Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<





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

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.

Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Find Federal Officials
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or Search by State

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Contact The Media
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Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)

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




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

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

200i: iPodyssey

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

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

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

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

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

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

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

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

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

Slanglish

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


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

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

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

Lap Dance of the Cripple

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

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

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

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

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

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

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


















 
Mail Trillian here





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

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


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

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

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

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


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



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

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




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





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







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


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

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains





























Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero

 
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:

Grrrr eyhound

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

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