decide to go against my nature and tell a using former friend that I will not be allowing them to use me. Things could be worse
Tuesday, April 12, 2005 Is this the start of another heartbreaker, or something better beginning? I have declared this to be: A good day.
In my ongoing pledge to seek good and beauty in small things, I present to you proof that I can do it. I seek and can find joy in the very small things in life.
Several serendipitous events have already occurred. I know, the day's not over yet. Lots can and will happen. This is the Life(?) of Trillian, after all. We don't put the (?) there for nothing. Still. The Universe has sent me a bunch of little things, small favors, things which make me, well, not euphoric, or even happy, as in smiley whistley happy, but, well, better than normal.
Which is sad, ironically, because on these increasingly rare occasions when I feel better than normal, I realize just how bad my new normal is. But we're not talking about that today. Because I don't feel normal today. Well. I don't feel normal any day. I have no idea what it's like to feel normal. What a blissfully happy way to feel that must be. I envy normal feeling people. I remember when I realized my normal was abnormal. When I discovered I wasn't well, you know, like other people. Wait. That's another blog for another day. But for reference point, I'm talking about my normal. Which is abnormal. So when I don't feel like my normal (abnormal) self, I think I'm getting a taste of what it's like to feel normal (normal). It's a nice way to feel. Sort of, kind of, almost, like being in love. Okay. Well. Not really. But I don't know. Something different. Something better. Someone else. Someone good.
First: I overslept. Yes. You read that correctly. I overslept. Which means not only was I sleeping, but I was sleeping really hard and didn't wake up, fitfully, every 38 minutes. And I didn't finally just get up and start the day at my usual 4:30 AM. I woke up to the sound of Furry Creature meowing inquisitively, almost shyly. Within seconds there was a tentative paw poking at my face. Then purring in my ear. Another inquisitive meow. "Hey, fella, you feeling okay? What's up?" I said concerned he wasn't feeling well. Because the nocturnal creature who is my roommate doesn't usually meow like that in the night. Drop toys on my face, snuggle himself into weird and uncomfortable places on me, race back and forth across the bed in a flurry of kitten frenzy, attack the bed mice lurking under the covers (my feet), yes. But meow inquisitively, purr in my ear and paw at my face? No. He doesn't do that in the night. So I was worried. I assumed it was around 3 AM.
I looked at the clock. It was 6:15 AM.
Not only did I oversleep, I slept in! No wonder Furry Creature was confused! I had that instipanic thing, "Oh no! I overslept! Quick! Dash around like you're on hot coals! Take a shower! No! No time for that! You're not too smelly and you can put your hair up! Grab the first clothes you see who cares if they match! Just brush your teeth and get out of here!" That lasted about two minutes when I said, "Wait a minute. You didn't oversleep. It's 6:15 AM. You slept longer and later than you usually do, but in no way can this be considered oversleeping. You may have actually got five hours of uninterrupted sleep last night. That's almost healthy. Almost normal! Chill, girl, chill. Give the cat his breakfast and chill."
"Yeah. Yeah! You're right! Normal! Almost normal...normal" turning that word over thoughtfully, saying it as if I were an alien visiting the planet and learning a new word.
So I gave the cat his breakfast and chilled. And then marveled in my accomplishment of sleeping five whole hours. Without the aid of drugs or alcohol. "Wow." I thought. "Wow."
I trotted over to my window to take in my morning Zen moment of looking at the Lake. (I know, that's such a brag, it's even bragging and name dropping, but hey, I earned that swutting view. Blood, sweat and toil and far too long in a horrible apartment in a crappy neighborhood, three muggings, that stupid gross train every day, I swutting earned my sliver view of the Lake. I earned it, dammit, I earned it.) The sun is on it's Northward trek, so this week the sunrise is perfectly centered in my little sliver view of the Lake. Today is a cloudy, rainy day. Which should mean nothing in terms of the sunrise except that it's not visible. But no! Because today is not like other days! Today is special! Here's the amazing phenomenon I witnessed out my living room window this morning:
If I'd been awake at my usual 4:30 AM, I might have missed this. I would have already been working out or in the shower or online or walking to work. But today is obviously a special day. It was already becoming obvious today is special. I slept in and woke up just in time to see that. There was a 7 minute window of opportunity to catch a glimpse of that, before the sun disappeared into the low lying clouds. And I saw all seven minutes of it. (Which is why I didn't dash up to the roof deck and take better quality photos instead of shooting it through a rain soaked window.)
I was mindful that the morning routine would have to be somewhat reduced, so the workout session would have to be scrimped (hey. at least I try to do some sort of exercise in the morning) I pulled out a tape I haven't used in ages. It's got 15 minute "power" sessions. Perfect for a morning like this. Maximum workout in minimum time. (Check out Get Fuzzy, there's a great Satchel exercise moment today, another serendipitous joy) I'm not fond of this tape. It hurts me. They're not kidding with the words power and maximum. But I decided to give it another try. After all, I didn't throw it away when I moved, I must have some feelings for it. I selected a power abs session. (yes, possibly the worst and most painful session) I not only did the whole session, but I did most of it with Furry Creature on my chest and stomach. (See diagram A) (Yeah, we're real close.) I felt like Rocky. Furry Creature is not exactly a petite cat. He lost a few pounds when he was ill, but he's rapidly regaining them. (The vet assures me he is not overweight, he is just truly an enormous, fluffy cat well within his healthy and normal weight range. Which is alarmingly high for, you know, a domestic cat.)
Diagram A
When I finished the whole power ab session I did some of the power arms session, using Furry Creature as a free weight. (See Diagram B) He obliged for a few reps and then, well, he had other things to do and decided this was above and beyond the call of feline companion duty and well below feline dignity standards.
Diagram B
I also decided I really should be thinking about getting to work.
I took a shower. I took my time. It was a good shower. Showers are underrated. Good ones, anyway. This one was a good one. I felt exhilarated and very, well, clean and fresh and revived. (which probably has more to do with the five hours of uninterrupted sleep and vigorous workout than the shower)
I even decided to blow dry my hair. I have no idea what possessed me to do this. It's raining, it's damp and kind of humid. Blow drying my hair is counter intuitive considering the environmental forces of the day. It will get wet and curly the second I step outside. Nonetheless, blow I did. And for a brief moment, as I was putting the dryer away, I caught a glimpse of my freshly cleaned and dried hair in the mirror, and, just for second there, I didn't hate what I saw. For a very brief moment, before I stood up and saw the full me again, I didn't recoil in hatred, self loathing, anger and depression at the reflection. A first in years. I'm ugly, but I have swutting amazing hair. When I bother to "do" something with it it's almost advert quality hair. For a few moments there, as my reflection was only partly visible, the part mostly visible being my hair, I saw a view of me that's, you know, normal looking. If I could walk around half bent over with freshly cleaned and dried hair swirling over most of my face all the time I might actually not be considered ugly. Well. Except for the half bent over thing. Still. There might be a guy out there who would be okay with that. "Yeah, she's half bent over all the time, but once you get past that she's really very normal looking and she's got great hair. It's really quite alluring when she's in the bathroom getting ready for work."
That was my second serendipitous moment: I have very, very few moments when I don't hate the way I look. One second, just one small second of not hating my reflection is a swutting huge gift from the Universe. If you're not truly ugly or if you don't suffer from BDD, you don't understand. Just trust me. A few seconds of not hating yourself is bliss. It's a huge deal. (For the curious, there's a description here You will be hearing more about this in the coming years as images of genetic "perfection" become even more prevalent. It used to just be the Hollywood, advertising and fashion industries who fostered this image as lifestyle attitude. Then MTV. Then all regions of the internet. It's now seeped into prime time television. Well, I mean, it's been there since the dawn of television, but showing only the prettiest, fittest and most well dressed and coifed of the species as "normal" wasn't enough. Now completely overhauling someone's genetic "imperfections" is lauded and held up as a social service to allegedly DNA challenged humans. I'm telling you here and now, genetic engineering is coming folks. Line up to get your helix reconfigured now before the craze catches on and you are the last flawed and imperfect person on Earth.) So yeah. I could have called it a good day right then and there.
But.
It got better.
My morning door person, whom I like more and more every day, said, "Whoa. I thought maybe you were out of town again. Running late but looking go- oo- ood! this morning! You got it goin' on! What's his name?!"
"No man. Just work. All this useless beauty...har har...I bothered fuss with my hair this morning. But thanks."
"If fussing with your hair is all it takes, I want you to fuss with MY hair. There's something else. Different makeup? New coat? Something different about you."
"I actually slept last night."
"Ha ha. That must be it! Sleep! Now go out there and show 'em how it's done."
"Okay boss. It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it."
"Huh," thought I. After that brief moment of not hating my reflection, I stood up and saw the full horror once again, so you know, it wasn't as if there had been some magic transformation. Yet the door person noticed something different about me. Must be the sleep. Maybe the power abs. Looking down at less than Sports Illustrated ready abs and quickly dismissing that theory. "No. Must have been the sleep. Or traces of the euphoric glow of that incredible sunrise."
One really great thing about my new neighborhood is that I feel safe enough to wear my Podphones on low as I walk to work. I know this is foolish. I know I'm begging for it. But with the volume low and vision and attention on high alert so far I feel at least as okay as I did in the old 'hood without Podphones. Which isn't really saying much at all. Because I never felt even remotely safe there. But. For now I sometimes listen to music on low volume when I walk to work. (Attention all would be muggers/assailents: Touch me and I'll swutting kill you, I swear I will. I'm not normally a violent person. But. I've been through this three times and I'm mad as Hell about you and your kind so don't mess with me if you want to live.) I stepped outside. Sniffed the air. Looked around. Got a full sensory report. And deemed it a day safe for Pod use. Shuffle, of course. No playlist. Just random shuffle.
And the Universe saw fit to give me the most perfect mix of music for my walk to work. Planet of Sound. You know it's going to be a really, really good day when your Pod gives you your favorite song by your favorite band at the very first click. Some people might find the best air guitar song ever recorded a bit extreme for the first song of the work day.
But not me.
Yes, I agree, a dirge is really more in keeping with the emotion of going to a job you hate. But not today. Hey, you just sit there drinking your second Coughupalattébucks caffeine and sugar bomb and don't judge me. I say: Who needs caffeine and sugar when there are screaming guitars and The Pixies? In fact, I've been thinking about a Coughupalattébucks rehab plan which mainly consists of listening to certain songs as a way of overcoming the addiction plaguing the planet. I'll tell you about it later.
One song after the other of My Favorite Songs Ever. I even checked to see if I had unconsciously cheated and clicked My Favorite Songs Ever playlist. Nope. Random shuffle. And let me tell you, if you've never experienced the joy that comes from Slim Whitman singing Una Paloma Blanca directly after Planet of Sound and just before segueing into Erotic City (the dirty, naughty, nasty extended version. yeah baby.), well, you do not know what true joy is. Try it sometime. Warning: This mix is for advanced music listeners. It is intended for open minded and mature audiences only. Hearing this mix of music may cause tension, irritability, and intestinal discomfort in some listeners.
Thinking surely this must be the end of my run of serendipity, because I was nearing the office, I began to mentally brace myself for the day ahead of me. I was getting in later than usual, meaning, there would already be several voice mails and tons of "urgent" emails waiting for me. Meaning the halls would be filled with the smell of coffee and alive with the sound of inane banter. Meaning I would be forced to make small talk and be all smiley happy about whatever the stupid morning conversation topic of the day was. Speaking of intestinal discomfort.
But what to my wondering eyes should appear? There, on a planter ledge, perfectly placed for someone like me to come by and see it, was one of the ultimate serendipitous and ironic found ready made artistic compositions ever. Sitting on that planter ledge, across from the twin towers of Marina City, which are commonly referred to as corncobs, because, well, they resemble corncobs, was an actual spent corncob. One of those corncob on a stick things those guys in the rolling pushcarts sell mainly on the West side. I don't think I've ever seen a spent corncob on a stick this far East and North. Its presence in this part of town is noteworthy all on its own. But in front of Marina City? This is artist manna from Heaven. So much so that people unaware of it's ready-made found composition status would naturally presume it was a tritely set up composition. I assure you, I found it this way. I have never partaken of one of those corncobs on a stick, and I did not touch or move the found spent object. In spite of how it looks, I did not have conscious premeditated artistic thoughts with that corncob.
I snapped a few shots. It was kind of busy there, there are a couple of hotels and some office buildings right there, so there was a lot of traffic. Cars, taxis, pedestrians, pigeons...I didn't have a really good chance (or proper camera) to do it the full justice it deserves, but I've got the memories. And a few photos.
The day really could have ended there. It was all good so far. Why ruin it by going into the office? I could turn back, go home, call in apathetic and be done with the day. You know, quit while I was ahead.
But I soldiered on. Duty called. And, you know, it had already been a very good serendipitous day, so maybe handling the office, the people, my job wouldn't be quite the usual treachery.
Almost there. Turn back or go through with it. What's it gonna be, work, or flee? Responsible or shirker?
Of course I went to work, silly. I am a) responsible and b) a sucker for punishment. I apparently like abuse. I'm not proud of that fact about myself, but it's obvious and true, so I accept and deal with it.
No. My office wasn't suddenly and strangely transformed into a busy hub of exciting work related activity punctuated by well intended jocularity. It was the same old dull routine with the same band of miscreants and misfits. (Myself included, for the record.)
Boob Job: Late. Mini Me: The Temp: Late. (needs a new nickname) boss: Present and accounted for with Twinkie and coffee in hand.
Right. Everything checks out here.
I dodged a potential conversation bullet with Smelly Coffee Woman. This could be considered a gift, too, because her coffee was especially smelly. "Ooooooh, I love that scarf! And look at your hair!" Fingering some strands of my hair, raising them and letting them fall and fluffing my itching to spring into action curls. For the record: I don't like being touched by anyone who is not: My mother, my father, a sexual partner, a very, very, very close friend, my cat or someone with a professional interest in my body and my express and prearranged verbal or written consent including doctors, hair stylists, masseurs and estheticians. Period. Do you see coworker on that list? No. You do not see coworker on that list because I do not want my coworkers touching me. I know I have issues. But lots of people do not like being touched. It doesn't make us vile, cold, callous people. Just the opposite. Most of us are very warm, open, expressive and physical people with acutely sensitive senses. Turbo senses, if you will. We reserve all that emotion and physicality for people with whom we share meaningful emotional bonds. Because of our extreme sensory attunement, we're very sensitive to, well, our senses. Smells, sounds, views, tastes, and touches barrage us more than normal people. A brief flicking of strands of hair might go almost unnoticed by some people. But to a person with turbo senses, that small touch triggers serious endorphins. You get the idea. Things happen. If it goes on too long, any seemingly slight sensory stimulation can turn into, well, speaking of Erotic City. And no, that doesn't mean I am harboring an attraction for Smelly Coffee woman or anyone else who randomly touches me. I'm just saying, I don't like to be touched by coworkers or other people with whom I do not share an emotional bond or professional need.
Just as I was trying really hard to squelch the flinch which is my natural reaction to being touched by a coworker without warning, TEETH walked by and said, "Trillian, I've been looking all over for you. We've got a copy problem. There's a complete rewrite for the Big Client project."
Normally this would bother me. "Looking for me all morning?" It was barely 9 AM. Technically I'm not even supposed to be there until 9 AM. I let that slide. Because he was getting me away from Smelly Coffee Woman and her groping hands in my hair. What bothered me was that I knew about the copy problem last week and have been waiting for TEETH to give me the revised copy but he didn't know I knew and now it's at the last minute and he's decided to grace me with the new copy. But today, I'm not letting it bother me. Today I see him as a serendipitously placed excuse to leave Smelly Coffee Woman wallowing in her own vapor trail.
When the morning kibitz sessions subsided in the break room, I ventured in for a bite of breakfast. Oh like you've never had breakfast at the vending machine. I didn't take time for my cereal at home. Sweet and salty mix with the M&Ms removed is a healthy breakfast. But today, when I ordered the sweet and salty mix from the vending machine, the coil thing just kept spiraling. A bunch of items came tumbling down. It was like winning on a slot machine. I won two packages of sweet and salty mix and a package of Funyuns!
I know! It is a good day!
Except what the swut are Funyuns?! Who cares?! I won them from the vending machine! Woo hoo!
Woman Triumphs Over Vending Machine. Film at 10.
It turns out Funyuns, my friends, are a perfect (albeit very salty and unhealthy) garnishment for soup. I know this because I brought soup, yes, that soup, for lunch. I read the Funyans package and quickly deemed them unhealthy and probably unfit for human consumption. But I won them, and by swut I was going to eat them. Even if it killed me. Which it probably one day will. The minute I ate them I could feel my heart straining under weight of the arterial clogging crap in them. My hips and bum grew a half inch. (My abs, however, still pumped up from that power session, seemed unfazed) I could feel my cells realigning and recomposing into carcinogen induced baby tumors. But you know, Funyuns are not as bad as I would have presumed something named Funyuns might be. As a soup garnish, they're better than not bad. They're pretty okay. In fact, if you want to experience a new taste sensation (and risk personal health) I would recommend Funyuns as a soup garnish.
So yeah, things went along, you know, okay. Apart from TEETH finally deciding to give me the copy changes, at the last minute, you know, okay. Not horrible. Could have been worse.
I took a circuitous route home. I try to walk different ways, zig zagging my way to and from work. Seeing different blocks, varying the routine. It was an okay walk. Nothing really special, nothing really bad or good. Just a basic city walk.
Until I saw this:
I know. Pretty cool clouds. Which I never would have seen if I had randomly walked another way home.
Which I deemed a serendipitous and full circle end to a good day. A day which didn't suck as much as normal (abnormal).
And that is how you find pleasure in very little things. That is how single, lonely people manage when they don't have a partner's presence and understanding or a child's laugh or new experience in which to find joy and excitement.
1:39 PM
