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<




Trillian McMillian
Trillian McMillian
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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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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

 
Friday, May 26, 2006  
Then Again, Maybe I Won't
So I'm off to Canada, going "overseas" (as my cranial wonder of a mayor calls it) which is alternately stressful and exciting.

No, I'm not immigrating. Yet. But. A flight and a couple of steps in that direction.

I love the ironic timing in my life.

You know how I'm all veggie and animal loving and violence hating? And you know how I'm all like, "that's it, I've had it, I'm immigrating to Canada where the people are friendly, the beer is strong, the immigration rules are fair and enforced and baby seals are violently clubbed at staggering rates?"

Scratch of record sound bite.

Yeah. I don't even drink beer. And I conveniently forgot about the baby seal clubbing.

Well. I didn't forget. I just sort of weighed the other factors which were more pertinent and relevant to me. Yes. It was all about me. Selfish of me to not think of the baby seals. On the other hand, it's none of my business what they do in Canada, per se. And can I sit here and say Americans treat the environment and animals any better? No. I cannot. Let he who is without environmental infractions club the first baby seal.

How would I like it if people from other countries tried to boss around George Bush because of his rape the land and strip the world of it's natural resources and beauty in the name of oil policy? Oh wait. Never mind. Never mined.

So yeah, a bit of an ironic twist in my immigration to Canada endeavor, as I packed my bags to visit Canada I received an email petition reminding me of the inhumane slaughter fest in Canada. I don't really believe in fate or divine intervention so I'm still packing to go to Canada. But. It does give me pause for thought about the nation I'm considering calling home. Here's
information and a petition to Stephen Harper (the Prime Minister of Canada) asking for an end to the slaughter (Usually off season, by the way, and usually extremely violent. These are not mercy killings, the hunters are not "speeding up the process" and ending suffering by eliminating the sick and elderly of the herd.)

8:12 AM

Wednesday, May 24, 2006  
Remember how over the counter in-home beautification treatments have a way of backfiring on me? Well. Let’s score another point for the marketers of over the counter in-home beautification treatments.

Some of you may remember The White Stripping Incident of 2004.

Yeah. Good times.

Actually. That didn't go so awful. The White Stripping Incident of 2003 was bad, but the next year when Nite Effects hit the market the experience was better.

So yeah, I guess, reflecting on it a bit more, OTC beautification products haven't been so bad to me.

Maybe that's why I thought it would be safe to try...oh man...this is embarrassing...we're all friends here, right? Okay, I know we're not all friends. But. Okay. Fine. Be gentle with me.

I tried a self tanning product.

There. Okay?

But in my defense it came highly recommended by a friend who tried it and it's made by Dove and the package says, "SUBTLE Self Tanners." Energy Glow, it's called.

Subtle it says. "Gradually builds a beautiful Summery glow." It doesn't say anything about turning your flesh to a lovely shade of tangerine.

I was under the impression (via the person who recommended it and the package) that it's really more of a moisturizer which will just leave a trace of, well, Summery glow. Apparently I'm confused on the meaning of Summery glow. I was thinking a deep moisturizing treatment which leaves behind soft skin with just a little hint of color, enough to smooth out the not so glowy Wintery pasty white. You know, me but not so sickly and Wintery dry looking. But apparently Summery glow actually means: Chernoble core during meltdown glow.

One application left my legs looking like I've spent the past three months in a tanning bed. All I need is to bleach my hair yellow blonde, wear frosty shimmer lipstick and blue eye shadow, don some skin tight white jean cut-off shorts and scuffed up white pumps and I'm ready for an audition for the Donna Summer “Bad Girls” video or the bad part of the Las Vegas Strip.

I trusted Dove. I trusted them. I've used Dove products and found them to be exactly as they claim to be on their packaging. I had no reason not to trust Energy Glow.

Well.

Except.

I have a bad self tanning product experience in my past and I should have known better.

Wavy flashback screen…

It was the Summer of my 15th year.

I was 5'11". Flat as a board (yes, really). Full set of braces on my teeth (with headgear). Long hair frizzy from the Summer humidity and streaked with orangey red highlights thanks to my friend's brother's be-sunroofed Firebird which we'd been riding around in all Summer because she already had her license and her brother was backpacking across Europe. And I was white. Really, really, really white. So white you could see veins under my skin. A few freckles on my cheeks and a reddish nose from that Sun roof. Yeah. I was quite the teenaged temptress. The Lolita of the neighborhood. I think it's fair to say my trouble attracting men began sometime around the age of 12. My friend, who was older, blonder, prettier and in possession of a driver's license and the keys to her brother's Firebird, was invited to a party, a pool party and she had begged an invite for me, too. Cool kids were going to be there. College kids. Boys. Young men. Who went to other schools and college and didn't know us.

Much to my astounding amazement my parents agreed to let me attend this pool party with older boys and young men from college. Looking back on it I suppose they weren't worried about me because of the braces, height, lack of any discernible female body parts, frizzy hair and translucent skin. They may have even thought this to be my one chance at garnering a date - get a boy drunk enough on a hot Summer night and he might even be attracted to me.

Fortunately I was stupid enough to say something about swimming to my friend and she, aghast, explained that swimming would not be the focus of the pool party. I was a dork. I was the girl who, had I not been fortunate enough to have an older cool friend, would have shown up in her bathing suit and sneakers with a towel wrapped around me like a terry cloth sarong and swim goggles hanging around my neck. And pool toys. I was completely out of my fashion depth. A pool party with no swimming and boys from other schools and young men from college was not exactly something I was hip to at that stage of my life. I was nervous to say the least. I worried about this event. So worried my mother even sprang for a new "cool" outfit for the party. (Don't ask. Please. Do not ask. It was very cool which means it was very awful. It involved stripes, cheap jewelry and sandals. (Actually, I wish I had those sandals, they'd be kind of cool now.))

My friend and I spent the night before the night of the party in preparation for the party. She had a lot of make-up. I actually had a fair amount thanks to my older sister who was a model with trunks full of make-up, but I never wore much because I hadn't quite gotten the hang of achieving a look other than punk. Which I actually pulled off pretty well what with the translucent skin and an already sizable “alternative” record collection thanks to my older brother and college radio stations.

But punk was not really the right look for the pool party with boys from other schools and young men from college. And my friend wasn’t punk. She was more, um, I dunno really, cover of Seventeen magazine comes to mind. So we messed around with our looks for the party. Meaning: she deftly tried several different combinations which all looked good and then tried them on me. Without the same results.

Her: Pretty 17-year-old blonde cover of Seventeen girl.

Me: Awkward 15-year-old cover of a Slits album (with a lot of effort and minus the attitude).

I vividly remember her copies of Elle and Vogue and how we tried to emulate the models' make-up looks.

And Sun-in was involved. My already blonde friend streaked in some highlights and I followed suit because it actually “worked” in her hair, added a subtle sun kissed highlight to her natural blonde locks here and there. And she convinced me it would be just as subtle in mine. Even though my hair was dark brunette and naturally streaked with red highlights. (okay, she wasn’t the brains of the operation, but she was popular, or at least well liked, had a car and for some reason that Summer she chose to hang out with me so I was willing to try just about anything she suggested) Though, to my credit, I was smart enough to dilute the stuff and applied it to what I thought were just a few strands. I stood firm when my friend tried to convince me more would be better. Looking back on this I have to wonder if she was trying to sabotage me, if maybe she had some sort of Carrie homage in mind.

However, when she insisted that with my short, um, outfit and sandals my legs would be getting a lot of attention, particularly because they were so white, I agreed and worried.

She had just the remedy.

Everyone, on the count of three: 1 - 2 - 3: Ban de Soleil! Ah yes, self tanning at it's most unnatural orangey best.

I guess we all have to learn the hard way, right? Still. That stuff should be illegal. I mean, it's just cruel to lead on young girls with that stuff. Just absolutely cruel.

You know what happened. I don't need to go into an explanation of the tangerine colored base with the dark brown streaks do I? Or the dark brown map of creases between my toes and fingers? Or the stark contrast of white in all the places I missed when applying or when I washed my hands like the instructions said to do? Or the finger print shaped brown smudges on my cheek from where I apparently touched my face with the stuff and didn't realize it until it was too late, way too late?

The term unmitigated disaster comes to mind. I mean, there I was with my new cool outfit and I was completely orange with brown streaks and finger shaped marks on my face. And orange/yellow streaks in my hair. My mother tried to stifle her laughter when I came down the morning after the application. The day of the party. She tried really hard, you know, to be supportive and encouraging. But in the end she cracked under the pressure. I think it was when I showed her pasty white hands with brown streaks and an almost perfect "cuff" where the orange and brown streaks began at my wrists. It looked like I was wearing orange sleeves and white gloves.

I mean, I can't blame her, I would laugh if it were my kid. I'd totally crack up. So, you know, I don't fault her for laughing and she did try really hard to not laugh at first. But. Well. It was funny. My big pool party with no swimming and older boys from other schools and young men from college and a new cool outfit with sandals and there I was: Orange with brown streaks and white hands. And matching bright orange/yellow streaks in my hair.

My mother took me to her salon and they dyed my hair a regular shade of brown to cover up the Sun-in. (You may recall this was not the first professional dye job I required due to a home beautifying experiment gone wrong, I already had a history of home beautifying experiments gone horribly wrong.) And we tried everything, everything to tone down the Ban de Soleil skin dye. We were moderately successful with a solution they use to correct a bad dye job, a bleaching agent of some sort. I sometimes wonder which will give me some rare form of cancer first: The Ban de Soleil or the bleaching agents we slathered on me to try to get rid of it.

In the end I wore cute slacks to the party and stacks of bracelets and my sister's cast-off super wide (and super out of style) watch to hide the line between my orange arms and white hands.

Yadda yadda yadda.

I left that party as chaste and unnoticed as I arrived. Well. The older boys from other schools and the young men from college did notice me. It's kind of hard to not notice a 5'11" tangerine wearing a striped top and lots and lots and lots of cheap jewelry and fingerprint shaped brown smudges on her face. Oh. And braces. But they weren't interested in anything from me other than pointing and laughing.

My friend met a young man from college that night and three weeks later she gave "it" up to him in her brother's Firebird. It was her Summer of love. It was my Summer of bad fake tan and striped top.

If my parents would have been Catholic everything would have been so much easier: I could have just become a nun. I mean, duh. It would have been the obvious calling from my earliest years. Oh sure, even then I had a lot of questions about the whole God concept, but I suppose once they whisk you away into the nunnery you're brainwashed into the married to God thing and just accept Him and get on with your life of duty to Him.

Right. So. Lesson learned: Tan from a bottle = very bad thing.

Never again.

Until last weekend when I was seduced by my friend's recommendation. (not the same friend, I have no idea what became of that Summer friend, she went to college and I heard she transferred to another college and I don't know after that, but, she did date that young man from college for a couple of years) My friend’s recommendation fueled by a remark made by a guy at a bar who told me I looked anemic.

I just love men. I really do. When they’re not interested in getting laid they’re so brutally honest. People say every straight woman needs a gay guy friend. I don’t know about that. I mean, I have gay guy friends and true, along with just being good friends, they’re also sometimes very helpful in terms of makeup tricks and style ideas because they happen to be in those industries. My gay guy friends are sensitive to my feelings regarding the flaws and focus on devising techniques for camouflaging them, but I think it has more to do with them being good friends than their sexual orientation.

For my money when it comes to honesty about your looks you cannot keep it more real than a random straight guy who does not want to have sex with you. He’ll tell you your butt looks huge in those jeans because your butt is huge. He’ll tell you your hair isn’t sexy. He’ll suggest a nose job or other plastic surgery. He’ll tell you you’re too tall, too short, too skinny, too fat, too chesty, not chesty enough or anemic looking. Basically, a man who has no sexual interest in you will confirm every flaw you see in the mirror.

On the other hand, a man who wants to have sex with you will lie. Or in some cases truly not see the flaws as flaws and in those cases, well, hang onto that man for dear life and never let him go.

I know I’m really white. Especially my legs. Pasty British legs. Strong and serviceable and very, very white. I know this. The anemic remark hit a little hard coming from a guy I’d just met, but, it was not without more than several bleached grains of truth.

My friend used the Dove Energy Glow moisturizer to good effect. I figured it was time to give it a try. I trusted Dove and my friend. I trusted them.

And they did me wrong.

Real wrong.

Tangerine orange glow wrong.

Okay. Part of it might be my fault. I did a little investigating and discovered there are two formulas: One for fair skin and one for medium skin. I unfortunately used the one for medium skin. Yes. I know I have fair skin and not medium skin, but they didn't have the fair skin formula. At the time I didn't know a fair skin formula existed. I thought it was medium fits all.

Besides, the shade chart on the bottle kind of matches my skin. Well okay, not so much. But it's a plastic bottle under fluorescent lights, it's difficult to match tones and predict results. Ever buy a lipstick or look at photos inside a pharmacy and think they're fine only to discover how bad and off color they are when you get outside in real light? Right. So I think we can cut me just a bit of slack over the shade chart matching.

At least this time there aren't white hands and a line of orange starting at my wrists. And the brown streaks are minimal. And there's no pool party with leg revealing outfit involved. But. Still.

There's work. And a big work thing. And skirts. I keep scrubbing and exfoliating and shaving and hoping the orange will just go away. But so far it hasn’t.

As for the moisturizer, well, it actually is a pretty good moisturizer. If the “glow” were less orange and more subtle it wouldn’t be a bad product. I can see why my friend likes it. So I gave her the bottle I bought. I won’t be using it. She’s eschewed tanning in the Sun but wants to look tan. She was surprised to see my results.

“Trill, you must have done something wrong,” she said, “it doesn’t do that to me, see?” She proffered lovely supple subtle even toned Sun kissed looking legs.

She stretched her leg next to mine. My orange and brown splotched leg.

We had a good laugh over the comparison. We looked like a commercial for good/bad self tanners: “My self tanner left my legs looking orange and brown splotched! Embarrassing! So I asked my friend how she achieved her lovely supple subtle even toned Sun kissed looking legs…” Yeah, us kooky advertising gals.

Some guys happened to walk by while we were having a laugh over my legs. They asked what happened to me. Just like that, they said, “What happened to your legs?” My friend, thinking she was doing me a favor, said, “We tried a self tanner and we’re comparing results,” she said.

“Yours look a lot better,” one of the guys said to my friend, “yours look weird,” he then said to me. Completely unsolicited. See what I mean about guys who have no interest in sex with you? They’ll just bluntly put it all out there.

The other guy said to my friend, “You’ve got great legs.” He might have been drooling. See what I mean about guys who want to have sex with you? They’ll say anything, seize any opportunity to lavish compliments and even lie if they think it will get them closer to the bedroom. (My friend has okay legs, kind of short but nice, you know, nice legs, regular legs, supple subtle even toned Sun kissed looking legs. I’m not sure they qualify as “great” but it’s all in the eye of the beholder or at least the guy who wants to have sex.)

When my friend picked up her drink and flashed her gazillion carat diamond wedding band the guys disappeared, vanished into thin air. Which is fine. Obviously I wasn’t interested in those guys. Stupid Dove Energy Glow for medium skintones. Summer's getting off to a great start.

10:38 AM

Sunday, May 21, 2006  
Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody...

I just got paid but of course that means nothing to me, at least in the, "hey! I just got paid! Let's go nuts!" sense because my money goes to paying the many bills which crowd my mailbox every month and feeding the cat.

But hey, another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody blah blah blah how I wish I had someone to talk to, I'm in an awful way.

And that's really the worst of it, not having someone to talk to on a Saturday night. Or Sunday morning. Or 3 AM on a Tuesday. Well. That and it occurred to me I'd like a really good kiss. You know, a really good, serious, real kiss. I don't think about that often, it's not allowed on the regime of no feelings. But. Sometimes I think about kisses I've had in the past and how good they felt and how nice it was to share that lip locked physicality with someone who wanted to share it with me. I used to really like kissing. A couple of former boyfriends even told me I was a good kisser. Rock Star wrote a really bad song about my "addictive kisses." Yeah, I know, who'd a thought that? That was a long time ago, seems like a different life, someone else's life. It startles me sometimes to remember I used to have a life like that. A life that included boyfriends and kisses (addictive and otherwise) and going out on Saturday night or staying in on Saturday night and talking until 3 in the morning.

Now I work. I go to work and I work a lot of hours. And I come home and I work until I think I can fall asleep for a few hours. Then I get up and go to work. Sometimes I go out, you know, out. Socially. Last week I went out three nights. I know, easy there, Trill, you might hurt yourself. I would go out more but I can't afford it. (see above, crowded mail box)

And I find when I go out coming home is worse than if I'd stayed in all evening. The loneliness, isolation and despair is more obvious after spending an evening out in a crowd or out with friends who are all going home to/with their partners. Sure, going out is fun, until someone gets hurt. And that someone is usually me. When I get in the cab or walk home alone. And go into my compartment and it's quiet (the Zydeco is dying down, someone else must have complained, it now seems to stop around 9 PM) and the compartment is empty and Furry Creature wants a bite to eat and I think about something someone said earlier in the evening or how great or awful the band was and turn to talk to someone about it and then, oh yeah, that's right, there's no one there. Furry Creature consequently knows a lot about bands and my friends and the people I meet when I go out. So I rattle around all in a post-going out buzz on my own. It's a waste. A horrible waste. A waste of a life, a waste of energy, a waste of time. Those few hours out are fun but when I go home they magnify the emptiness in my life. And then reality hits and I realize the money I spent going out, while not great sums to most people, cut into the monthly budget and the rest of the month is going to be spent eating Ramen and peanut butter and using laundry quarters as my emergency bus fair. Yes. Sometimes it comes down to either doing the laundry or saving quarters for the bus should I need to ride if I'm in a hurry to get to work.

Welcome to the fun swinging single life.

I was okay with times like this when I was younger. The times between boyfriends was sometimes a relief. A chance to regroup, grow as a person, spend time alone doing what I wanted to do, developing myself, working on projects, going to school, it was good. I was fine with it. And I knew I could go out and eventually going out would produce a boyfriend or at least some interesting prospects. But those days are long gone. Now when I go out I sit and watch other women get boyfriends or interesting prospects. All the smiles and coy hair flipping in the world doesn't bring men my way. Unless I happen to be out with some of my attractive female friends. Who happen to be married. Yet men don't seem to be bothered, daunted by that. They see a table of attractive women and apparently think they've got a chance with at least one of them.

They get disappointed and sometimes angry to learn that they're right, they do have a chance with at least one of them, but that one is me. When my friends all talk me up and try to steer these men in my direction the men who were attracted to my friends either leave or become rude. "Her? Uh, no, I don't think so. Not my, um, 'type.' You're my type. And her, the cute one with the nice ass, she's my type, too. But not her." Yes. Men have said that. Not just one man, men, on several nights out in several different types of places. Those types of remarks don't hurt me anymore. I'm used to it. I anticipate them and spend my time building up interior defenses to paste on the attitude and look that says "it doesn't matter, I wasn't interested in him anyway, his words don't hurt me" and "he's a jerk and whatever, laugh laugh laugh.' (sob sob sob)

I did get hit on by an older man. An older married man. A much older married man. His wife doesn't understand him. They have an open arrangement. You know, until the kids are in college. Then they'll get a divorce. But until then he's trapped in a marriage with a wife who doesn't understand him and he's bored.

Yep. I've hit the point in my life where that kind of man hits on me.

Well. I mean, I've been hit on by men like that in the past. They're everywhere, in every corner of the Universe, lounge lizards of a bygone era, those men with that tired cliché of a line will hit on any woman they think looks either dumb enough or lonely (and desperate) enough to buy into or excuse the cliché. They frequently work in sales or are "in real estate." They frequently wear a huge watch and/or a gold bracelet. They're frequently named Roger. So much so that I've come to assume "Roger" is an alias, a code name used by married men incapable of getting a divorce and yet also incapable of putting in the effort required to have a marriage which isn't a sham. They don't really want a divorce any more than they want the relationship they claim they're seeking there at the bar. What they want is sex and will stop at nothing, not even tried old clichés to get it.

Those guys, Rogers, are usually not into sarcasm. So they usually don't appreciate my responses to them. "Of course your wife doesn't understand you, clearly you're a complex and sensitive individual with very deep needs, so many needs that you need more than one woman to satisfy and fulfill you." Or, "Oh, how nice you're sticking together for the sake of the children. So are you out 'bowling' or 'working late' tonight? Which lie did you tell them? Because of course lying to them about where you are and what you're doing and about the state of your relationship with your wife is better than having them have to deal with a divorce," and they really hate it when I use my mother's line on them, "Only boring people get bored." Yes, as you can see, I have a few barriers to intimacy, at least when it comes to men like that. They hate it when their bluff is called. They slither away and look for fresh prey. They go for the dumb one instead of the lonely one next time.

I sat there looking at the Roger of the week thinking, "Ya know Trill, maybe this is it, maybe this is as good as it's ever going to get for you. Maybe deep down in there somewhere he's not really as bad as he seems. Maybe his wife really is a bitch and maybe he really does love his children." And then I snap out of my desperation and go to the "ladies room."

But back home, alone, I sit there thinking, "I could have at least kissed him, got that out of my system. One kiss every five years isn't asking too much or hardly playing with fire." And then I think, "Oh swut Trillian, is this what it's come down to? You, alone in a tiny compartment with a cat contemplating whether or not you should have at least kissed that Roger because lately you've been thinking a kiss would be nice?" And then I think, "I cannot live this way. I'm too alone and too empty. I'm sitting here having this conversation with myself and a cat."

I fill my days and nights with as much activity as possible to avoid being alone. I work. I freelance. I volunteer. I have interests. I go places and do things. I have friends. I get "out there." I try, you know, I really try. And all of that is rewarding in a lot of ways. But. Then I'm alone. And ultimately that's the worst of it. I do have a fairly involved and "rewarding" life, but, what's the point if you don't have someone with whom you can share it, have a laugh, relax and enjoy the aftermoments, sit back and just have a good old snog?

People tell me I should embrace being single, that in many ways I'm lucky to be single, that I can go wherever I want and do whatever I want. Funny, I just never felt trapped in my past relationships, I never felt like I was being held back from doing what I wanted to do. People tell me divorce rates are high and a marriage is no guarantee of an end to loneliness. I mean, duh, of course not. But I've been pretty good at choosing men in the past, I mean, at least in terms of dating men who didn't trap me or isolate me or make me yearn for more. Even HWNMNBS with his special brand of self esteem bashing, even with him, even with the distance between us, I didn't feel trapped or lonely. He was always there for me and apart from my looks was extremely supportive and encouraging of me and my goals. And I loved kissing him. I've never allowed myself (or wanted to) get into a relationship which wouldn't be mutually satisfying or at least fun and rewarding on some level. I'm stupid but I'm not an idiot when it comes to relationships. Why do you think I've burned through almost 50 first dates and had very few second dates? It's not always them, it's more often a combination of us which just isn't right. I could have hung in there with a couple of those guys, the recent doofus, for instance, really liked me, but I would have ended up feeling alone or even trapped in relationships with them. I'm lonely now but I'm not too stupid or desperate enough to realize those relationships would make me even more lonelier. "Not everyone gets to be married," I'm told. Oh. Okay. Gee, really? Ya don't say. I realize this, too. And that's what's scary and depressing and makes the loneliness worse. I am all too aware that not everyone gets to be married, and that a lot of people spend their lives single and wishing they weren't.

But is it wrong to not want to be one of them? Is it wrong to feel lonely and empty and long for a relationship when you're the sort of person who wants that? Nature, biology, makes us to be paired up with a mate. And no, this isn't about my biological clock, though, I admit, that has been a factor in the past and I make no apologies. People are made to reproduce. It's normal to want children. Those of us who want them are not bad. We're normal. Survival of the species, all that? Ringing any bells from biology class? Reproduction is the most basic function any organism can master. A swutting gnat can reproduce for crying out loud. It's what organisms do. It's nature. I also happen to really like children and hoped I would have some with a man who also wanted to be a parent, with me. It's not working out that way. But don't tell me, "It wasn't meant to be" and expect me to think it's all okay because "it wasn't meant to be." I've got a uterus, desire and love to be a mother and it's oversimplifying, arrogant and stupid to tell me I either shouldn't want children or that "it wasn't meant to be." I realize that, okay? I'm not a complete idiot. I realize that. But it still hurts. I still yearn for children. I still feel sad every month when another egg goes to waste. On a very basic level it makes me feel like a failure as a human organism. On a deeper level it makes me feel sad and lonely. I accept what's happened to my life. But accepting my fate doesn't mean I don't feel bad about it. And for you guys out there who don't happen to have a uterus and like to make judgments or jokes about biological clocks: Shut up.

The point is that we're supposed to be paired up. That's the nature of things. Life is hard. We need help. Support. A partner. I realize that doesn't mean we all get to be married and/or have children. But for those of us outcast and alone, those of us who want a partner and a relationship, it's rough going sometimes. It hurts. It's scary. It's lonely. That's not to say we feel we're wasting our lives or that we're incomplete, just that we'd be better, less lonely and more well adjusted if we had someone to talk to (and kiss) now and then. This is basic stuff of life. Some people truly do not want that stuff, and that's great, fine for them, to each their own and good for them for realizing that about themselves. But for those of us who want it and don't have it and keep trying and still don't have it, it's rough going. Simply trying to accept it and become one of the people who doesn't want any of that isn't easy. You have to deny and squash all your most basic instincts, desires and feelings.

I need to find the guy who realizes I have issues and accepts them. I need to find a man who doesn't insult me or my intelligence. I need to find a man who needs a financial partner. I need to find a man who's wiling to kiss me from time to time. He doesn't have to love me and he doesn't have to want me to love him. Somewhere out there is a guy who's been bashed around by life and relationships, who's single and lonely and in need of a financial partner and someone to talk to at 3 AM. The problem is that, like me, he's probably busy with work and activities and his life. It's not until he goes home to his empty compartment that he thinks, "I could really use someone to talk to right now. A kiss would be nice, too. And a little help with the finances would be nice."

10:37 AM

Monday, May 15, 2006  
Take Off, to the Great White North
You know how I hate my job? You know all the frustration and loneliness I’m experiencing due to a lack of a relationship and growing differences between my friends' lives and mine? You know how medical expenses are consuming my meager paycheck? You know how I hate the idiot mayor of the city in which I live? You know how I’m stressed and generally dissatisfied with the state of my life?

Well, guess what?! I’ve got a plan to do something about all of that in one fell swoop.

I’m putting my money where my mouth is and trying to immigrate to Canada.

Just a couple of little issues to resolve and I’m on my way, eh?

The biggest initial issue is the money involved.

Canada requires immigrants to arrive with funds to live for six months. The Canadian government has a set rate for this: For 1 person they require proof of a minimum of $10,168 at point of entry. The rules are very clear on this: Immigrants cannot borrow this money. They have to prove they have the set required amount for the number of people in their family at their disposal. Period. Fortunately it’s $10,168 Canadian which is currently $9,112.75 US.

Unfortunately I do not happen to have $9,112.75 at my disposal. Well. I do, in my 401K, but I don’t think the fund administrators will consider immigration to Canada a justifiable emergency. I could take out any amount I wanted to put a child (a blood or adopted child) through college but once again, those of us who do not have children miss out on the exemptions and benefits. I cannot use my money to educate myself. Or a niece or foster child. Or to help with expenses with my parents. Nope. Uh uh. No way. It’s there for retirement or to put a blood or adopted child through college or to loan out for a real estate investment. So that’s out of the question. Seriously, has anyone else questioned why the money can be used to fund a child’s education but not the continuing education of the person who actually earned and saved the money in the fund? Am I alone in thinking this is weird and wacky? If a person has a 401K they probably have a job or at least a means to contribute regular deposits to the plan. If that person were to desire to further their education, would it not stand to reason that they would earn more money after receiving that further education and hence put more money into the fund? A child of a person contributing to a 401K is not going to get out of college and start contributing to their parents’ 401K. So really, it’s a bad investment in terms of the 401K fund. But apparently I’m the only one who feels this way because the rules are firm and the same in all of the plans I’ve investigated. I do wonder what will happen to that money once I become Canadian, though. Someone’s going to have a nice little vacation on my meager savings I’ve struggled to put away over the past few years. Shame, too, because if I could take that money with me to Canada it would make a nice little nest egg what with the exchange rate.

I can’t borrow it. Canada is very clear about that. It has to be my money. So I have to earn it and save it. If you would like to contribute to the Trillian Immigrates to Canada, Eh? Fund (TITCEF, not to be confused with UNICEF which actually does really good things with their donations) I’ll be starting a pledge drive soon. I’ll get one of those thermometer signs to show the progress. I’m toying with the idea of making it like those PBS and NPR pledge drives. I could hold the blog hostage and interrupt regularly scheduled blogs with begs for money in return for a tote bag or some other useless piece of crap in my closet of crap at work. I could sort out the closet of crap and set up gifts for various levels of contribution.

There are also application and right of permanent residence fees. Currently $550 and $490 respectively. I find it kind of ironic the total for application fees is $1040. ($938.20 US) Add that to the pledge drive goal total.

I’m working on getting my police record. Canada requires a certified (by FBI) record and fingerprint. Any US citizen can request a copy of their FBI record and official fingerprint. It costs $18. Add that to the pledge fund. This should be interesting. I’ve always kind of wondered about what might be in my “permanent record” with the Feds. I assume a lot of immigration stuff, mainly to do with HWNMNBS and my little “incident” abroad. Ahem. I’m guessing. But maybe not. I dunno. I should find out regardless of my immigration to Canada, eh? It says you can challenge your record. “Hey look, I was younger then, it was all an innocent mistake…I didn’t realize my visa wasn’t valid for work…the guy at the embassy said it was just a delay in paperwork, not my fault…my passport was stolen in Paris, I mean, it happens, I went straight to the embassy, they said as long as my visa was on file it didn’t need to be stamped on my new passport and they’d get it to me and then they didn’t and look, I was young and trusting and I’m older and cynical now, it would never happen now. And HWNMNBS, I mean, how could I know he was going to dump me? All those forms and applications and letters and phone calls to INS, I mean, I was sincere. Turns out he wasn’t but I was…not my fault…can’t we just throw away all those forms and pretend it never happened? That’s what I try to do, just pretend the whole thing never happened. It doesn’t matter to him so why should it matter to me? Or you, the FBI? I’m just a pathetic jilted old woman. I’m better now, cynical, not so trusting. Let’s just forget about all those files, okay? Besides, I’m leaving, I’m immigrating to Canada. I don’t want to be American anymore, you can just purge my file. I saw that on the X-Files once. They just deleted a person, like they never existed. You guys can do that. You have the power. It’s okay with me. I don’t mind. I know I’d like to purge a few files in my office. Go ahead, purge me. But first let me have a clean certificate to send to Canada. Here’s the $18 I owe you.”

Canada requires a language exam. You have to prove you can speak English or French or both. They have certified language testing centres. A person wishing to become a Canadian must pass the Canadian English Language Proficiency Index Program, CELPIP. The CELPIP exam costs $250. ($225.53 US) The study guide costs $50. I’m on the fence with the study guide. I’ve been speaking English for a lot of years and I speak Canadian fluently, so, I’m thinking I can probably forgo the study guide. But, that might be cocky of me and I don’t want to let something like a language exam get in the way of my Canadian immigration. So add it to the bill. The exam is in August. I’m already psyched. There are essay questions. I love essay questions. Yes. I am a very emotionally disturbed person.

And then there’s the medical exam. Yes. Canada requires a medical exam. The two main stipulations are that I not be a danger to public health or safety; or cause excessive demand on health or social services in Canada. Okay. Well. I had Mumps so I don’t think I’m a danger to public health or safety. But. I have racked up a rather large file at my doctor’s office. I owe a lot of money to the medical community thanks to high co-pay amounts on my health insurance. If the Canadian medical examiner starts poking around they’re going to find that I’ve got a history of emergency room visits and hospital stays and treatment for issues stemming from accidents. They’re going to see scars and bones which haven’t healed quite exactly into proper position. (they take x-rays, they’re apparently very thorough) They’re going to hear the rattle of asthma in my lungs and the slight limp in my gait when I take a first few steps. They’ll see the tell tale dark circles of sleep deprivation under my eyes. And they will conclude that I will potentially cause excessive demand on health services in Canada. “Okay, well, Miss McMillian, Mumps, eh? Were you not vaccinated or infected as a child? Oh yes, I see, well, these things happen. Bad timing, a train full of children during Mumps season, of course, just wrong place at the wrong time. And just how did you get that nasty scar under your eye? Car accident, eh? Well. That was lucky you didn’t lose your eye. Oh, yes, and the rib fractures from the same accident, yes, I see, you were just a passenger. On a date. With a drunk driver. Do you normally take that sort of risk with your health and life? No? Well of course, you couldn’t have known he was drunk. Ahem. Right. So this ankle and foot appear to be slightly misaligned. Oh, and a bit swollen today, too, eh? How’d this happen? Mugged, eh? Wow. Do you normally engage in risky behaviors that would put you in the path of assailants? No? Well, you see, it’s just that you seem to be prone to victimization, and there are studies which conclude some people are predisposed to victimization. Single women, for instance, tend to have a higher incidence of health issues stemming from victimization. And depression. And suicide..." I can see the big rubber stamp DENIED coming down on my application.

I have to decide where I’m going to live. Unfortunately Canada offers a wide variety of appealing choices. Vancouver is the obvious first choice, I mean, duh. But, then again, Toronto’s not without it’s charm and Ottawa is really swell. I like the idea of Nova Scotia. I even like saying Nova Scotia. I can say it in Canadian, like a native. And they’ve got a swell immigration program specifically to bring immigrants to Nova Scotia. Check out the management nomination requirements. I don’t happen to have a net worth of $300,000 so unfortunately that program’s not going to work for me. Darn it. I had my hopes up with that one. But then, Newfoundland is not without appeal. I like cold weather. And water. And rugged terrain. And wide open spaces. And I’m already emotionally isolated and distant, might as well just go all the way and endure physical isolation and distance, too, eh? Work might be a problem for me because I don’t happen to be schooled or, well, interested in the lumber, mining or fishing industries. But I like dogs so maybe something in the Labrador or Newfoundland breeding industry could be right up my alley. Yep. I’m going to start a puppy mill. In Newfoundland. Hey. It could happen. It certainly couldn’t be any worse than my current job, eh? And, check out the dating site I found for Newfoundland singles. A quick check garnered 82 men. Fresh prey. Whoo boy! Plenty of Fish also has a Newfoundland area on their site. Seriously, I’m liking my odds up there.

Yes. I’ve done my homework. It’s not easy to immigrate to Canada, but, I like their screening process. I can get on board with a country who sets up a standard process for everyone wishing to live in Canada. I know their national anthem. In English and French. I’m willing to pledge my allegiance to a red maple leafed flag. I’m up to the challenge. If I fail, well, then, I’m just not Canada material. I’ll have to make due with my life in the US.

Or maybe Mexico will take me. I hear their screening process for new immigrants is easier. And cheaper. $211 (US) for the FM-2 application fee, another $36 if you apply through the consulate, 6 black/white passport photos, Authorization letter from the Ministry of the Interior in Mexico, a one page PDF form and away you go. The form’s in Spanish, though, and they require that it be filled out in Spanish. They’re not reciprocating the US’s offer to provide forms and services in Spanish to Spanish speaking immigrants. Mexico doesn’t offer or accept forms in English. They don’t require a language exam, though. They may ask for proof of finances, enough to afford to live there for a year. But their minimum wage and cost of living is low, so I’m told if I can scrap up about 800 pesos ($72.38 US) they figure I’m good for a month. Mexico’s president is eager to get rid of citizens, too, really pushing to get millions of them into the US, so that letter from the Ministry of the Interior might be tricky. And their new loosened laws on drugs and drug use is going to cause a flood of applications so I’ll have to get in line behind the stoners. But hey, there’s never been a better time to be Mexican, right? Party on, dude. Yes, I am aware of the “culture” in Canada. And I’ve heard about the special blend out of British Columbia. Wait a minute, are you from the FBI? I’m just saying I’ve heard of it. I have asthma. I don’t smoke anything. I’ve got the medical exam to prove it. I don't know the Mexican National Anthem by heart yet, but I'm learning it, en Espanol. But I do know Senor don Gato. Meow meow meow. And I know how to make a kickin' salsa cheese dip. I got the recipe from everyone's favorite authentic Mexican cook, Rick Bayless. So. You know. It's an easy plan B. If the Canada thing doesn't work out for me. There's always Mexico.

12:16 PM

Wednesday, May 10, 2006  
I can hardly wait for the feedback on this one…

My mother narked me out, man, she narked on me.

One could cut her slack because she is on a heavy dose of pain killers and stuck in a nursing home. But still. She was lucid enough to carry on a conversation with the minister of my parents' church. Quite a lengthy conversation, apparently. Having a great deal to do with me.

I know this because a) my mother told me about the conversation and b) the minister asked my dad for my email address and he swutting gave it to him. So yes, my dad narked me out, too. Though in fairness my father didn't know why the minister wanted my email address, he assumed the minister was on a good will mission or something. And since my parents worry about my salvation on a regular basis my father probably figured I could use all the help their minister is willing to email me.

My mother had not yet told me about the conversation she had with the minister (that's it, no more unsupervised visits for him) when the email arrived.

I was a little surprised to see his name in my in box, but, given all that my parents have been through since January it’s not unusual for one of their friends to send me an email (which is a whole other blog). It began okay, "Hello Trillian, so glad your mother's doing better in the nursing home." Passive aggressive dig or sincere tiding of hope? You be the judge. My money's on passive aggressive dig at me for putting my mother in The Home. I say this not because I am innately suspicious of all men of The Cloth, but because of what came next, "I had the opportunity to have an enlightening conversation with your mother a few days ago." Uh oh. Your parents' minister sending an email to tell you about being enlightened by your mother who's on drugs in a nursing home can never be a good thing. "She told me you are not pleased with the direction the church has taken in our Sunday services." Ahhhhh. Okay. So that's it.

My mother. Heh heh heh. My mother on drugs. Strong, narcotic drugs. Pushing her agenda while veiling them as my concerns. My mother is not normally a manipulative back stabbing liar. Nor is she the type to not tactfully voice her own opinions and concerns as her own. She's not afraid to own her opinions and concerns. (Runs in the family, apparently.) She's, you know, on drugs. And confined to a small chamber of horrors in a nursing home. So. Cut her some slack. She's not exactly herself these days.

My parents are a kind of weird blend of liberal conservatives. Open minded, all for helping anyone who needs any kind of help, accepting, you know, pretty cool people. But. Also insanely traditional and conservative in some areas. One of the main areas being religion. They're pretty straightforward about what they want and expect from a church. They don't want a church "experience" or religious "experience." They want: Invocation, Scripture Reading, One Choir Interlude, Sermon, Offering, Benediction, in that order, no variance and in exactly 59 minutes at 11:00 on Sunday mornings followed by coffee hour in the Fellowship Hall. Church Classic. Not New Church. Old Testament. New Testament. Heaven. Hell. Birth. Life. Death. Forever and ever amen. The men of their cloth have always been doctors of theology or reverends. Dr. Man of the Cloth or Reverend Man of the Cloth. Never Pastor Man of the Cloth. My dad once got tangled up with some monks, genuine "Brothers." That was kind of interesting. "Brother Thomas" regularly rang our house leaving messages for my dad. Which is totally NOT COOL when you're 13. "Trillian, why is a monk calling your house looking for your dad?" is not something any 13 year old kid wants to hear one of the cool kids say on a rare visit to their home. No. My dad was not thinking of becoming a monk, it was some interleague (leagues, faiths, whatever) charity thing and my dad got sucked into it because the other guys at their church were scared or something. Right. So. My parents are pretty traditional and conservative about what they want from their church but open minded and accepting of other religions and people.

And until the past few years their church was as traditional and conservative as they come without being, you know, one of those churches.

It's a small town. Real small. That town ain't big enough to support a lot of churches. Even though a lot of the congregation is comprised of people very much like my parents, there are a lot of other types of people, too. It’s always been a pretty nice blend of people who are not Catholic, Baptist or Jewish. Not that Catholic, Baptist or Jewish people aren’t nice, but they attend the Catholic or Baptist Church or go a few towns over to the Temple. Everyone else who wants to attend church pretty much has the choice of, um well, there is no other choice. My parents’ church is pretty much it. There are a couple of small congregations of other religions but, heh heh, it all comes clean in the wash because they use my parents’ church and join in on the organized activities. So the congregation is comprised of people who've been attending Sunday morning service and coffee hour for a lot of years because they don’t have other convenient church choices. Which hasn’t been much of an issue because it’s a small town. Part of living in a small town is being okay with making compromises and sacrifices by doing without the choices and convenience found in larger towns and cities. Everyone does know your business and appearances do matter.

So. My parents’ church has always been the type where men wear suits and ladies wear dresses. (or nice slacks, they're not one of those churches. Even their strictest church lady occasionally dons a smart pantsuit.) The choir wears robes, dark crimson with gold braid trim. They sing traditional hymns from the traditional hymnal. They had a pledge drive with one of those thermometer signs to raise money to repair the organ pipes (which ended up having to be replaced) to accompany that choir and drown out the congregation. They were very progressive back in the '60s and allowed a woman to be on the regular rotation of collection ushers. Yeah. We've come a long way, baby. This fact was regularly, though humbly, mentioned whenever the church came under attack for being too conservative. "You just don't know us. We've even got a lady usher!" Which soon gave way to a female liturgist, which, well, that ruffled a few of the older feathers in the flock. Truth be told it wasn't the fact that she was a woman, but that she was the particular woman she was. A rather, um, unpleasant person. A rather holier than thou person. Who pushed for that place on the altar like she was Joan of Arc fighting at Orleans. But the point was that she didn't have to fight for it. Anyone could audition (or whatever it is people do to be a liturgist) it was just that none of the women had ever bothered to want to do it. She turned it into this big NOW thing when it wasn't a big deal at all. No one in that church was trying to keep women down. Heck, there was a lady usher. So yeah. Conservative but not bad conservative. Traditional. Ish.

Right. So. Attendance started to decline a few years ago. Because members were dying or retiring. And the new young people in the community weren't interested in church. Church attendance was declining in general. But someone somewhere heard someone say they thought the church was full of a bunch of stuffy old rich white people. I can see where that perception might be concluded – but only because it’s the perception of the entire small town, not exclusive to that church. The irony and error in that rumor is that the church isn’t a bunch of stuffy old rich white people. It never was. Stories I could tell… But that was a growing perception of the church. Even with the lady usher and NOW liturgist.

The minister, a Dr., who'd been there for a while retired, too.

And the new guy arrived.

At first he seemed, you know, like all the other doctors and reverends. Rather unfortunately coincidentally an old white guy who seemed kind of, well, stuffy and rich.

But it soon became clear he had an agenda. He, too, was looking ahead to his retirement. And retiring from a large congregation apparently gives these guys a better allowance in retirement. I realize working for God doesn't pay well here on Earth. But. Apparently like all businesses there are levels to attain, personal goals and opportunities which can be rewarding for a person of the cloth who's willing to push a little harder and bring in a few more souls with checkbooks.

He started out as Reverend Newchurch. You know, fitting in with the way things go at that church.

But little by little he underwent a transformation. He started speaking in that sing song affected tone which I guess is supposed to be beatific or comforting, but instead comes across as weird and condescending. Like Reverend Lovejoy on the Simpsons.

He started wearing some rather colorful sashes over his robes. Heck, he was wearing robes. There had been other ministers who’d donned robes in the past, usually for special holidays or services, so, you know, the robe thing was not a huge shock, but some of those sashes were, well, I mean. They didn’t go over very well with some of the stuffy old white guys. Still. Even they were giving the guy room, cutting slack, keeping an open mind, maybe this showier jolt of expression on the pulpit would be a nice change and prove the church was not a bunch of stuffy old white guys.

But then, shock, horror, he had the nerve to not wear The Collar in public. He showed up at the weekly men’s coffee group wearing a regular shirt, not black, apparently a burgundy dress shirt, with, oh dear, a necklace. To hear my father describe it the guy showed up looking like 50 Cent. I have since seen the minister and the necklace and while yes, it is larger than most crosses seen around the necks of, um, 60 year old white guys, it’s hardly mack daddy sized. But. A minister showing his face in public without The Collar was a huge deal. Huge. Add to that the large necklace and it’s a one way ticket to being branded a hippie. (They have BET on cable there, now, and slowly some of the townsfolk are getting more hip to trends and vernacular, but to many “hippie” is an all encompassing term for anyone who is not a stuffy old rich white guy. You might be Goth, Gangsta or Gay, but by many in that town you will be labeled hippie. The funny thing about this is how it’s the accepted norm, even by the Goths, Gangstas and Gays.)

The Collar(less) thing was huge. Huge. People tried to hold meetings about it. Letters were sent to the district counsel. Some people didn’t care, others cared a lot. It became: A church divided.

The Collar has stayed off, the necklace remains and a lot of the members who were offended left the church or are dying off. (Because they’re old, not because of any covert doings by the Collarless Mob.)

I got a huge laugh out of all of this, you know, from a removed distance it’s funny. And hearing my father describe the mack daddy minister never fails to produce a few really good laughs. Hearing my mother patiently trying to play nice, apply the WWJD technique, saying things like, “Well, he did a nice service at Marlene’s funeral…” or “We’re just not used to that sort of casual attitude from our clergy. He’s still a man of the cloth even though he doesn’t wear the collar of the cloth,” cracks me up and warms my heart.

But then he did something even my mother couldn’t ignore or excuse. He began holding a Sunday night “rap session” in the Fellowship Hall with some young families he’d recruited, apparently when he was cavorting around town in that necklace without The Collar. What really bothered people was that the session was billed as “Alternatives in Christ.”

I have to agree on this one point: It created a them:us divide in the church. A church which, no matter what the perception, has always had a strong group spirit. Everyone knew everyone, and agree or disagree on issues, they always came together with the whole church community spirit. People really care about each other there. One of the main reasons being that they all come together every week for a dose of God and a cup of coffee in the Fellowship Hall. They attend weddings, baptisms and funerals. Faithfully. But now, with the “Alternative” group meeting in the shadows on Sunday night, there was this other group of people no one knew. Further, the “alternative” group did not want to be a part of the “regular” church. They didn’t “like” that old style or “know those people.” Well, um, no, they wouldn’t know them, because they keep themselves apart and distant at their "Alternative" services and naturally do not attend weddings, baptisms and funerals of the "regular" church members.

More letters were written to the district counsel. More people left and died. The “Alternatives in Christ” group started meeting at 8 AM on Sunday mornings.

My parents and some of the other older members decided to crash the alternative party. The 8 AM time slot appealed to some of them. Others genuinely wanted to check out the newfangled sermon. Others wanted to meet these other members. Some just wanted to extend an olive branch to this group. And yes, some were on a witch hunt.

The first thing they discovered was that the minister didn’t speak from the pulpit. He sat in a folding chair in a circle of folding chairs set up in the Fellowship Hall. Yes. The service wasn’t in the sanctuary.

The next thing they noticed was that the “alternative” group were a very casual bunch. Jeans. Yes. Jeans. And worse than that, t-shirts and sneakers. Now, no one really cares, and my father has certainly jumped on the casual bandwagon since his retirement. But. The contrast between the old church types and the new alternatives can be defined by their attitude about “church clothes.” If this discussion sounds about 35 years outdated, you’re right. And in life outside of that church the town and the church members old and new have progressed with the rest of the world on most counts. But church has always been a sacred bastion of a few remaining old decorum. People have worn jeans to Sunday services and apart from some of the bona fide stuffier members no one cares. But the t-shirts and sneakers thing really pushed the buttons of some of the non-alternative set. Even the more progressive and non-judgmental of the group. Like my mother. “I know God doesn’t care, and Jesus wore sandals, but if it’s so difficult to wear something other than jeans, t-shirt and sneakers for a few hours one day a week, maybe these folks might re-evaluate what place church really has in their lives and what sort of respect they have for it and the other members of the church and most of all for themselves. If they don’t care about their appearance, if they can’t or won’t be bothered to tidy up for a few hours, for God and for themselves, well…it’s really none of my business and doesn’t really matter but what message does that send to people who spend time and effort to present themselves in something other than their chore clothes?”

But even that wasn’t the biggest concern compared to what came next. The “alternative” group referred to the minister as Pastor Newchurch. May God have mercy on their souls. When it came to the attention of the existing long term members of the congregation that the new reverend was leading a double life, as, as a, a Pastor, well, there was some 'splanin' to do.

Pastor? Pastor? What happened to Reverend? It was “bad” enough in some circles that he wasn’t a Dr., but pastor? Some people didn’t care about the actual title, but, all agreed: The church was being divided and leading the division was a man leading a double life. Reverend by day, Pastor by night. Or by 8 AM service. He claimed this was his way of reaching out to the “alternative” group who felt threatened and intimidated by the old ways. (Though very few of them actually attended services or tried the “old ways” so there’s a lot of speculation as to how they could feel anything about the “old ways.”)

Putting the Pastor issue aside, my parents, and a lot of the other old churchers, ultimately didn’t like the Alternatives in Christ service because it wasn’t a service. It was a “dialog.” Meaning they sat around talking about God and Jesus and their feelings. The minister didn’t have an organized sermon, he was more of a moderator. Someone brought a guitar and sang a Bob Dylan song (my mother wasn’t sure which one, she complimented the singer after the session and said she liked that song, that one of her daughters (my sister’s the big Dylan fan in our family) used to play it, and the guy said, “cool, she’s a Dylan fan?” apparently shocked that my parents would birth and raise a child capable of listening to anything other than Pat Boone and the Carpenters. My mother said, “He talked down to me as if I didn’t know who Bob Dylan is. I’m old but I don’t live under a rock,” was her actual remark to me.) Someone talked about a problem they were having with a teacher at their kid’s school. They held hands and prayed for guidance. And that was pretty much it. The old churchers sat there with their bibles at the ready for the scripture lesson, waiting for insight and tutelage which never came.

More people left. Other people died.

Numbers were decreasing. Rapidly. And there weren’t enough “alternative” members to fill the voids.

And so it came to pass that two services were offered, both would undergo some changes. The “old style” would be modified, updated, mainly in terms of the music and format of the service, and the “Alternatives in Christ” group would have an actual outline to their service.

This didn’t work very well at first. Us. Them. Resentment and resistance on both sides over the changes.

I had heard all of this from afar and had only witnessed the showy sashes and Reverend Lovejoy affected tone.

And then one weekend while visiting my parents I went to church with them. And there, on the altar, looming ominously on stage, was: An electronic keyboard, drum kit. And. An electric guitar. Waiting for the gig to begin. Like at a concert, teasing the crowd with their presence, indicating the amps and decadence to come.

Okay. I'm a rock and roller. But even I do not want rock and roll at church. The two are mutually exclusive. It's: Sex, drugs and rock and roll. (Hootchie koo implied) Rock and roll is about rebellion and being bad and feeling like Hell. And yes, one could make the leap of faith that that's exactly why Holy salvation should be sought. But, if you're going to seek redemption for your evil rock and roll ways, check your Fender and drum kit at the stained glass door and respect the sanctity of the church and it's scripture. And no, I'm not saying I think rock and roll is Satanic or inherently evil. It's just music. But. It's music meant to get you all pumped up wild and rowdy and in the mood to do a lot of things which are found on the deadly sin list. At the very least conjure an impure thought or two. And yes, I’m okay with Christian Rock, I don’t listen to it, but I have heard it and if someone chooses to shout it out about God and Jesus, that’s cool. But. Not during a church service where people in attendance are not there to hear Christian Rock concert.

If I hadn’t witnessed the, um, “show” I never in a million years would have believed it happened in my parents’ church.

The show was comprised of:

  • A middle aged Stevie Nicks wannabe, complete with tight shirt and gauzey jaggy edged flowy skirt twirling around singing. Off key and as indecipherably as the real Stevie Nicks. She might have been singing about Jesus or she might have been singing about some guy named Jesse. There was a long string of mumbles and screetches which ended in “man.” It’s anyone’s guess or open to interpretation if the man was Jesus or Jesse or some other man.
  • A 30-something guy with a mullet, the long part permed, the front part feathered, wearing incredibly tight jeans (which left nothing, I mean nothing up for question. I’ve never really thought about men having camel toe, but, well, that guy pushed the gender barrier with those jeans), a white dress shirt (apparently out of respect for the old churchers) unbuttoned to his navel, playing electric guitar. Badly. And yes. There was a solo. And yes, he made The Face, the face guys who can’t actually play a guitar make when they play a guitar, apparently hoping no one will notice how badly they’re playing the guitar because they’ll be focusing on the look on his face.
  • A young boy, 13 – 14 ish, banging away on the drum kit. Give the kid a few more years practice and some decent rock to listen to for inspiration and he might actually be a good drummer. But for now he was basically doing his own thing on the drums, pounding out a rhythm completely not in keeping with the Mullet Man or Stevie Nicks who were doing their own things.
  • And then, in the midst of all this, was the organist who had stepped down from her perch behind the organ and was trying to move along on the electric keyboard but was unable to find a melodic compromise between the guitar and drums.
  • The real finishing touch was the light show. You heard me. A light show. The lights in the sanctuary were dimmed and from in front of the altar a kid, most likely the A/V geek at school, was setting the whole show in rock concert lighting. Or as near as possible with the lighting "equipment" available at Radio Shack.


So when Stevie Nicks was up there twirling around karaoking something about Jesus or Jesse and some man, I went straight to Leather and Lace and then Heart and a Magic Man and, well, yes, it is my problem, my corrupt mind easily led astray, but this never happened when the choir sang from the traditional old hymnal.

No, I didn't feel guilty. I felt empty.

And yes, I feel empty most of the time which has nothing to do with The Show at Church. But The Show at Church did nothing to help move me closer to God or even remotely compelled to feel guilty about feeling empty.

It’s not about their lack of actual talent. I realize churches are places of freedom of expression. I give them credit for getting up there and doing their thing. If they’re doing it for Jesus or God, great! Good for them! How cool for them that they’re moved by the spirit.

It’s that the message, if there was one, was completely lost in their theatrics and rock and roll wannabe performances which were more suited for the privacy of their basement or the Karaoke Club.

This is me talking. Me. The chick who got caught singing AC/DC. I ♥ rock and roll. But not at church. Church is church. Church is not a rock concert. If God were going to speak to me through rock and roll a) it would have happened long before now, b) it would have happened via someone like Tom Petty, c) He would strike me dead for listening to Prince (oh wait, that's not God, that's Gore, Tipper Gore, God, Gore, I always get the two confused.) and d) He would not make me suffer the bad Stevie Nicks indecipherable karaoke presentation twirling around on the altar. Jesus died for our sins. He's suffered enough. This display on the altar can't be the sort of sacrifices God had in mind.

Not exactly quiet contemplation or pious study and reflection. Not exactly the sort of thing which makes me think, "Ya know, this church thing isn't so bad, there's a lot to be learned here, by golly, I'm going to try to learn more and be a Believer and live a better life." It's the sort of thing which makes me think, "Man I hate Stevie Nicks. I can't wait to get out of here and cleanse my ears with some Zeppelin."

Apparently this presentation happens on a regular basis. The old churchers just go along assuming they just “don’t get it” and quietly sit there riding out the performance, thinking the “Alternatives in Christ” group enjoy this and are feeling spiritual and moved by the show. They’re being polite and trying to get along and accept the “alternative” members.

My parents have been trying to rise above, go along, get along, get with it, be cool and accept this as a phase. But they hate it. It's torturous for them. It’s torturous for everyone. I have difficulty accepting the idea that the “alternatives” like this. I mean, it’s bad. It’s just...bad. Whatever message is imbedded in the lyrics is completely lost under the mumbling and guitar solo and pounding drums.

The rest of the music has been updated. They old hymnals have been removed, they had a sale, you could buy an old hymnal. Those that weren’t sold were stashed away by the choir director. Instead of the old standard hymns they have jaunty little pop ditties with vague references and allusions set to a catchy pop tempo. There are no hymnals. The words are flashed up on rear projection screens. My dad calls it Scripture by Sesame Street because the words to the songs and prayers are flashed up a few words at a time. "Apparently people can't read from books anymore," he says and then questions the attention spans of the “alternatives” gang.

What really gets me in all of this is that my parents hate it more than I do. They feel like their feelings and needs from the church are being swept aside in favor of showy shenanigans which leave them feeling empty, disrespected and longing for something more. They’re craving religious stimulation and they’re getting wishy washy nicey nice platitudes and a bad rock show. And they just assume it’s because they’re not young and with it. They assume it’s them. Even though they know other old churchers don’t like it, either, and the few who have remained are feeling empty, too. They shrug and say, "I guess this is what young people like."

Finally I told my parents that while I’m not with it, I’m not old (I’m younger than Stevie Nicks, for certain, and younger than a lot of the other Alternatives in Christ group anyway) and I don’t like it or understand it either.

And that is what my mother told the minister. She apparently gave him quite an earful about the changes at the church and held me up as a “young person” who doesn’t like the changes. And quoted several of my less than complimentary observations about the division in the church and the rock show. My mother told the minister he should be talking to people “like me.” I don’t think he realizes my issues with God, Heaven and Hell on a global perspective, but then neither does my mother. But it’s obvious in terms of church and God and all that I’m lost. Not necessarily wayward, but lost. And a less stronger willed person (stubborn) who is lost like me could easily go wayward. If my salvation and faith were dependent upon my parents’ church as it is now, or one like it, I’d be doomed. Because I don’t get it. As I said, it’s empty.

Is it bible thumping fire and brimstone I need? No. But if the purpose of church is, you know, God and Jesus and the bible, I expect some mention of one or all three of those during the course of a church service. There are vague references to the easier to understand and “nice” passages and scripture in the bible, and an occasional mention of Jesus, but nothing truly meaningful or contemplative. It’s an hour long dose of pabulum spewed out in “lingo” set to catchy pop tunes. We’re all okay, we’re all all right, isn’t it swell none of us are going to Hell? (Yes, you too can have an exciting career in church song writing.)

Apparently I’m not alone. Because apart from the core group of Alternatives in Christ, no new young people or families have joined the church. So the whole attempt to reach new members has backfired. And now the minister is apparently trying to run damage control. And he asked me for my opinions.

And I sat there thinking, “What the…?” staring incredulously at the email.

Do I answer him honestly and risk my parents’ reputation as being, you know, decent people and good parents? Or do I give him back the nicey nice platitudes he doles out, sugar coating everything and spare my parents even more raised eyebrows about their youngest child and what went wrong with her? WWJD?

Do I help him market the church?

Yep. That’s it exactly. He wants to know my opinions because “with your experience in marketing you could be a lot of help to us as we stand at the crossroads of the future of our church.”

Selling souls, rock and roll, it’s really all the same, right? But how about the irony of that one? Me? Marketing God and Jesus?

If this is what it means to be touched by the hand of God I’m confused and a little scared.

I’m the last person who should be re-imaging the God brand. Swut, I just referred to God as a brand in need of re-imaging. That can’t be good or right.

So yes, I’ve been thinking about God and church and religion a lot lately. Thanks to my mother who narked me out from her drug induced hazed bed.


12:01 PM

Thursday, May 04, 2006  
Dude, where’s my blog?

Gotta love the ironic timing in my life(?).

I'm working on a couple of major serious projects with a couple major serious clients. I'm once again repairing damage done by my boss. (no I in team, greater good, higher purpose, no I in team, greater good, higher purpose, no I in team, greater good, higher purpose, no I in team, greater good, higher purpose) Part of the damage control is customer service. Good customer service. My boss has a way of trivializing everything into condescending categories. Everything. Everything's "little" and everything falls into one of these four groups: "cute" or "fun" or "silly" or "boring." "Cute little," "fun little," "silly little," or "boring little." I hate fun used as an adjective to describe objects. Parties are fun. Concerts are fun. Shoe shopping is fun. Party hats, however, are not fun. Nor are lighters. Or shoes. "Fun little party hats." "Fun little lighters." "Fun little shoes." On rally day she remarked that there were "all these cute little immigrants on the street with fun little flags." Kill me. Please. Kill me. It's the only humane thing to do. I'm suffering and deserve to be put out of my misery.

Yes. My name is Trillian and I work in Hell.

As you can imagine this way of trivializing everything, (and yes, really, I do mean literally everything, yesterday she noted that my "cute little swelling" had gone down. Now will you kill me? Still don't believe me about her bogus credentials?) this way of trivializing doesn't always set well with the more intelligent and prestigious clients. In fact some of them find it as insulting and offensive as I do. Consequently I am called in to use concepts and a vocabulary beyond my boss' four little groups. I'm a shot at redemption but there's only one bullet in the gun and if I miss on my first shot I don't get another chance. And yes, sure, the obvious blame lies in my boss' original trivial condescension. But we're not about blame, are we? We're about solutions.

I'm an okay problem solver. I don't always hit upon the best solution, but it's usually appropriately creative or at the very least solid and respectable. So, you know, really, I don't mind the actual work. It's the damage control aspect that gets to me. I have to solve several problems at once, an all encompassing solution which solves the original problem while also smoothing over the problems caused by my boss' lack of gravitas.

Which means I have to be ultra professional and respectful.

Again, fine, not a problem. I'm generally not unprofessional or disrespectful.

I worked really late finishing a project for a client who was, shall we say, not amused or impressed by my boss' fun little vernacular. I had made arrangements to drop off the project at their office after hours because time was critical and I wanted them to have it first thing in the morning. Things had been going pretty smoothly to this point. Things seemed to be on a more even keel. I came up with a couple of ideas they really liked, so, things were turning around to a better direction.

And then I got stuck in their elevator.

You heard me.

Stuck in the elevator of their office building.

Alone. After hours. With a security guard on duty who was new on the job. He wasn't sure what to do, he said, over the elevator intercom, so maybe I should call 9-1-1. Yep. Problem solving, and customer service, I am starting to realize, doesn't come naturally to a lot of people. Apparently he couldn’t be bothered with my silly little predicament.

Getting stuck in elevators in Chicago happens. (and other skyscraper laden cities) A fact of life in tall buildings. It's not pleasant, but, it usually doesn't last long. It's usually just something minor. People don't go around plummeting to their deaths in elevator mishaps every day. This was hardly 9-1-1 worthy. I was more annoyed than concerned. And I had no mobile signal to call 9-1-1 anyway.

"I don't have a signal on my mobile. I'm in an elevator. In an interior bank of elevators. Stuck. In an elevator. Kind of impossible for me to call 9-1-1. Maybe you could call for me," I suggested over the elevator intercom, "or maybe ask the maintenance guy if he knows anything about the elevators."

I'd seen an older guy working on a light fixture in the lobby – the kind of older guy who looked like he’s been working in the building so long he’s got the wiring schematics and HVAC vent routes memorized like scripture. And he had a tattoo on his arm, an old tattoo back from the days when only certain types of men got tattoos. Not one of those new fangled wussy boy tats of oriental philosophy symbols or poseur boy barbed wire and dragons. Nope, his was the real deal: An almost naked woman with a US flag draped around her and, you guessed it: Semper Fi written above her. The real deal. My guess is back when he got that tattoo he flexed his lower arm and muscles rippled to wave the, um, “flag.” My observation in life is that guys “like that” are often the type of men who are really good at fixing things or at least coming up with solutions which may not be conventional but get the job done. I was pinning my hopes of rescue on him so yes, I was piling stereotypical qualities on him. Even though there was no trace of muscle on him now and the almost naked woman was sagging with age. But hey, our flag was still there, not gallantly streaming, but still there.

I thought, “Okay, the elevator’s stuck, no big deal, they’ll have me moving in a minute.”

So I just stood there in silence, waiting, expectantly. Musing about how the tattoo guy feels about La Vida National Anthem Loco. Figuring him to be of Viet Nam vet age or possibly Korea. Wondering if he saw any combat. Wondering if he has an inept moron for a boss, too. Wondering if, when he rescued me (now assuming he would be my rescuer) I should compliment him on his tattoo or if he would think coming from me that I was being condescending. Not that I would say, “What a fun little tattoo,” but, you know. I’m not a guy like him or even a guy and not of his generation, so any remark from me about his tattoo might sound sarcastic to his ears. I certainly didn’t want to offend him.

But first he needed to rescue me. And then I needed to drop off the project. And then I really needed to go home and try to get some sleep. So whether or not I should compliment him on his tattoo was nothing more than bored musing while stuck in an elevator. Which I decided is the name of the band I will form when I actually learn how to play guitar and am given a voice which can sing in tune and decide to do the coffee house girl rock folk singer thing. Hey. It could happen. It probably won’t, but it could. At least I’m prepared. At the very least it would make a good title for a book of bad poetry.

Oh Mr. Aging Marine,
My country, tis of thee I sing.

Who is that woman on your arm?
Why can’t I hear the emergency alarm?

Do you value your right to bear arms?

Rescue me from my solitary cell.
Move me, remove me, from this Hell.

Semper Fi. Wi Fi. Hi Fi. High Five!
Rock on, bring ‘em back alive.

I salute you, not persecute you,
When I say I like your tattoo.


I’ve been re-reading a lot of Kerouac lately. Can you tell? Does it show?

Anyway. Stuck. Stuck like gum in the tread of a shoe. Captive. Waiting. Wating for what? Waiting for the elevator to move, the short term solution to my current problem, or something bigger? Bigger. Like an epiphany. Other people have epiphanies in moments like these. Life changing epiphanies. It occurred to me I needed to be having an epiphany. The elevator would be moving soon and I needed an epiphany now! I’d wasted precious epiphany having time musing about the tattoo on the maintenance guy’s arm. I was piecing together his story when I should have been searching my soul.

That last paragraph is the metaphoric story of my life, by the way, and will undoubtedly be used as the pull quote on the side bar of my life.

That last sentence is the closest I came to an epiphany in the stuck elevator. Also a good band name or poetry book title. Epiphany in a Stuck Elevator. Yes. I like that. Shame I didn’t actually have an epiphany other than realizing I needed to stop worrying or caring about other people and have an epiphany. Which I suppose is a sort of micro-epiphany. It’s a start, maybe. But then, by definition epiphanies don’t have a progression, there’s not an arc or timeline. They’re jolts. They start and end all at once. You don’t really “start” to have an epiphany. They just kind of hit you, jolt you all at once, Blam! “I just had an epiphany!” It’s never, “Hmmmm, you know what, I think I’m coming down with an epiphany. Or the flu. Too soon to tell which right now, but I’ll be taking the next few days off work just in case I’m contagious or need to completely alter the course of my life.”

Right. Stuck in the elevator. Still. Stuck. Stuck like gum in the tread of a shoe. I pressed the alarm again. It was now almost twenty minutes since I first became stuck. No voice responded to the alarm. Hoping the elevator intercom might still be on I called out, “Hallloooo? Hello? Anyone? Someone? It’s me, the woman in the stuck elevator? I called down for help? Remember me? Hello?”

No response and now the alarm was buzzing.

Stuck in an elevator, a small 10’ x 10’ chamber of isolation and the loud buzz of an alarm. Could be worse, I thought. Really. It could be worse. It could be Zydeco.

Still. I realize they were probably scrambling to fix the problem and very aware than a woman was stuck in one of their elevators, but you know, as a common courtesy you might think they’d check in on me, say hello, try to pacify me with a “help is on the way” or something.

But no.

So I sat down. On the floor. In a skirt. Who cares, right? Not like anyone’s going to see me.

The buzzing was getting really annoying so I pulled out the Pod and turned the volume low so I could hear the intercom when someone bothered to talk to me from Down Below.

I clicked on my “Stuck in an Elevator Trying to Drown Out the Buzz of the Alarm” playlist, heretofore known as my “Bang Your Head” playlist.

And that it is how it came to happen that three firemen, the maintenance guy with the old tattoo, the doorman and my client found me sitting on the floor of the elevator in skirt with legs spread singing and enthusiastically air guitaring AC/DC’s Money Talks.

May God have mercy on her soul.

Apparently the elevator wasn’t stuck at all. The door on the client’s floor was simply locked. So when I pushed that floor’s button, the elevator whisked me there but the door wouldn’t open because it was in secure mode. As a security feature, the elevator goes into “locked” mode until someone on the outside presses the up or down button to summon it. Meaning, the doorman in the lobby would have merely had to push the lobby elevator button and the elevator would have returned me to the lobby. Or, if someone on the floor where I was locked happened to push the up or down button, the door would open. That’s what one of the firemen told me. The nice one who winked at me and said he always thought Razors Edge was better than Back in Black.

Apparently they didn’t figure out any of this until after the rescue party unlocked another elevator, rode to the floor where the main elevator board said I was stuck, met up with my client who decided to work late and wait for me to show up with the projects (and who had no idea I was there or stuck until the firemen showed up in the hall outside the office, thought they heard a buzzing down the hall but didn’t investigate), pushed the up button and discovered me impersonating Brian Johnson and Angus Young on the floor of the elevator. In a skirt. With my legs splayed all over the place.

Silly little Trill.

I had my epiphany. And that epiphany was: I’m an idiot. You were right. I’m an idiot.

You know, there’s just nowhere to go but down after that. Figuratively and literally. There’s not one possible solution to the problem which doesn’t involve turning in your resignation, selling everything you own and moving to Newfoundland.

“Heh heh. Hi guys. Heh, wow, right here on the floor all along. Imagine that. Huh. Har har. Thanks for the rescue. Hi client, um, here’s your project. We can take a minute to go over it if you’d like…”

Which we did, and I think they were pretty happy with it and maybe, possibly, they’ll take the unique circumstances of the situation into consideration before passing judgment and dismissing me with the same impression and accusations of unprofessionalism they voiced over my boss. Maybe they’ll forget it or at least never speak of it. Or maybe they’ll laugh about it or spread the story all over town. On the one hand I don’t really care, you know, for my sake. I don’t personally care that I was air guitaring and singing AC DC on the floor of a stuck elevator (in a skirt, don’t forget that) and got “caught.” Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right? Glass houses and all that, right? But. There I was running damage control to an already shaky reputation my boss earned and trying to be all professional and full of decorum and respect and everything and, well, yeah. You get the picture.

Silly little Trillian.

I had a job and some money coming in,
Trying to get ahead, but couldn't win.

Days were a struggle and nights were lonely,
But I toiled away hoping and thinking, "if only..."

Then one night stuck in elevation,
I pulled the plug on my own reputation.

"Come on, come on, love me for the money,"
If it weren't so ironic it would be funny.

Offended a client and work it did stop,
That's why I'm singing bad poetry in a coffee shop.

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1:03 PM

 
Hey! Guess what!

There are signs of intelligent and cool life in the Universe.

All together now, I - 2 - 3: "What's wrong with questioning the rhetoric and seeking clarification of the hypocrisy?"

Awesome. You so rock.

There for a minute I really thought I'd entered some other dimension, or Communist China.

Those of you who think I am wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and an idiot, well, yes, sometimes I am all of those things (read on, below, for confirmation). But. In re: The recent immigration questions: I am not alone. Just so you know. It's not just me. And while I don’t care, in fact I like that you insult and lecture me. I put myself “out there” on the net and expect and take the subsequent criticism. This isn’t oh poor me, nobody loves me, everybody hates me. I mean, well, yes, I do feel that way sometimes, but I’m not about self pity. The thing I found surprising was how many of you are so moved to hostility over questions and concerns which make you stare your ideals in the face. Good for you, defending them and everything, and maybe you’re just not able to articulate your ideas and plans in a way other than insults and lectures on everything other than facts and solid plans.

However. I found out there are a lot of people who have the same questions or concerns as I do. I do care that by insulting and lecturing me you’re doing the same to them. Use me as the scapegoat and whipping girl, really, I can take it. I’m already cynical, jaded and sarcastic. You’re not hurting me or disillusioning me. But, what I failed to recognize was how many people have questions and concerns, too, some of the same as mine and many more, and by attacking me you’re attacking them. Go ahead, offend me, ridicule, mock and taunt me. Do it publicly. Please.

But. Remember, it’s not just me.

For some bizarre and, well, I don’t know, for some reason, somehow, me, this blog, has become, well, I don’t know. Something I never anticipated and certainly not something I planned. I’m not joking or being modest when I say: These are just words I have to get out of my head or else I get kind of ill. There has never been a scheme, agenda or purpose other than the exorcism of the words which crowd my brain. I honestly do think it’s a form of mental illness. The only reason they ever went public in the first place was because of my stupidity – I never bothered to check the final setup of the template and didn’t realize I was publicly posting.

The fact that anyone reads them and, here’s weird part to me, the fact that people like them, is, well, no offense, a little scary. I mean, thank you, you’re all super swell, and I feel honored and humbled that you bring my words into your lives. (I raise a sarcastically dubious eyebrow over my drink at you and suggest a couple of books which might be more worth your reading while, but thank you.)

I’ve had the pleasure of “meeting” some really great people, I mean, just really terrific people as a result of this blog. That is rewarding. My days are crammed with a lot of not so great people who do some not so great things. It’s just life(?). But sometimes it’s really frustrating. Most of you understand what I mean. Sometimes you just think, “Okay, it must be me, no one else seems to have a problem with (insert ridiculous situation of the day here).” And thinking that you’re alone in your observations and questions and frustration can make for some long therapy sessions and/or too much alcohol consumption. What I’ve learned is that there are a lot of really swell people who understand or at least sympathize. So in a weird way, we’re not alone, we’re connected via this blog. Which is why I’ve continued to publicly post – albeit lately on a heavily edited scale out of respect for family and friends who might stumble across the words.

Right. So. For some bizarre and unexplainable to me reason, I represent a lot of really thoughtful, intelligent, nice, sincere, caring, funny, people.

So when the not so thoughtful, not so funny people attack me they are also attacking other people like me who are trying to sort out issues and bothering to think about several sides of the issues and in doing so ask some questions and question the contradictions. Consequently I’m leaving the customer service window open 24/7 and please stop by with any concerns or opinions. I might suggest that you come prepared with something other than personal insults and lectures based on shallow rhetoric, idealistic pandering and confusing contradictions and hypocrisy. Liberty, Justice, and Trillian for all. Or something like that.

That's not ruling out the possibility that we're all wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and an idiots, but, my opinion is that they are not any of those things. My opinion is that they are intelligent, thoughtful, perceptive, inquisitive, open minded people who bothered to tell me their opinions without hurling insults and accusations or threats. (Yes. I had my first blog threat. I'm not going to go into it because I'm not going to dignify it or give the threatener satisfaction and glory they are so clearly seeking. But hey! A milestone! Blogging all these years and finally, my first threat! I'd just about given up hope, you know, I'm not usually controversial so I didn't think it could happen to me. Just goes to show, never assume anything.) Anyway. The other point of view is that there are many points of view and falling into insults and lectures and dividing up into us and them is already part of the problem. The outpouring of support is really incredible. Not because I want people on "my side" but because as a species people can really suck. And when other people not only don't suck, but also exhibit exemplary behavior befitting a species with the gift of reason, it's incredible.

You rock.

All of you rock.

There is no us and them. We all rock.

Some of you, however, rock harder and better and longer than some of the other, um hair band opening acts. Yes. Some of you are Hendrix some of you are Warrant.

We've got a long, long road ahead of us on the journey. I've got a good supply of Twizzlers and an iPod crammed with all kinds of music (except Zydeco) and I'm ready to share them with everyone on the road trip, but it's going to be a lot of togetherness so it's best for everyone if we all exhibit respectful behavior. Warrant, you're going to have try to be less accusatory and judgmental. Hendrix, you're going to have to be patient and try to keep a sense of humor.

Basically, thanks everyone. All of you. Even those of you who believe me to be wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and an idiot. In fact, thank you especially. Were it not for you, the Hendrixes, I mean, other people, wouldn't have made their support and ideas known to me. We all have an important role, there's no I in team. Or Warrant.

12:15 PM

Wednesday, May 03, 2006  
Forgive me readers, for I have ranted.

People tell me I'm wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and an idiot.

Okay. Cool. I learned a lot in the last few days. Ask questions, express an opinion which is contrary to popular or hip opinions, share another point of view and what do I get? Insults and lectures. Which is cool, I love feedback and I love to learn and grow as a person. Seriously, I do. If I were afraid or upset by criticism I wouldn't blog. I mean, duh. So, I asked questions in an effort to clear up my confusion, expressed my own opinions, not those fed to me by the neato pundits, and I got feedback. I was told I'm wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and an idiot (among other things). The intended hurt and shock value in the feedback is kind of funny because I've known this for a long time and have never claimed to be, or intoned that I am right, passive, humble, happy or an intellectual. While helpful, the feedback is hardly shocking, hurtful, eye opening or anything I don't already know. Thanks and everything, and I'll learn and grow from this. I've learned a lot. No one actually answered any of my original questions, but nonetheless I learned a lot. I find it's always good to know where you stand amongst the crowd, how other people perceive you. Boy have I learned a lot.

Thanks, really. Thank you.

Please note that I am not apologizing for asking questions and having opinions. I'm not sorry for wondering about contradiction and hypocrisy and having a point of view or expressing it. Even if it is wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and idiotic. It's my right to be wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry and idiotic. I'll listen with an open mind to advice and opinions on how and why I should change, but I won't apologize for having my own opinion and I certainly will not apologize for asking questions in an effort to understand and gain insight.

To those of you who think it’s great and even important to have a national anthem in Spanish, I love languages so I am in rapt anticipation of the versions in French, Marathi, Chinese, Vietnamese, German, Italian, Japanese, Gaeilge, Russian, Norwegian, Swedish, Welsh (that one will be fun), Korean, Polish, Arabic, Farsi, Hindi, Assyrian, Urdu, oh, and, heh heh, yeah, if there’s time, Lakhota. I’m thinking of investing in computer keyboards. I’m thinking the character sets required for all those languages is going to give way to a very different keyboard. Every keyboard in America will have to be replaced. Yep, stock tips from Trillian. How are those public signage revisions going? What’s that? There’s only room and need for Spanish and English on public signage? Let me seek clarification, then. You lectured me that Americans are free to speak and sing any language, and immigration is about all nations, yet we’re only going to post signs and sing the national anthem in English and Spanish? Oh. I see. So then, we’re giving preferential language help and encouragement to only the English and Spanish speaking immigrants. Yet this isn’t a Mexican issue, it’s a global immigration issue. We’ve established I’m stupid, so how about explaining the hypocrisy of that to me and all the non-Spanish/English speaking immigrants to America?

And. For those of you who offered kindly dating advice, no, I don't go spouting off about immigration reform, politics or religion on first dates. In real life I actually do have a basic concept of manners and decorum and how to behave in public and on a first date. (unlike many of the men I meet) And, okay, this one hit below the belt and really did hurt, thank you for bringing up that and twisting the knife in my heart, for the record, HWNMNBS did not dump me because I'm stupid and rude and didn't want to face a future with me ranting all over the place. So I think we can rule out my opinions and expression of them as a reason why I can't find a man. At least in the initial phases of the process of finding and keeping a man. (although, since I'm stupid, please explain and clarify this for me: if stating an opinion on immigration, politics or religion turns off men on dates, the hypocrisy of the argument that men find intelligence and confidence sexy is confusing to me. Forming and stating an opinion on those topics takes thought and confidence, so, given that I'm constantly told confidence and intelligence is sexy, I would think I'd be a smoldering sex pot of libidinous temptation by expressing an opinion. Help and clarification, please.) But yes, as it was so generously pointed out to me, being stupid might be causing problems on the dating front. ]

Thanks for the advice, I'm working on being more complacent and less stupid. Until now I thought the two were mutually exclusive. But now I know I’m supposed to be intelligent but only in the pre-approved ways based on other peoples’ opinions. Yes, Master. I'm reading a lot of popular books and magazines and blogs and studying other peoples' opinions and learning how to recite them as my own. It's fun, a lot like living under Chairman Mao or in A Clockwork Orange. Oops, darn it, there I go being sarcastic and expressing an opinion again. Millions of repressed Communists can't be wrong, right? I dunno, I'm stupid, remember? Darn it all, there I go again. Actually, once I learn to get past the whole synaptic response to develop and explore my own brain I can see where this is really a much, much easier way to live. Let everyone else do the thinking and just borrow their ideas and opinions. No having to ask questions, no controversy, no conflict, no worrying about right and wrong...just choose the pundit of the moment and memorize their opinions. Voila! Popularity! Intelligence! Confidence! Dates!

Gosh. And all these years I've been going at it the hard way. And have become a wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry idiot.

Well, no more!

Grace lies in admitting when you've made a mistake or are wrong. Apparently I'm wrong.

I think you wanted me to change my mind, I think that was the point of the insults and lectures. (Being stupid and arrogant might be clouding my judgment, so if I'm wrong about that, and I probably am because I'm stupid and defensive, I'm sorry for making assumptions.)

Change my mind. Wouldn't it be cool if we could change our minds, like, literally? Like, go to the mind store and walk in and like, say, "Hi, yeah, my name's Trillian. Some years back my parents gave me a mind, and you know what? Ohmygawd I just found out I'm a wrong, defensive, arrogant, angry idiot! Could I change my mind for another one?" How's that for a line to use on a first date? Dare me to try it?

Change my mind. People tell me I'm wrong. I really try to take advice because, you know, advice can be helpful.

What, surprisingly, no one has yet told me about myself is that I have a rather nasty stubborn streak. Or, as my mother prefers to politely call it in my defense: conviction and determination. Convictions and determination can be good. They can keep one focused and loyal. Steadfast and true. And a lot of other scouting merit badge/marriage characteristics. I notice many of you have “convictions.” See? We’re not so different…

Convictions and determination can also be bad. They can easily, and quickly, turn into blind one sided argumentative tirades. I try really hard to stay on the good side of convictions and determination. I know when I'm nearing the line and force myself to pull back, you know, explore other points of view, change my mind.

It's interesting that I don't feel like I'm anywhere near the line. It feels like I'm okay to steam ahead with conviction and determination. And yet, I'm told I'm wrong. And defensive, arrogant, angry and idiotic. It's so weird that the usual "you're pushing it Trill, back off, be quiet and reevaluate" warning indicators aren't flashing. I haven't been feeling well. I'm taking a lot of medication. I’m being forced to listen to Zydeco. Maybe that's causing a malfunction. So. Thanks for alerting me to the error of my opinions.

I won't do it again. Or at least I'll try not to do it again. If I do, please insult and lecture me so I can have another learning experience. Seriously, please do. It’s great to get something useful from blogging. Learn, grow as a person, I mean, that’s priceless intellectual property. I learned you prefer to read about my ridiculously woeful and pathetic love life and stress and trouble at my job and financial struggles and my critically ill mother. I’m your own personal schadenfreuden therapy, not your look at it from another perspective instigator. I'll try to stick to the rules of the blog and stay focused on what really matters.

I got a new hair cut and color. The adventure in highlighting is over. I'm all broody brunette and rock and roll shaggy again. Rock on, man, rock on. Funny how getting back to my roots (tee hee! har har, OMG! what a horrible pun! I'm soooo stupid) makes me feel so much more like me. I thought I liked the highlights. Everyone else liked them. Everyone else told me my hair looked great. I take advice so I kept up the expense and trips to the salon as long as I could. And then I couldn't. I can't justify the insane expense of highlights and highlight maintenance, and who the swut am I trying to impress with an expensive hair do anyway? But. Something had to be done about the color. So, off to the corner pharmacy with a coupon for $2 off over the counter hair color. (I know, I know, the shame of it, OTC hair color, my gawd, it's so, quaint.) Yep. For a final total of $2.99, an hour of my time and a bit of a mess in the bathroom I transformed from sunny sparkling smiley blonde highlights to brooding smirking dark brown monotone. A friend gave me a shaggy cut. I instantly felt better. I felt like me. Or. The me I used to be. You know. Before, um, all of it.

People are fickle. Because within like two seconds of walking into the office everyone was all like, OMG! your hair is amazing! That's sooo you! People made special trips to my office to see my new old hair. Yes. People were gossiping about my hair, talk was circulating around the office about it. So either it actually looks really, really bad and they're gawking and covering it up with polite overenthusiastic lies or it turns out they were wrong about the highlights and prefer this 'do. Maybe at the time they thought they liked the highlights because highlights are popular and conventionally "pretty" and au currant and the thing us girls are supposed to do with our hair. We're supposed to like highlights. Media images program us to like highlights so they liked them on me. Even though I am not conventionally "pretty" or au currant or popular. But. When they saw a different 'do they realized they were wrong. The old 'do was better all along. Sure, trying something new, changing one's mind, is a good thing to do. Sometimes. And sometimes it results in realizing you were right the first time, should have stuck to your opinions and convictions and not been caught up in popular trends. Oh sure, it was a learning experience all the same, a fun (albeit expensive) experiment, trying new things is always good. But so is being sincere and true to yourself.

9:13 AM

 
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