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
Friday, April 08, 2005
I never could get the hang of Thursdays.
Turns out HWNMNBS was right: Everything wrong in my life is because I'm ugly. He doesn't want me because I'm ugly. Ditto employers. And now I find out I'm underpaid because I'm ugly.
What this is saying is: If you're ugly and you somehow manage to get through school and into college (because teachers favor cute or pretty children in their classrooms), and if you somehow manage to get a job (because statistically ugly people are put in the bottom of the pile when it comes to selecting job candidates) you can expect to earn less money. Which sucks because you're statistically doomed to never marry and you're going to have to stretch that one lone small income a long way.
And yet you say you're against genetic engineering. I was, too. But I'm changing my opinion. "It's what's inside that counts." Bah. You want your children to have successful and happy lives? Get that double helix in fine specimen working order or be prepared to cough up the money for more than orthodontics and college tuition. You'll be needing a good plastic surgeon if your child is less than ideal looking.
I love the irony that is my life. I read this bit of depressing news on the very day I was faced with a dilemma of personal and professional integrity.
I have been applying for jobs like mad.
And not getting a lot of response.
Or getting ridiculously low salary offers. (The above research sheds light on that. All the qualifications, stellar background, education and references, yet if you're ugly you'll be offered a rate of pay comparable to a fast food jockey.)
But there was a potential "hot one" brewing. This job is really perfect for me. I'm perfect for it. Well. At least by the description and emails which have happened thus far.
It's at a large corporation. Which is fine with me. Easier to blend in, get lost in the crowd. Like all large corporations, there are set hiring procedures which must be followed. These procedures can be lengthy processes. I understand. I'm patient. I'll hurry up and wait.
But this company posed a new situation to me.
The online application had some questions which are, you know, illegal.
We all know why they ask them. And I have to hand it to this company. They came right out and said why they asked. They even used the bad word. The word no one says but everyone knows. The Q word.
They prefaced the questions with: We can't judge, hire or discriminate based on these questions, and you don't have to answer them.
So as per my usual response, I didn't respond. Because they're going to be interested in me at first on my merits. If they're interested in my skills, they'll interview me and the answers to those illegal questions will be obvious the second I walk through the door.
This is exactly how everyone I know feels about those questions.
Even people who would potentially benefit from answering some of the questions.
So things were going along, proceeding, an email requesting work samples and/or a url.
Check.
An email "test" of skills.
Check.
And then today I got another email. Thinking perhaps I was heading toward an actual interview and hoping to turn around a bad day, I eagerly opened the email.
Imagine my surprise and confusion and dismay when I read: You have met all preliminary criteria for (the position). However in reviewing your application we found we are missing some information. Please click here to complete your application so that we may continue the screening process and determine if we will proceed with an interview for (this position).
You guessed it: The illegal questions.
What they're saying is: You're absolutely qualified and probably perfect for this job except we have some criteria beyond your control that we need to know before we bother to interview you for this job for which you are completely and perfectly qualified.
What to do, what to do.
Throw away every shred of pride and professionalism I have, answer the stupid questions and hope they are lacking single white women who didn't serve in Viet Nam?
Refuse to answer the questions, get all high an mighty with some pointed citations to the US Constitution and the Equal Rights Amendment?
Answer the question, get all high and mighty stating that single white women way too young to have served in Viet Nam have equal rights, too?
It really annoyed me. I resent that they had the nerve to put me in the position of having to choose between personal and professional integrity and a job which really interested me.
It bothers me, a lot, that they would blatantly say, "You don't have to answer these questions..." then turn around and tell me I have to answer them in order to be further considered for the job.
But that's illegal! you're saying.
Well.
Yes. It is. Sort of.
And no matter how I respond I can kiss this job good-bye. Because they're making such a stink about it, risking serious penalties by asking those questions, they obviously need to fill their Q word. And I probably do not fill a void in their Q. Single white women who didn't serve in Viet Nam are a dime dozen.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Forget Spring, Summer hit Chicago today. Time for blender drinks. From my kitchen to your eyes, not so subliminal imagery. Start your blenders.
Bruce enlightened me: Saying smoothie is fun. Saying smoothie enough times will make you smile. Blend in your favorite libation and you will smile even faster.
First clue: My friends and people I like who currently live here are not actually from here.
It's true. All my close friends and colleagues, the people I like (and who like me) are not from here. I do not have one friend or person I really like actually from Chicago. That's not new or unusual. It's the same for most people in most large cities. The natives have their long established local network of friends and family. The newcomers gravitate to each other in their unnativeness.
But for me there's a bigger issue.
I don't think I actually belong anywhere. That's probably obvious to anyone who's read more than one post on this blog. I'm not the sort of person who fits in.
But.
The past week, today especially, makes me realize: I'm not like these people. These people being the people here in Chicago.
These people care about the Pope. I mean, you know, really care about the Pope. On deep, personal emotional levels. There are people in my office who were given time off to go to a special prayer vigil. And then more time to go to masses apparently being held round the clock. And with the exception of one opportunistic miscreant, I honestly believe these people have been in church praying for the Pope. I'm not callous, I'm not horrible, I respect religion and the people who have it. And apart from, you know, the hypocrisy, the chauvinistic female repressing and some of the interesting financial aspects of the Catholic religion, the Pope seemed like an okay guy. I know he worked very hard for peace, love and understanding. That's cool. I respect that. He didn't seem to have a personal agenda apart from spreading the words and deeds of God and Jesus and the Catholic church. That's cool. I respect that. He seemed like a really sincerely nice and intelligent person. I respected and liked him enough that I found it sad to see him so visibly suffering from that wretched disease.
But then I found it equally sad to see my friend's grandfather suffering with Parkinson's, too. He was a really cool guy. Brilliant. Funny. Kind. You would have liked him. Everyone did. He would have appreciated some prayers. But he wasn't, you know, the Pope. So you never heard about him on the news. He wasn't important.
Right. This town. So very Catholic. And me so very not Catholic.
It's been hitting me in the face for the past week, what with Pope Watch '05 in full swing. This morning on my way to work I passed by the cornerstone Catholic church here in town. I've been avoiding that area during Pope Watch '05 because the streets and sidewalks are crammed with news vans and people. The faithful flock and the oh so sincere newscasters who love them. Kick 'em when they're up, kick 'em when they're down. I sort of forgot this morning and walked that way to work. I know, I know, how could I forget? Because I'm not Catholic. I'm not in mourning. He wasn't my father. I know he was an okay guy and everything, but he was suffering. Apparently I'm alone in thinking that it's good, perhaps even a blessing, that the poor man was finally released from what was obviously a painful existence.
Fortunately it was early, there was only one news crew onsite (interest waning? Oh you fickle, fickle press...) and just a few people going in to do whatever Catholics do in church early in the morning. The church's arches and doorways are draped in black curtains. Custom fit black curtains. Really quite stylish. These must be the special Pope Death curtains. Maybe they use them for Cardinals, too. But I don't know. They seemed really special. Very pontiff like. I wonder where they store them when, you know, there's not a dead Pope. In the basement with the special holiday curtains and banners? I'm thinking not. I'm thinking there's a special dead Pope curtain storage place. Someplace very holy and sacred. Maybe a vault with a key held by the official dead Pope curtain vault key holder. Who performs a special ceremonial rite when removing and storing the dead Pope curtains. In Latin.
Several people have left flowers and candles (which were not burning, by the way. Isn't that the deal with those candles? They're supposed to be burning?) and photos and other stuff on the steps of the church. For the record, and to me an interesting point, there were thousands more bunches of flowers in front of the British embassy here when Diana died than there were left for the dead Pope. I'm wondering if that's because the church is regulating them or if there's a Catholic Code of Flower Leaving Ethic which prohibits the leaving of bunches of flowers for dead Popes. There were some flowers there, a few dozen bunches plus the odd single flower or two, and some of those candles. But really, a very poor showing in comparison to Dianathon '97. I decided to have a look at some of the messages.
And that's when it hit me.
Maybe it was even a message from God himself.
"You don't belong here."
Okay. No, I don't belong on the steps of a Catholic church.
But the message was more bigger picture than that.
Someone had taped a nicely typeset laser print of a Polish poem to the church sign. Polish is not a language I know very well. Since I've lived in Chicago I've picked up a few words. There were two verses to the poem. Two verses of a bunch of consonants, very few vowels and a lot of characters not found in the standard character set of most computers. But. Even through the jumble of consonants and words ridiculously long, I knew what the poem was. Okay, the title was a huge clue: O Danny Ch?opiec.
Only in Chicago, folks. Only in Chicago. An Irish folksong translated into Polish taped to a church honoring a dead Pope. A dead Polish Pope.
It's, um, you know, an Irish ballad. Used at funerals for Irish nationals and firemen and sometimes policemen. I suppose, in his own way, the Pope was a sort of fireman, putting out fires of sin and banishing Satan's flame. And certainly he was a policeman. Pretty much the Chief of Religious Police. And he was important in Ireland, what with the IRA and everything. Oh wait. That connection's never been proved. Ooops. Sorry Pope. No need for the Vatican to send someone over to take me for a ride. In a remote wooded area by a deep river. I know you personally were a peace loving man.
It's just that the choice of Oh Danny Boy seemed really odd to me. Isn't there a Polish folksong of death and mourning? Do funerals in Poland feature a lone bagpiper and someone's second cousin who's a tenor singing Oh Danny Boy?
I'm not arguing the sentiment. I'm not arguing anything. I'm not mocking the heartfelt gesture. I'm sure the Pope was familiar with Oh Danny Boy. He'd probably appreciate the thought.
I'm just saying: I don't belong here.
Because I find it amusingly ironic. And it makes me wonder things over which I have no business wondering. Which makes me feel and bad and disrespectful and just open those gates of Hell for me, brother I'm comin' in.
And then I got to work.
The few people who actually showed up for work were walking around all tired looking. Downcast and generally in a funk.
I thought, "Wow, this Pope thing is really taking a toll on these people. Maybe a rousing chorus of Oh Danny Boy in the break room and a good cry would help them." I was at the copier, makin' copies, because I make my own copies and besides, even if I wanted someone to make copies for me, Boob Job and Mini Me both called in sick today. Two people I don't know were in the hall. Droopy eyed and weary toned, they looked and sounded like they'd been crying a lot and not getting much sleep.
One said, "First the Pope and now this."
That was the second possible message from God telling me that I do not belong here.
Apparently there's a sporting competition going on.
Apparently it involves college basketball.
Apparently Illinois had a team in this competition.
Apparently they lost.
Apparently this is as important and depressing as the Pope's death.
Apparently there were a lot of wagers regarding this competition.
Apparently these devout Catholics are unaware of the wages of sin.
Apparently they are unaware that gambling is a sin. (I believe it falls under the greed and gluttony category, for a start.)
Oh yeah. I forgot. Friday night bingo is de rigueur in the Catholic church.
Nevermind.
Still. People are sad, I mean truly, honestly, upset over the loss of a sporting event. A college sporting event. Let's just say gambling is, you know, okay. Should money be placed on non-professional, student athletic games? What sort of message does this send to the student athletes? Tut tut. Was that church ladylike enough? It wasn't easy for me because personally I couldn't care less if a person wants to gamble away their money. But. I do find the unfortunate mix of money, athletics and, you know, higher education, intellectual growth and all that, vile.
Hey, I like a good game as much as the next person. I'm just not a huge basketball fan. Okay, I don't like the game at all. Okay, I strongly dislike the game.
And okay, so I'm not into college sports.
So I probably just don't get it.
Still.
The people are really sad and upset about the apparent loss of this game.
"First the Pope, now this," indeed.
I don't belong here.
Everyone in the office hates me anyway (except Mini Me) so I piped up all cheery yet dripping in sardonicism, "Hey, how 'bout those Cubs?"
First the Pope person gave me an evil gaze of death.
The other person laughed nervously.
This is but one of many reasons why people in the office hate me.
This is why no one invites me to lunch.
But if making ironically cheery yet sardonic and possibly curmudgeonly statements in response to way over the top stupid statements is wrong, I don't want to be right.
The message in all of this is obvious: I don't belong here.
So move.
Yeah.
I guess maybe I should think about that.
But I just moved.
And I've got a great new front yard which I really love and was the main reason I moved to Chicago in the first place.
And my compartment's growing on me.
And I'm close enough to get to my parents' quickly if there's an emergency.
And I can't afford to live anywhere else I might consider living.
And there's a bigger challenge: I don't know where I belong.
Why go through the expense and upheaval of moving if I don't feel compelled to go there? I'll just feel like I don't belong there, too. Socially awkward and outcast.
There is one place I might actually belong. I like it there a lot. It always feels sort of like home to me. But it has the unfortunate distinction of being a very remote place where there aren't many jobs because there aren't many people. Moving there would be counterproductive to accomplishing my hopes of earning a living and finding a man.
But then maybe that's the point: I belong where there are few people and even fewer jobs and even fewer men.
Which I'm actually okay with, except that it's depressing to think I'm so pathetic I belong in almost complete isolation and poverty.
You know, like Shrek.
Much as I adore Shrek, I'm not exactly aspiring to his lifestyle.
So I'll stay here, unPolish, unIrish, unCatholic, until I figure out what to do about this belonging thing and trying to keep my mouth shut and eyes blind to the customs of which I am uneducated.
11:29 AM
Yeah, so, you've got lots of boots and shoes. Too many. We've been meaning to talk to you about this...
Leave me alone. I'm a pathetic, lonely, desperate woman. Let me have my shoes and my cat in peace.
Besides, these boots are magic boots.
These are the third pair of magic boots I've owned.
The two prior pair were worn to beyond wearable condition. I still had one pair of them before I moved. I would take them out on special occasions but they were old and tired and didn't really enjoy themselves that much. But I couldn't bring myself to throw them away because I didn't have another pair waiting in the wings. And more to the point, I didn't want to just throw away that part of my life. The part of my life when I had a life.
Those boots had the dust and dirt and beer and drinks from some of the best times of my life. The tread on those boots was worn thin from walking in far flung countries. Oh, if those boots could have talked. The stories they could tell you would paint a picture of a very different girl you know from this blog. The girl who wore those boots was someone. She was clever and witty and kind and hopeful and hip and yes, sarcastic, sardonic and wry. But. She was young. Youth is wasted on those who are free of sarcasm, sardonicism and a wry remark now and then.
I did not waste my youth. And a lot of it was done in those boots. Those boots took me to life changing events. They took me to my first Pixies concert. And my musical life was forever changed.
They took me to many Pixies and affiliated shows after than one. At a Breeders show a cute broody boy sloshed beer on my boots. They didn't mind. They're tough and known to pound a few themselves. That broody boy lifted his shaggy head and mumbled, "sorry. cool boots. wanna go out sometime?" I dated that broody boy, briefly, and in those boots, with that boy, I learned I had grown up and beyond broody boys. If it weren't for those boots, that beer and that boy, I might still be in the deadly trap of crushing on broody boys. Okay, I still crush on them, they still hold that unexplainable appeal, but after that broody boy, The Last Broody Boy, I can turn and walk away confident that as much as I WANT that broody boy then, in a few days or next week, the full impact of what it means to date a broody boy will hit and the blush will be off that broody and thorny rose. See? Those boots were paramount in my maturity.
Those boots were the only shoes I had (other than a pair of work shoes) when I went through the Big Huge Change of moving my life to Chicago. The rest of my shoes were packed in boxes, stored and waiting for me to find a place to live. Those boots took me all over the city looking for apartments. They took me to that window, on that fateful day when Triillian met Furry Creature. They took me out with friends. I was wearing them the day I met Benjy. And the day I met Frankie saw my feet firmly planted in them. And the day I introduced Benjy to Frankie I was wearing them. And the day they told me they were getting married I was coincidentally wearing them. And at that point I had tons of other shoes I was wearing, so my feet in those boots was not a regular occurrence.
See? They are magic boots.
If I'd been wearing them the day I met HWNMNBS things probably would have been a lot, lot different.
Those boots took me through countless customs desks. They took me shopping. And to bars. And to museums. The first time I saw Dali's Hallucinogenic Toreador in person I was wearing those boots. Ditto Modigliani's Antonia. And Maplethorpe's controversial photos. And Keith Haring's Keith Haring's Sex Show. Where I rebuffed the broody mumble advances of a very fetching Eastern European broody boy. Because my Magic boots had taught me that lesson and now they were protecting me.
It comes down to this: They may not actually be magic, but nothing bad has ever happened in them. So how I could I cast them out like garbage? Okay. because they look horrible, no longer offered any support, and with that broken ankle and subsequent recovery. they were a) not supportive enough for my healing ankle and foot and b) (more to the real point) I couldn't flex my foot in the way required to gain entry to the boots. When I eventually healed enough that I could wear them, I realized just how bad they were. How old and tired. The kindest thing was to put them down. But I couldn't just throw them in the dumpster with my neighbors' pizza and beer cartons. Could I?
The days before the move were horrible. I still can't get into just how bad they were. But. I reached the point all movers reach: "Just throw it away! I don't need it or I'll buy a new one later!" Things you never, ever would have been able to part with are suddenly seen for what they are: Objects which are a pain to move/no space for in the new place. The midnight dumpster salvage brigade in my old hood had a great few weeks when I moved. They are probably the only ones who miss me now that I'm gone.
And so it was, with a box of other old or other shoes which didn't make the move cut, that my magic boots landed in the dumpster. At the time I rationalized it with all the callous determination I could summon: That part of my life's over anyway.
It turned out to be a rather fitting end: It was on a weekend and there were several spent beer cartons in the dumpster. Had I been able to find my camera I would have taken a photo. Or maybe not. It would have been like taking a photo at a funeral. Which is something I don't do and don't condone.
That part of my life is over. That girl is gone. I have no idea who this new person is. I don't like her very much. She's broody (in both senses of the term) and sad and lonely and pathetic and desperate and scared and basically not a lot of fun to be around. She seems, you know, okay. It's obvious there's a story there, a tragic tale. She puts up a good front but I can tell she's wounded. I cut her a lot of slack. But sometimes I want to shake her, throw a cold drink on her and say, "Get over it! Deal with it. It's life. It sucks. No one ever said any of this was going to be easy. People lie. People break promises. That's what people do. Accept it and get over being so wounded and hurt. You think you're the only person left at the altar? You think you're the only one with a broken heart? Look out that window. That one, there. There's a world full of hurt, wounded people out there. It's sad and it's tragic but that's life. Swutting deal with it. You were somebody before you knew him. You did stuff. Go do stuff again. Get some new boots."
So I took my own advice and got some new magic boots. Fortunately my magic boots are of a classic design and manufacturer.
But magic boots don't come cheap.
And between the move, Furry Creature's vet bills and extended care, and my usual lack of funds because I'm grossly underpaid, boots, expensive boots, magic or otherwise, haven't been at the top of my list.
But then I realized: I need them.
Those boots were me. I was them. I was right, I was somebody before HWNMNBS. I was somebody who had a cool pair of boots.
So I got them. (Thank you Zappos. thank you.)
And now I'm breaking them in. Because real serious boots need breaking in. It's a painful process, but worth it in the end.
The interesting thing is that as soon as I put them on, I felt the magic. Well. Maybe not magic. I just felt like me again. For the first time in ages, I felt like me. I caught a brief glint, more of just a hint really, of my old self. It might have been nostalgia for the old days. Or it might have been the magic of the boots. Time will tell. But for now we're in that awkward just getting to know each other phase. Testing our limits. Pushing each other just a bit too far and then hastily apologizing.
I already made a new friend while wearing my boots. He's short and walks on all fours, but he was attached to a woman who is about my age, single and lives a few blocks away from me. She liked my boots. She used to have a pair like them. I said, "Me, too. But they wore out beyond repair. So I got some new ones." She wanted new ones, too. I told her about Zappos. She was excited. I was having a cup of tea from Gschwendner. She asked about it. I told her about the new outpost. We talked tea. We're going to meet there next Saturday morning for tea. Then we might go shoe shopping.
She's no Frankie, but then, I'm no Trillian right now, either. And I'm not in a position to be particular. Single, childless or unpregnant women in my age range are hard to find. It's not just dates and men I can't find, I'm having difficulty with friends, too. So, you know, given that she at least once owned a pair of magic boots, I have to think we might have enough in common to try to be friends.
9:22 AM
