Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Hey! You know what sucks in the life of Trillian this week?! (I know! It’s been ages since we asked that question, so you know it must be something really sucky.)
Animal illness and veterinary care costs.
Furry Creature’s sick. Really sick. As is so often the case with cats, one day he was his bouncy, fluffy, cuddly self and the next day, actually, the next hour he was barely able to move and nearly unresponsive to anything I said or did.
This is torturous and devastating for people with pets. (and obviously not much fun for the pets)
Because these things never happen during normal business hours I had to rush him to two different animal emergency hospitals. One which claims to be a cat emergency hospital specializing in urgent feline health care refused to even examine him because they’d have to call a vet in on a Sunday. (you heard me)They only have assistants working on Sunday. Even though they claim to be open to serve cats in urgent need 24 hours 7 days a week. Then I got him to the second hospital where Furry Creature’s doctor had been able to get him admitted. Apparently it helps if you know someone who can get you on the list. I didn’t realize animal emergency clinics have velvet ropes, but now I know they do. But. They were nice there. They saved his life. I’m going to be hopeful and assume they would do this for any animal, even animals who don’t know someone who can get them on the list.
They saved his life and kept him alive until Monday morning when he could be transported to his regular vet’s clinic.
It’s been a rough ride for all of us since then. Mainly rough on the furry creature. Lots of tests. Lots of probes. Lots of time away from home.
He was finally strong enough for exploratory surgery.
The preliminary results look to be: Cancer.
Biopsy reports will give the ultimate answer to the question: What’s wrong with him?
The vet has told me to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. She said everything points to cancer.
If I find out it’s cancer I have to start the "what's best" for Furry Creature dance. If the situation is advanced and chemo will only buy him a few months, I can't put him through it and the affiliated trauma and pain that includes, it's not fair to him. But if it's treatable with an optimistic outlook, I have to come up with $700/month to give him what he needs, or, kill him because I'm poor.
Life just keeps ripping me and my heart to shreds and making fun of me, taunting me, by dangling things I can't have or afford in front of me. Things like a husband, a better job, car, a home, healthcare for me and my cat...you know, normal stuff most people need and acquire in their lives. But not me. I come tantalizing, ring on the finger, new commute figured out, make and model in mind close and then: NOPE! PSYCH! Ha ha! We were just teasing you! You can't have that! Or, you can't afford that!
Kick her when she's down.
Oh yeah, that's right, she's been down a long time, now. She's down pretty much all the time. It would be difficult to kick her when she's up. Might be able to catch her on a nonplussed day, but still, it's apparently more fun for the Universe to kick a dying horse than, well, other less dying horses with soul left in them.
The one really dependable mood lifter and good time, the one male who isn't my father who's never let me down, abused my trust or broken my heart, my daily source of affection and laughs, is probably deathly ill.
Prematurely.
Oh sure, I knew he was slowing down a bit, easing into midlife, but still every bit the young cat he was when he laid claim on me at the shelter.
I knew this would happen, eventually. Apparently eventually is a lot sooner than I realized. I thought we had a few more years together before I’d face something, well, bad with him. I know all the conventional wisdom and the practical and humane logic of the situation. I won't allow him to suffer or endure pain just because I need him.
Give him the medication and hope he's stronger than the vet gives him credit for being and accept the "best choice" if he's not.
I know it all. I know the wisdom meant to console. I know all of it. But it doesn't make it hurt any less. Because what's best for him is what's worst for me. Through all the good and bad, the crap and the joy in my life over the past few years, that cat has been with me. All you cat haters, shut up. You don't know what you're talking about. If you'd had the chance to meet my cat (or bothered to spend time with any cat) you might take a different opinion of cats. My cat has a sense of humor. Yes. Really. He does. And so many times, so many heartbreaks and disappointments, so many tears, so many lonely nights, that cat has purred and cuddled his way next to me, and, well, being nice to me. "S'okay Trill, you didn't need him. You're better off without him. We'll find another man and we've got each other, s'okay, Trill. You’re not alone, I’m here for you. Purr purr purrr. Hey! I made up a new trick with the crinkle fish today! wanna see?! Huh? Look! Watch! Are you watching?! I'm going to do the trick now! Ta-dah! Oooops, almost fell off the couch there, ta-daaah!" Then more purrs and cuddles, more tricks, as many as it takes until I fall asleep. I've been lonely for human companionship, but never totally lonely or alone because of him. That cat has filled the voids and empty places in my life. He's the source and object of my daily affections. No, I'm not getting freaky weird, I know he's not the same as a husband or child, but, given that I apparently can't have either of those he's been great at helping me take my mind off that need for human companionship, security, commitment and trust. He's taken the edge off the loneliness.
I've never taken him granted, never, not once. So I did not need to learn the lesson of what it's like without him. I thought I was lonely...and then my cat went away...and I have been even lonelier than I thought possible. Because not only am I completely alone, no Furry Creature comfort, but, I am alone during a major crisis in my life. There I am at 2 AM, walking around, pacing, looking for Furry Creature even though I know he's not there, trying to occupy my mind with other things, trying to sleep, wanting to talk about him, wanting some comfort from the constant upset, fear, worry and concern, and there's truly no one. Furry Creature loves it when I'm up in the night. He loves to play then and he thinks it's grand fun when I'm up at his peak performance hour. But, he's not there. He's not playing. He's tethered to an IV in a hospital, wearing one of those horrible huge cone collars, dangerously weak and losing weight at an alarming rate. And I'm there alone and feeling completely helpless and, well, alone. I mean, I knew he wouldn't last forever, but, he's too young, this is too soon, it's not time, it's not right, it's not fair to him or me.
All those months in the casts with the broken ankle he was a prince among cats. He would not leave me, never asked to be fed and just ate when I could get to the kitchen, never complained when I accidentally snagged him with a crutch (he hated those crutches probably more than I did, he used to stare at them and give them scowls, ditto the immobilizer). I was under his watch. I know he knew I was struggling. I know he knew something was wrong with my ankle and foot. When the pain was peaking he'd insist on laying on it - which, yes, made it hurt, but, he would straddle himself over my ankle, effectively hugging it, and would rest his chin on my leg and purr. Really loud. So the vibration of the purr in his chest and stomach would hit my ankle and foot exactly where they were hurting. If I tried to move him he'd give me that low growl noise, that, "back off, I know what I'm doing here and if you mess with me things are gonna get real ugly" noise. I finally learned to leave him alone to do his stuff and after about five minutes he'd get up and assume his watch over me from his usual position next to me on my pillow. Animal-human bonds go beyond anything explainable with regular logic. How’d he know when I was having pain spasms? How’d he know where it hurt?
But, now, there are no tricks. He's trying to cuddle me from behind that horrible huge collar thing, and he purrs sometimes when I visit him, but it's him who needs some sort of hug and purring vibration. The problem is all I know how to give him are pets and cuddles and pleas for him to pull through this.
Because, people let me tell you 'bout my best friend. He's a warm hearted kitty who'll love me till the end.
People let me tell you bout my best friend, He's a one boy cuddly toy, my up, my down, my pride and joy.
People let me tell you 'bout him he's so much fun Whether he's chasin' 'round the room or whether he's sleeping in the sun. Cause he's my best friend. Yes he's my best friend.
Yes. I over the years I have amassed a huge catalog of songs altered to fit Furry Creature. He's the kind of cat who incites and inspires that sort of thing. I think he'd sing along if he could. He knows his songs, or, he knows I'm singing to him, about him. He always comes running to me when I start singing one of his many songs. He doesn't seem to care that I sing really badly and the songs are really stupid. Or maybe he cares a lot and has been quietly enduring this torture for years for the sake of the food and the warm bed. Sometimes at work I sing one of his songs. It makes me think about him and cheers me up on bad days. I do a version of Rockin' in the Free Word that's more popular (in some circles, cat lover circles) than Neil Young's original. He does tricks and cuddles and purrs for me to cheer me up, and in return I sing stupid songs horribly out of tune to him.
See? This is why I need him. No man is ever going to do that for me or put up with my bad singing. Even if I fed him.
I don't blog about him often because this isn't a cat blog and there are a lot of evil people who think and say really horrible things about cats and the people who like them. Many of these people have the nerve to call themselves animal lovers because they like dogs. If you are one of these people: You're not an animal lover. You're a dog lover. Which is fine. It's a free world. But don't pretend to be some great animal respecting, animal loving saint when you carry around blind hatred and contempt for a species of animal and the people who like them. And don't waste your swutting time or energy telling me some horrible dead cat joke. Like the one an ever so thoughtful co-worker emailed me today. I think this person actually had good intentions - weird, freaky, therapy needing intentions - to cheer me up and make me laugh. Instead I was late to a meeting because I couldn't stop crying. So that's why I don't blog about Furry Creature very often. It’s not that he isn’t blog worthy, it’s that I don't want to incite evil, sick, hateful and above all cruel remarks about cats.
Other than snakes and sharks there is not one species on the planet which invokes so much emotion, much of it negative, than felines. I have suspicions and opinions about people who carry around hatred for cats, and even deeper, darker suspicions about people who take delight in making sick and cruel, often violent remarks and "jokes" about them. I won't go into my suspicions and theories about these people because I don't want to fall prey to more h8ful attacks right now. But. I fail to see the humor in violence or death or blind hatred aimed at any species. I find it interesting, though, that these same people will then go on to proclaim how much they love animals, you know, dogs, and also are big on human rights issues. And yet they find it perfectly acceptable and even funny to spread cruel and violent remarks and "jokes" about cats. I guess hypocrisy is kind of a big word and it's spelled funny, and the definition and concept requires an actual attention span to grasp.
That last paragraph is one I've been wanting to post for a really long time. I haven't because I didn't want to deal with the senseless insensitive backlash. But it's there now for Furry Creature and all the other cats who are cool beyond imagination.
And for the record, I love dogs, too. And rabbits and goats and cows and hamsters and even snakes and sharks because I respect their place on the planet and their lives and in their own ways they’re cool, too. So there.
I just happened to have been chosen by a cat and so I live with a cat. There's not much you can do once a cat chooses you. You just kind of go along with their plan because suddenly it all makes sense and you want to go along with their plan because it works out best for everyone involved. Basically it’s like falling in love. It is falling in love.
If I'd known Furry Creature's "eventually" was actually RIGHT NOW...well...I still would have been chosen by him. It's not as long of a time span I thought we'd have together, I thought "eventually" was a long way away. I thought we'd get to grow older together. I thought some crazy good thing would finally happen and I'd be able to afford a bigger place for us than the compartment and he'd have a nice home with lots of space to run and jump. I thought I had time to put some money away for his older age health care. I thought I’d find someone who thinks he’s as swell as I do, another guy around the place, someone else to share in the daily delight of his antics and cuddles.
Furry Creature likes people. He likes it when people come to visit. He’s always quick to share his favorite toys and offer some affection with anyone who visits. Especially if they play with him. Furry Creature’s favorite thing to do is play. He’s spent a lifetime developing all sorts of games. He and I have a whole repertoire of games, yet he’s always trying out new ideas. Very clever, that cat. Right up to the hour he started feeling ill, he was playing, chasing a mouse and lining up his toys like a row of soldiers.
Hence the quality of life issues. If he can’t play, or doesn’t want to, is that really living for him? The problem, however, isn’t whether or not extending his life with treatments is what’s best for him. The problem is that that’s merely a theoretical exercise because I already owe thousands of dollars to the vet and hospital for the past few days. Future treatments, especially monthly chemo treatments, are simply not possible because I don’t have the money. And no. Pet insurance wouldn’t have covered this because he’s a few months older than the cut-off age for most policies. He had one when he was younger, it paid for his check-ups, but once he hit “a certain age” they canceled his policy. Even though he was the picture of feline health at the time. And that certain age is young by most cat life expectancy charts.
So I’m forced to put a price on my best friend’s life. “Sorry, sweetie, I love you, you’ve always been there for me, you’ve brought me nothing but pleasure, happiness and comfort, you’re the one true love of my life, you’re too young to face this, but I can’t afford the life saving treatments so I’ll be signing off on your injection of death. You should have chosen someone wealthier instead of me. Love ya, it’s been fun. Bye-bye.”
Yeah. Big fun times in the life of Trillian.
3:00 PM
Thursday, June 22, 2006 Trillian and the Bee I went to a church pot luck and ended up in ER.
I love that sentence. It’s complete and perfect in its incompleteness and imperfection. I could begin and end with that one sentence and leave the rest to your imagination.
It could be a contest. See who comes up with the best fill in the rest of the blanks submission. Why was I at a church? Why was I at a potluck? Why was I at a church potluck? Was there a man involved? What fate befell me that put me in ER? Food poisoning? Struck down by the wrath of God? Stoned by the faithful congregation for my questions about the existence of God? And my vegetarianism? What about health insurance? Is it covered under the new health insurance plan?
I could also store it away for the title of yet another book of bad poetry or album I will never produce.
Or I could just say two words: Bee sting.
And one more word to develop a scary plot: Allergic.
And three more to create a cliff hanger story arc: No epi pen.
And throw in 11 more to add an ironic sub plot: Making nice for my parents by attending a church related event.
Yep, I’m allergic all right. No doubt about that. Didn't outgrow that allergy. Good to have clarification on that.
Fortunately my parents’ church isn’t far from a hospital.
My dad’s borderline dangerous driving finally paid off, got me there in record time. Apparently just in time. I was really dizzy and having difficulty breathing. Kind of cool, though, I had that weird standing back and watching it happen from a distance experience. I’m not really sure what happened after that, the next thing I clearly remember I was in one of those little ER curtained rooms with a Benadryl IV and an oxygen tube stuck in my nose.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the bee got me in the same ankle I broke. When I looked down at my ankle for a few seconds there I was all disoriented and thought I was back in the ER with a broken ankle.
Fortunately this time the swelling rapidly decreased and I walked out of ER in relatively little pain.
But with a fresh perspective on life.
That bee could have killed me. Or, well, I dunno, caused more brain damage. I know, I know, he didn’t mean to kill me. Defending his turf or mad at someone else or any other justifiable homicide reasons bees have for stinging people who are allergic to them. I don’t blame the bee. It’s society’s fault for overbuilding and overpopulating the once human-free meadows where bees could buzz and pollinate to their little bee hearts’ content. Anyway, I was sort of out of it there for a few hours and had a little bee venom v. Epinephrine and Benadryl smackdown going on in my blood stream. I remember feeling lots of prickly tingly sensations inside me, sort of between my bones and skin. That was really weird and uncomfortable. At the time I was pretty much unaware and out of it, but now I envision little bees with stingers for swords fighting medical compound molecules with biceps and tights, the molecules grabbing the bees by their bee necks, their stinger swords falling away, and the molecules punching the now stinger swordless bees in their noses and little birds chirping in circles around the maimed bees. Yeah. That’s how it felt exactly, now that I think about how it felt.
It doesn’t matter how it felt, though, really, because I’m okay, I’ll die another day. What matters is the drug induced thoughts I had.
This wasn’t an “as I lay dying” experience. I was pretty much unaware of what was going on with me at the time. I mean, I knew I was stung by a bee, I knew I’m allergic to bee stings, I remember the last time this happened and how it was a pretty awful experience and the doctor said the next time would be worse so always carry an epi pen. (be quiet, I usually have one with me. I needed to get the prescription refilled and those epi pens don’t come cheap and how was I supposed to know I’d be communing with nature at a church potluck?) I knew my ankle was rapidly swelling. I knew I was having difficulty breathing. I knew I was dizzy. I knew I needed to seek medical attention and I did. I trusted my dad and the medical community. I didn’t feel like I was going to die right then that evening.
But.
I was kind of disappointed I didn’t.
I thought, “Darn it all, this would have been the perfect accident. Witnesses and everything! Life insurance payout for everyone! Or, well, at least my beneficiaries,” and, “ya know, this really isn’t that painful, this might not be a bad way to go. Just drift off into an delusional sleep and never wake up again. Funny, I was under the impression it would be more horrific, more painful, more uncomfortable.” That last part must have been the drugs talking. I didn’t know what was going on at the time, you know, drug intervention-wise. I just felt all sleepy and tingly and sleepy. I remember trying really hard to hold onto someone, reaching and reaching and trying to hold on, it might have been my dad, it might have been a doctor or nurse, it might have been no one at all, but, I do remember desperately trying to hold someone close to me. I have no idea why. Well. I mean. I have several ideas why, now. But at the time I had no idea why. So yeah, that was kind of weird. I think maybe it was because I was swollen, everywhere, and my skin felt tight and constricted like I was being hugged and my brain got confused and was trying to hug back whomever was hugging me. I don’t get a lot of hugs, you know, really tight hugs, so when I get them it’s from a few people, people whom I want to hug so maybe that had something to do with the desperation. I dunno. It’s allergies and drugs, it’s pointless to try to explain.
Except.
Right.
When I was conscious enough to realize what happened and what was going on I was disappointed I wasn’t dead. And that should sound and feel tragic to me. But it doesn’t so don’t feel bad for me on any level, pro or con death.
New lease on life?
Well.
Sort of.
After I realized I could have died and didn’t and got over the disappointment, after I thanked my dad and the doctor for saving my life, after I apologized to my parents for scaring them, again, I laid there waiting for my vitals to stabilize so I could go back to my parents’ house and sleep. I was in that drug induced contemplative state of awareness. And I thought about work and a lot of other stuff. Stuff that annoys and angers me.
Yes. The experience made me angry.
Or, well, made me think about things that anger me.
And that’s what scares me. I apparently carry around a lot of unresolved issues mostly to do with repressed anger.
Big surprise there, right?
Maybe it is me. Maybe this stuff really doesn’t bother other people. Maybe I really have become a really angry person. Or, a person repressing a lot of anger.
For instance, I thought about the woman who interviewed for a job in my department a few weeks ago. It’s a mid-level job, a job dealing with people outside of the office. A professional job requiring a college degree and 5 years experience, which she had. I had high hopes for this woman. She looked promising on paper. I juggled my schedule to accommodate hers. Wait. Let’s stop right there. Her: Applying for a job. Me: Interviewing a lot of people for that job. Her: Job seeker. Me: Hirer. Her: Not in a position to make demands of my time. Me: In a position to dictate appointment times. Both of us: Busy people. I don’t flaunt the Me: Hirer thing. I really do try to accommodate other peoples’ schedules. I don’t have children or a husband or any reason to be home before 6 PM, one night late in the office is no big deal, particularly since I tend to stay late anyway. No big deal, right? I didn’t think so. But in hindsight I’m having doubts. This woman told me since she’s currently employed she would have to interview after her work day. She graciously offered to “try to leave a few minutes early” one night to get to the job interview with me. Now, that’s some kind of confidence, right? Or, some kind of false sense of entitlement. Okay, so I accommodated her schedule, stayed late to interview her. And she shows up wearing khaki Capri pants, a sleeveless blouse, no jacket, hair in a sloppy pony tail and, you guessed it: Flip flops. And not even “nice” flip flops. Standard $1.99 at Walgreen’s red rubber flip flops. And not even new flip flops. These were very worn flip flops.
Insert comment your grandmother would make here.
I’m pretty easy going about this sort of thing. However. I do believe in a sense of decorum. I do believe in professional attire. I do believe in respecting yourself and your colleagues enough to dress according to the type of work being done in and out of the office. I’m not saying expensive. I’m not saying the latest fashion off the runway. I’m saying something that doesn’t look like you’ve been weeding the garden for the past few hours and decided to mosey over and drop in for a job interview.
And. For swut sake, if you insist on wearing flip flops or foot revealing footwear of any type in public, much less a job interview, MAKE SWUTTING SURE YOUR TOE NAIL POLISH ISN’T CHIPPED AND FLAKED OFF PARTS OF ALL YOUR TOES.
Yes. I notice. Other people notice. You can’t help but notice. It’s not being picky or catty, it’s having the gift of vision.
I let all this go, you know, focused on her skills, her presentation, her ability to communicate. She was okay. There were better candidates. She didn’t get the job. And no, not because of her attire. There were better candidates.
But.
For some reason I remembered this when I was in my contemplative post-bee sting buzz. (get it? Buzz? Bee sting? Oh never mind.) And then I thought, “Wait a minute, who the swut is she to dictate when I will conduct a job interview? And how dare she show up to interview for what she knew was a professional level job wearing that outfit and cruddy old flip flops? It’s disrespectful and lazy. It actually really does make me mad. It shouldn’t matter, I tried to reason with myself. It doesn’t matter. What matters are her abilities which fell short of the mark. But. If she’d been a better candidate for the job I would have been put in the position of overlooking her lack of respect for me, herself, vendors, clients and job. I’d have to not consider the fact that she’s completely unaware or unconcerned about personal grooming and office decorum. Part of me really, really, really wants to send her a copy of Dress for Success. I won’t, I wouldn’t, but, part of me wants to really bad. She really annoys me now.
Her behavior reminded me of people in my office, people I already work with in a confined space. People who take the last cookie/chip/pretzel/chocolate/whatever and leave the empty except for crumb laden container behind. You had the guts to be the one to take the last one, so have the courtesy to throw away the bag/container. I mean, if you’re the one who takes the last anything, always in secret, wouldn’t you want to destroy all evidence that there was ever any treat at all? “What cookies? I didn’t see any cookies. There were cookies? That crumb on my lip? Oh, har har, that’s um, that’s from lunch.” But they don’t think that way.
They think, “Ha! I took the last cookie and no one saw me! No one saw me because I waited until no one was looking! And then, I left the empty except for crumb laden container behind because a) maybe no one will notice it’s now empty except for crumbs, b) someone else can/will throw it away, c) maybe someone will want the crumbs, or d) as a snarky calling card flaunting the fact that the treats are now all gone, someone finally took the last one, no one will ever know who, but I know, oh, I know, and I want them to know they didn’t get the last one. They didn’t win this time. This time I won. I got the last cookie.”
I didn’t know people felt this way until one night I was working later, (yes, it’s a theme with me) and I was in the restroom. There was birthday cheesecake earlier in the day and the lone last piece had been coagulating on a cardboard crumb laden plate on the community food area all afternoon. People would walk by it, look at it, reach for it, then look around, pull back and retreat to their offices, leaving The Last Piece there to fester and stink up the office. I was washing my hands when in came a coworker. I saw her reflected in the mirror. She was shoving the last piece of cheesecake in her mouth. I didn’t care. I don’t care. Take the last piece, please. I hope you don’t get sick because it sat out all afternoon, but really, have at it. She knew I saw her. Through cheesecake crammed mouth she said something about it being her dinner. “Har har, yeah, I know the feeling,” I said, trying to make her feel less self conscious. She was blushing. I know that feeling, too. I didn’t say anything about it, just talked about the project she was trying to complete. She continued talking about the cheesecake. “No one else ate it, I only had a small piece earlier and I really liked it and if I didn’t eat it Kevin would. He thinks because he bought it he’s got some right to it. He gave it to us. It’s no longer his. He doesn’t understand that principle.” Ummmm, okay. You go, girl. Justify all you want, it’s okay, really, I’m the one person in the office who doesn’t care. As long as you threw away that cardboard plate.
But of course she didn’t. There it sat. Empty except for the crumbs and still stinking up the joint. The cleaning people had already removed my trash for the day so I took the swutting cardboard to the break room trash can. She saw me. She glared at me and said, “That’s Kevin’s plate.”
“Um, it’s just the stinky cardboard which supports the cheesecake during transport. I don’t think Kevin or anyone else would be able to re-use it,” I said.
“No. I mean, that has Kevin’s name on it. I want him to see the cheesecake was gone, we all it, there’s none left for him.”
I’m not kidding.
This is a woman I used to respect and kind of liked. I thought she was one of the few sane people in my office.
But sooner or later they all reveal themselves to be one episode away from a nice quiet rest in the country at a facility surrounded by an electric fence.
Not only is she nuts, she’s vindictive and nuts. Which is a really scary combination. (See above, sending Dress for Success to failed job candidate.) She makes me angry. She expects the rest of the office to suffer, happily breathing in fumes of decaying food, looking at decaying community food and crumbs and dirty cardboard or plastic disposable serving wear left behind after they stealthily take the last piece. Disrespectful, rude and either lazy or weird.
Like revolving door/elevator conversationalists. The people who walk off an elevator or to a revolving door (or really, any entry/exit) as if to depart/enter, and then stop and carry on a very deep and long conversation. Blocking the way for anyone else who’s trying to exit or enter. This has happened to me a lot lately. It’s as if I’m jinxed with these doorway conversationalists. Standing there engrossed in their discussion while I try to politely squeeze by them to exit or enter. It’s particularly bad with elevators/revolving doors because you’re putting yourself at risk of having the doors shut on you if you don’t time it just right. If that elevator door shuts or someone else pushes through the revolving door before you’ve had a chance to make your away around the conversationalists, you’re pinched by the elevator doors or splatted up against the non moving portion of the revolving door. And even then the conversationalists continue to talk, oblivious or uncaring about their ridiculously rude placement in front of the entry/exit.
The only public conversationalists worse than this are the escalator platform conversationalists. They reach the end of their escalator ride and then stop on the platform and stand there having a conversation about where they’re going next. Meanwhile they’re blocking the way for everyone who’s been escalated behind them. It’s either shove through them or be gobbled up by the escalator. There really are no alternatives. Big mechanical metal sharp rotating staircase v. comparatively small, fleshy soft person unable to move because of the conversationalists blocking the exit platform. Machines: 256 billion, Humans: 0.
Well. There are other public conversationalists who are worse, but not a serious threat to human safety. Mobile phone talkers. I don’t really need to get into this. We all know the types. We’re all plagued by them. We all rue the day mobile phones were invented at one time or another. Usually in the grocery line or on the train, any place we’re held captive and forced to listen to the scintillating details about the fight with the boyfriend, the seven skirts tried on at Saks, the sister's episiotomy, the fact that this person is apparently completely incapable of selecting and purchasing cereal on their own without help from whomever is on the other end of that phone. The day anyone, any member of my family or any of my friends calls me from a grocery asking my advice on what brand or type of food product to buy is the day I pay to block their mobile phone number. It’s food. It’s the first world. It’s not a big deal. Yes. There are lots of choices. Choices can be scary and overwhelming. There's risk involved with choice. But. It’s food. If you feel uncomfortable, to the point of having to make a phone call, about whether or not you should buy it, or what kind to buy, chances are pretty good you shouldn’t be considering the purchase. In fact, chances are pretty good you should be spending time at a facility where they not only choose your food for you, but also give it to you in a community dining room with only plastic spoons and plates. Or, you know, maybe grocery shopping's just not your thing. So from here on out why not send whomever is on the phone telling you what to buy to the store since they know what to buy and you don't? **
And let's talk about food for a minute, shall we? Why is it waiters, servers, are snobby? And why is it they expect, and we deliver, generous tips to them even when they're snobby and full of "so much better than you" attitude? And I'm not just talking about ritzy restaurants. The attitude is universal, from esteemed cuisine establishment to lunch time fast food eatery. The uniforms and name tags are all that's different. There's a place I sometimes grab a salad at lunch. Their ingredients are fresh and the prices are cheap. My kinda place. Several times I've ordered a specific salad without the bacon and chicken. Sometimes I get exactly what I ordered. Sometimes I get something completely not what I ordered. And yet, every time, without exception, universal to every wait person there, when I say, "That's not what I ordered," they insist it is what I ordered without the bacon and chicken. What I should have is a plate of spinach, mandarin oranges, almonds, carrots, red pepper and topped with sesame seeds and dressing on the side. It's difficult to confuse that with a plate of iceberg lettuce, blue cheese, tomatoes, eggs and green peppers hidden under half a bottle of creamy ranch globbed on top. And yet, every time this happens I get attitude and blame and an accusation of ignorance. I'm told this is what I ordered and if I want something different I'll have to a) pay for it and b) wait for it. Sometimes I ask to speak to the manager. But usually not. That takes more time which I don't have at lunch. I usually voice my complaint, take the insult of not knowing what I ordered then pick through whatever they put in front of me. And they expect a tip. Which I leave, I think something to do with being a better person, rising above petty differences and conforming to social mores in an effort to fit in with society. Why do I keep eating there, you ask? Because it's close, cheap and fresh. And it doesn't really matter - I get attitude from wait staff in a lot of restaurants. I get "not quite" what I ordered or slow service or basically an unpleasant experience in a lot of restaurants. I just assumed it was me bringing out the worst in wait staff. Then I started talking about it and learned a lot of my friends have the same experiences. Food service people take note: We appreciate your hard work and efforts but we're not gonna take it much longer. Treat me badly, bring me the wrong food (and insist it's what I ordered), and we will stop leaving tips altogether. I'm sorry you work in a tip-based industry and have to wear a uniform and maybe a name tag and spend a lot of time on your feet. Really I am. But your attitude doesn't say, "I'm tired and cranky because I work long days on my feet serving food to disrespectful patrons." Your attitude says, "I'm a snob, I know more than you do, you're wrong, I'm right, I'll bring you what I want to bring you when I want to bring it to you, and for this you will tip me generously." I can only fantasize about what it would be like to throw around that kind of attitude at work, to customers, and not get fired and expect and receive a tip, encouragement, for bad behavior. I think maybe it's the sort of thing that sounds fun and good but in practice unless you're a naturally snobby, defensive, rude person would be more shameful and guilt inducing than fun.
And then: Men. Women. Dating. Urrrgh. Teeth clenching hostility on this topic. Men who tell you, often in lecture format, every way you're bad and wrong and not worthy of their time and affections. Not pretty enough, not young enough, not rich enough are the usual reasons. I've heard every combination possible from a lot of different types of men. It's weird when I don't get the not pretty/young/rich "friend to friend" line. Or the insult to my intelligence finale and stab at redemption and assuaging of guilt: "there's just no chemistry."
Right. No chemistry because I'm not pretty enough, young enough or rich enough. You already told me, "friend to friend" all the reasons why I'm unacceptable. The "there's just no chemistry" finale is a goes without saying statement of the obvious. Apparently you also think I'm stupid. Funny you didn't mention that in the "friend to friend" part of the date conversation. You weren't too polite to tell me I'm not pretty/young/rich enough, surely you could throw "smart enough" into the lecture if you think I'm too stupid to hear the feeble stab at redemption for your guilty conscience in "there's just no chemistry."
I've slated a few men for this. Not for my sake or theirs, but for the next poor woman who dates these shallow, ignorant losers. The hope is that the guy will forgo the "I'm doing you a favor and being really honest with you" lines and just jump straight to the "there's just no chemistry" bit. Which is a totally fine way to end things. Chances are really good she's not feeling any "chemistry" either.
The complete and utter crap and insulting, self esteem stealing, confidence crushing, rude behavior we endure for the sake of dating is revolting. I'm not excluding women from that, I know we're capable of doling out a lot of crap, too. And that angers me. I mean, what happens to people when they go on dates? Or meet someone they think they might want to date? I'm not into The Rules thing, but, who calls a person they barely know but want to get to know better and asks them "out" for a "date" in a few hours or even minutes. Again, not an isolated incident. I've had this happen so often I accept it as normal behavior. Why this angers me is that it puts me in a position of having to either drop everything and go on the "date" or turn down the "date" thus being branded as lacking spontaneity or a "Rules" bitch or risk giving the impression I'm not interested in the guy. It's disrespectful. I'm usually up for any sort of spur of the moment plan, you know, in real life. But in dating life, particularly early dating life, I like to have a little notice, get myself ready, take my medication... Stupid dating. Stupid men. Stupid shallow superficial people who say they care about what's inside but only if what's inside comes in a pretty/young/rich outside.
See what I mean about this repressed anger? One minute I'm laying there thinking, "Darn it, I could have died, accidentally, end of problem, end of story." The next minute I'm all mad and ranting. All that voiding of emotion, all the work, all the progress, all that no feeling, no expectations, all of it gone with one sting of a bee.
Or. Well, maybe not all of it. Apparently the feeling and emotion I've got an issue with is anger. I figured this out a few months ago and thought I was doing better about simply not feeling anything over things which would normally make me angry. But old habits apparently die very hard.
And it's difficult the tell the difference between repressing an emotion and simply not feeling it in the first place. That's the wisdom of the bee sting. Repression = bad. Not feeling it all = good. This was kind of a good test for me. I know where I need work. I know people are still annoying and angering me, I'm just repressing my angry emotions, not voiding them.
The good news is that I didn't swell with feelings of regret or sadness or, what's that word? The four letter one? Oh yeah, love. I think that may be because somewhere in all of it I didn't "feel" like I was in serious danger, or, if I was, that I was okay with it.
That's cool to know, useful. I must have felt that things were in control. Oh sure, the trust in the medical community factor is a little disconcerting, but the "eh, if I die, so what?" aspect is reassuring. I've never been afraid of death, but it's nice to know, by way of life threatening situation, that it's not just false bravado or delusion. Maybe if the whole thing had been more horrific or painful I'd be singing a different tune. Yes, the sting hurt, yes, the not being able to breath thing was unpleasant at first, but then it was all quite hazy and distant and removed and really not so bad.
Well.
Until I was released from ER and went to my parents' house and slept for 12 hours straight. Which, you know, for me, is unsurpassed. And what's the problem with me and sleep? Dreams. Weird, bad, dreams. Bill Murray showed up in one of them but I don't remember much about it except that I thought, "hey, Bill Murray's back in my dream, that hasn't happened for a while." HWNMNBS showed up in another one, I don't remember much about that either except he had a haircut and mustache from 1976 so he kind of looked like Burt Reynolds which is a really, really scary bit of Freudian weirdness. My sister and I were arguing in another one, something stupid, something which was making my mother upset and I was trying to get my sister to stop because it was upsetting our mother and you wanna talk about repressed and Freudian issues with that one?
But then I had a really long and vivid dream. I was sleeping in my little girl bedroom, exactly like it was when I was a little girl, right down to my favorite doll and teddy rabbit in the bed. Except I was old and not a little girl. And I was alone and I wasn't feeling well and having asthma problems and calling out for someone to bring my inhaler but no one came, and the room was all sunny and bright and cheery and happy little girlish, and I was struck by the irony of that happy cheeriness while I was laying there suffering and I was thinking how irony has plagued me from my moment of conception and how I could really do with a lot less irony in my life and how it doesn't matter anyway because it's just me and none of it matters and hey, sometimes it's good for a laugh, and then I woke up and discovered somehow during all of this I'd got up, crossed the room, reached up and plucked my doll and teddy rabbit from a shelf without knocking off the Beatrix Potter Royal Doultans or photos or books or other stuff on the shelves and taken them back to bed with me. I marveled at my somnambulistic prowess. Then thought my mother must have tucked them in with me, which would be a little weird, but not entirely, because my mother's kind of that way. Daughter not feeling well in little girl bedroom = give daughter her favorite little girl things.
But given the positioning and height of the shelf it would be more of a feat of accomplishment for my awake and aware mother to procure the doll and rabbit without knocking off anything else than it would be for me to do the same in my sleep. And that realization was the one that hit me the hardest. Okay, sure, it's a little freaky weird to think I was wandering about gathering toys in my sleep and taking them back to bed with me, but hey, I was on some pretty serious drugs and at least I wasn't dreaming about gathering pollen or living in a hive or building a honeycomb-like structure or working as a drone for the queen and I didn't wake up covered in honey.
Weird is relative.
The realization that my mother is incapable of basic things like maneuvering toys off a shelf without knocking other stuff down and maybe even losing her balance and falling in the process is scarier than any drug induced nightmare or somnambulistic escapade. So how about that? Not afraid to die but nearly scared to death that my mother's struggling and maybe nearing death. What the swut does that mean? I care more about my mother's life than mine. Well, duh, yeah. But there's something else there, more to it. Something about fear and anger and my complete lack of regard for my own life and paranoid concern for my mother's.
Ah. Well. Maybe there is something about that love thing. Not romantic love because I've made peace with the fact that that ain't gonna happen for me. I'm okay with that. It's not even sad to me anymore. I don't need to know what love is, I do know. Been there, done that, got the heartache and jaded cynicism to prove it. That's one feeling I don't miss. I used to miss feeling love, but the broken trust and broken heart suck and and I didn't miss those feelings. Stop remembering love, stop missing love, don't think about it, ever, and everyone's a lot happier.
But then there's that other love, that family love, friend love. Those kinds of love can suck sometimes, too, but somehow they don't suck the same. What I think I'm fearing is that even though I think I'm bitter and cynical and can face anything, even death, the fact is that none of this has prepared me or calms the fear over losing my mother.
I have no idea what the anger thing has to do with any of that. Maybe I'm angry at myself for not sorting this out sooner. Or maybe I'm kicking the jaded cynicism up a notch to embittered. Soon I'll be the weird cat lady who's always by herself shaking a cane in the air and yelling mean rants at the world.
Oh wait. Apart from the cane I'm already there.
Stupid bee sting. Dumb drug induced dreams. Idiotic ironic life. It would have been so much simpler if I'd just died or, better, never been stung at all. I was doing okay before the sting. Not happy, not sad, feeling nothing, merely existing. It had it's moments. Emotionally vacuous moments of nothingness bliss between plodding toil of work, eat, sleep if you can, life, death. And now this. Anger. Fear. Great, it's gonna be another rockin' Summer.
**Frankie's got a tactic with these loud public mobile phone talkers: She joins in the conversation. So far all she's had are dirty looks, scoffs and some "I'm not talking to yous!" Frankie thrives on this reaction. Because she then says, "Oh, excuse me. I'm sorry. It's just that you're talking loud enough in a public place to include all of us in your conversation so naturally I assumed you were talking to us so I joined in the discussion. Perhaps you might consider carrying out your private conversations in private place or quietly enough so as not to include the public in your private conversations." So far no one's scratched her eyes out or pulled a weapon on her which surprises me. I swutting love Frankie. I'd miss her a lot if someone pulled a weapon on her so I hope that doesn't happen.
It's Not Just Me, It Is Hot in Here So I've been all, "...but doesn't global warming concern you? You know, the dinosaurs weren't worried about the ice age, either, and look what happened to them. Fossil fuel. The glaciers are melting, Polar Bears are turning to cannibalism, Summers have been really long and hot, I mean, you know, this is right here, right now stuff."
And everyone's all like, "Oh Trill, it'll be thousands of years before the species human melts to death. You're really pale, you could use a little more sun anyway, and maybe those long, cold Winters are getting to you, you know, making you a little weird. Just relax and enjoy the warmer weather and use a stronger sun block if you're so worried. Now run along, go have one of those little tropical drinks you like so much and everything will be fine."
Friday, June 16, 2006
Okay. I can move my body without causing crippling pain again. That's kind of a nice feeling. So hi, how's it going? I'm okay. Ish. I want to move to Canada. Really bad. Canada's good to me. Canada's good for me.
I have to find a job or come up with the immigration money. I'd prefer to get a job. I desperately need a new job anyway so I might as well get a new job in Canada. Canada's cool, they like it when educated professional people want to become Canadian. America can have the unskilled immigrants who will do the jobs "no Americans want to do," you know, the low wage, usually short term jobs which can't sustain a person or their family for a lifetime. Canada will take the immigrants who can contribute something viable for long term employment and value to the country. Canada thinks I'm just the sort of person they want to populate the New Canada.
Except I'm going to have to have some sort of psychological reconditioning over the Red Wings thing. I did okay when the seemingly innocent questions about hockey came up, because, you know, I like hockey in general, as a sport. I even made some favorable comments about the Oilers. But then, well, Canada's subtle, lures you in with that friendly thing and then kills you with kindness and the next thing you know you're incriminating yourself. I was lulled into a false sense of security and slipped up and let on that I'm a Red Wings fan and, well, yeah, that's going to be a slight problem. Apparently it would be better if I didn't know anything about hockey. I would be a blank hockey canvas on which they could paint their teams. But unfortunately I'm tainted with the smell of Red Wings. I made a nice save, though, I made a negative comment about Celios. "ha ha, I mean, what could a Chicagoan know about hockey?! ha!" Canada raised a hopeful eyebrow. But even so, I'm still a Red Wings fan. Canada said they'll "have to do something about that." But everything else looks to be in order and promising for immigration.
I was thinking maybe I could stage a burning of my Red Wings jersey, you know, to prove my loyalty and seriousness about becoming Canadian. If it comes down to that or clubbing a baby seal I'll burn the jersey and buy season tickets to the Canucks without hesitation.
It's disconcerting that, joking aside, I'm having a more difficult time about the possibility of renouncing my allegiance to a hockey team than my country. America? Pfft. Who needs it? What's America ever done for me? See ya, I'm outta here without hesitation or backwards glance. But suggest that I support a team other than the Red Wings and, I'm not kidding, I get a little defensive, panicky and hesitant. I know that's not right. I'm not proud that I have more allegiance to a stupid sports team than I do my country. It bothers me. I know there are a lot of things wrong with me, but this new discovery disturbs me. Ultimately it's just a hockey team. I don't really care that much. But the fact that I care even less about my country is alarming.
Sometimes learning insight into yourself is scary.
I thought I cared about American stuff. I really did. I want to care about America and about being American. I want it to matter to me. I want to like America and be proud of it and all that. But now I realize obviously I don't. I care about Americans, I don't want anything bad to happen to Americans. I want good things for Americans. No ill will to the people, but it's obvious I'm not one of them. I don't fit in here. Never have. I've never been able to find a niche. I have friends and a job, I make my way here, but even though I walk among them I'm not like them. I try to fit in, get on board with the whole thing, but it's obvious I'm too different to fully become one of them. I care about American stuff, language, politics, freedom of religion or lack thereof, the national anthem. But I realize I care about this stuff on a bigger level - I care as much about other country's language, politics, religions and national anthems.
Here's my latest theory: Everything melted in the pot, which is good, but, it's left me confused, conflicted and tired of always trying to understand.
There's no single American culture. We're all about celebrating our differences, and that's swell, that's really great. I'm down with that in a big way. But. We're all unique and special and a culture to ourselves. America is a nation of personalized cultures. We allowed to have individual cultures as specific as our personal DNA. My culture is unique, I share it only with my siblings. And while that's really, um, special, it does create a bit of a challenge when trying to fit in and be part of American culture. Basically: I can't embrace a culture which doesn't exist. This is more than post war generation malaise and indifference. This is complete and utter confusion. How can I be American when I have no clue what it means to be American?
Some will say, "But Trill, that's the point! We're free to be you and me! You are American culture! Every one of us is American culture. Everybody wins, no one loses, we all get a trophy and ice cream." Okay, well, then, if I'm supposed to feel so good about being me in America, why am I so at a loss for national identity? I know why I feel apart and different from Americans: It's because we're all apart and different. There's no national glue. We pay taxes at different rates based on our unique circumstances. We get healthcare based on our unique circumstances. We go to church (or not) based on our unique circumstances. We're educated based on our unique circumstances. We retire (or not) based on our unique circumstances. We choose our television entertainment from thousands of channels based on our unique circumstances. I mean, you know, thankfully we have choices, choice is good. Freedom is good. I'm not advocating Communism. But the extreme alternative had brought me to the point of confusion and apathy over my national identity. Because my national identity is the freedom to make my personal identity my national identity I see myself as disposable or at least portable.
Move to Canada? Be Canadian? Sure, why not? I have no idea what it means to pledge my allegiance to the United States beyond support and respect for the Constitution. But what about the "republic for which it stands?" I'm supposed to pledge my allegiance to millions of individual cultures? Yeah, I have a problem with that. I'm sure most Americans are swell people. But I also know there are some bad apples. I've encountered more than my share of those. I'd rather not have my assailant's personal culture in the melting pot and I certainly do not pledge my allegiance to his republic. But in America we make a lot of excuses for people "like" him. Bad childhood. Absentee father. Poverty. Gangs. Drugs. It's not his fault he attacks women, beats them up and robs them, maybe rape them if he has the time and inclination. I'm supposed to feel sorry for his situation. I'm supposed to forgive and excuse what he did to me because it's not his fault. His rights are as valuable as mine. We live in the same country with the same court system and he has the same rights I do. Our differences are only cultural.
Ahhh. Culture. Our unique, individual cultures swirling in the melting pot. His culture condones and encourages violence and thievery. He's American. So am I. But we do not share any cultural similarities or identity. We can't be expected to respect or understand each others' cultures. And yet we're both American. His culture carries the burden of poverty and lack of education. Mine carries the burden of guilt and forgiveness when his culture makes him lash out and violate mine.
See where I'm going with this? This whole individual identity as cultural identity thing has spawned a society of people who are disrespectful and selfish. How can we respect each other as Americans we have no unifying cultural benchmarks? Why should we? We're all free to be ourselves, we're all supposed to march to our own beat and we're each a thread woven into the colorful fabric of America. Gosh, doesn't that sound nice? Like something you'd needlepoint on a pillow for your living room. But everyone's so busy and preoccupied with being themselves, creating their own special cultural identity that all we've got are huge spools of thread and no weaving of a fabric.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's my unique circumstances, increasingly isolated and lonely circumstances, which are making me feel this way, this isolated, lonely nationally apathetic way. Maybe I'm just the sort of person who needs rules or at least benchmarks. Maybe I'm the sort of person who needs national identity and culture spelled out for me. Maybe I need to feel like I'm a part of my country, that I belong there, that I fit in with my co-citizens. Yeah. I know. That sounds like one step away from Communism. Careful Trill, you'll be rolling cigars in Cuba if you keep thinking this way. They probably take a dim view of your Red Wings in Cuba and it's doubtful they'd let you listen to The Piixies in North Korea. Games and music of the infidels. And you know how you've always liked being an infidel.
Yeah. I know. I do like the idea of being an infidel. It makes me feel bad in a good way. Wild. Reckless. Naughty.
Hang on. Wait a minute. That's it. To a lot of the rest of the world our cultural identity is: Infidel. Um. Yeah. That should tell us something.
Canada is just known as nice. Polite. Respectful. Sure, they club baby seals, but the rest of the time they're really nice and polite. So I can stay here and be an infidel, get some pleasure from feeling good about being bad, or, try to find a job in Canada.
The TITCEF pledge drive has now officially begun.
You'll note the fund thermometer on the side bar. This will help you keep tabs on my progress.
And in the grand tradition of pledge drives I'll offer the first of many useless bribes to get you to just shut up about the greater public good, conscience, Suze Orman and just make it stop and get back to the regularly scheduled programing. This bribe is in the grandest of grand pledge drive traditions: An encore performance of something you didn't want to see the first time.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006 Ooo wooo koo koo koo koo kooo koooooooo Me and this guy I met in Canada.
No, I'm not Canadian. Yet. A few weeks closer to defecting to Canada, but back in America and pretty much hating it. Well. I mean. Hate's kind of strong, especially for someone who has worked so hard to void all emotion from her life. Let's just say I "felt" good in Canada and "feel" bad being back here. I'd expound on that but at the moment I can barely move any part of my body without causing a lot of pain. Blinking my eyes hurts because my eyelashes hurt. No, I'm not hungover. I opted for torture by new advanced spinning class. I thought I was in, you know, okay shape, I mean, I have been working out, riding my bike, walking, doing some crunches, taking a spinning class now and then...you know, not crazy in shape, but not total veg, either. So I thought I was ready for the challenge of the advanced spinning class.
I was once again proved to be an idiot. (Someday I'll learn and accept this fact.) I don't know why my eyelashes hurt from a spinning class, but they do. Everything hurts. Bad. Der Fuhrer of Den Fahrrad as I now call him, otherwise known as the spinning class leader, kicked my ass all the way to New Foundland. He called me names. Said I needed to show the bike I mean business, that I needed to dominate the bike or it would dominate me. (yes, he really said that) He said I have the ability for greatness but the desire for mediocrity. Well. That's a paraphrase. He said it in a lot more rude and incriminating way. He used to be so nice, back when I was in the medium level class. Apparently advanced spinning class means: work yourself to a near heart attack all the while having verbal abuse hurled at you by an East German coach. (He considers himself to be East German. Still. Always. Just so you have an idea of what I'm dealing with here.)
So yeah. Kind of ironic it’s bike to work week. Woo hoo. Every week is bike to work week for me, so, you know, not really a big deal. Except that this week I can barely move because of what I did to myself on a stationary bike. I pulled this from the archive. Maybe someday I’ll be able to move and type again and I’ll share all that profound insight you’ve come to expect from this blog.
Dear Bicycle Thief, How are you? I’m okay, I miss my bike but other than that things are okay. I hope you are enjoying my bike. I really liked it so I hope you do, too. Doesn’t it shift great?! So smooth and quick. Do you like the color? I love the green - I’m a huge fan of green so I was really pleased to have a great bike in a color I love. You don’t see a lot of them around, especially in that frame size. I’ll keep my eye out for it, should be easy to spot. You must be taller, too. Wouldn’t it be cool if we got to finally meet in person?! We can share stories about our bike.
I bought it mainly to ride to work. I really couldn’t afford the bike, a new bike, a new “nice” bike. But I ran the numbers and scrimped and saved, sold my old bike to a friend going back to grad school and finally had enough to buy the bike. I put off paying a few bills thinking I’d pay them with the money I’d be saving on public transit in the coming months. So without my bike and me needing to ride the CTA to work I’m really having a rough go financially. My mistake, I shouldn’t have gambled with my money like that, there are no sure things and allocating commuting money for other bills was a foolish plan. After all, dis is Chicago, kid, leave a bike unattended and expect it to be gone when you return. Dat’s just da way we do tings in dis town.
The mayor has all those bike incentives and everything, he even had a few photo ops of him riding a bike to work! Wasn’t that cool?! He’s so cool, so hip, so health conscious, so fiscally responsible, so environmentally aware. I wonder if he’s ever had a bike stolen. Maybe you could try stealing his bike. That would be really funny. Almost a justifiable crime. Poetic justice and all that. “You want us to ride our bikes to work, mayor? Okay, I’m all for it, but what are you going to do about bike thievery? What are you going to do to enforce the bike lane traffic laws? What are you going to do to make this a bike friendly city?” Maybe if he had a daily near fatal sideswiping while riding in a bike lane or got a bike stolen he’d put his money where his mouth is.
What do you think, bicycle thief? Do you like the mayor? Do you think more can and should be done to catch and punish thieves and people who disobey bike lane traffic laws? I’d like to hear your take on all of this.
I was thinking you might want the original receipt for insurance purposes. I’m guessing the guy you bought it from in that alley didn’t give you a receipt. I know you only paid $15 or $20 for the bike from the guy in the alley, but it’s worth a lot more than that. You want to make sure you’ve got paperwork backing up the value of the bike in case it gets stolen. That would be a pretty sweet deal for you. Pay $15 - $20 cash for a bike from a stranger in a back alley, then file an insurance claim for five times that much when the bike stolen again.
I know you try to justify your thievery by saying you paid for the bike. But I also know that even if you were naive and “innocent” at the time of purchase, you surely realized the bike is worth a lot more than the $15 - $20 you paid for it. Surely you wondered why there wasn’t a scratch on the almost new bike except for right over the serial number. Surely at some point you thought, “Wow, this is a really nice bike, I can’t believe that guy in the alley was almost giving it away.”
Maybe it never occurred to you that you are just as much of a thief as the guy who cleverly compromised the Kryptonite lock and snatched my bike from a “secure” parking area. But I’m guessing, you being a shrewd consumer and bike rider, you realize that you “bought” a stolen bike. I’m guessing you might even feel a little guilty about it. I’m guessing you have a list of justifications for buying a stolen bike. I don’t care about the list of justifications. They’re merely shallow and lame excuses, attempts to ease your guilty conscious.
I know, I know, you paid for the bike, you didn’t “steal” it. Which is why that receipt could come in handy. I bothered to file a police report. And if that bike should ever turn up in a stolen property raid, you’ll need the receipt to claim the bike. Shame, though, because I’m the one who registered the bike and I’m the one they’ll contact. I’m guessing you’re not as stupid as the person who “bought” my friend’s bike from a kid in a back alley. His was a really nice bike, even nicer than mine. It was stolen when he left it for 15 minutes, locked with two locks and no seat. A month later the thief who bought it in an alley registered the stolen bike with the city police department. I have to give credit to the city’s finest on this one, they bothered to do a number trace on the partial serial number and nabbed the guy who bought it. My friend was just happy to have his bike back so he didn’t press charges on the guy who “innocently” “bought” the bike in an alley for $10. I wouldn’t be as kind as my friend. I would press charges.
Because you are every much a thief as the guys who originally stole the bike.
If you, and people like you, stop “buying” suspicious merchandise, in this town especially bikes, from guys in back alleys, warehouses, flea markets or elsewhere, from a complete stranger selling at a ridiculously low price without a receipt, the bike thieves won’t have a need to steal bikes and voila! the bike thievery epidemic is kept at bay and the police department can focus on other crimes and the underlying issue: Drugs and gangs.
That’s who’s stealing the bikes. People, kids, who are looking for a quick way to earn a little bit of money. If they were trying to make a real profit on these bikes they’d sell them for closer to their actual value. They sell them at $10 - $20 because they’re not thinking about value or long term financial plans. They’re thinking about getting enough money to buy their daily fix or to pay into their gang. This is a short term, fast cash deal for them. Bikes are easy prey and easy money, especially with a buying public apparently eager and willing (and yes, possibly naive in a few cases) to snatch up a great deal on a bike from a complete stranger.
So you, bike thief, enabled someone to buy drugs for a day and disabled me for several months. I can’t afford another bike. I could file an insurance claim but I have a high deductible and my premium would increase so it’s not “worth” filing an insurance claim. Kryptonite is making me jump through a lot of hoops to prove the bike was stolen before they’ll live up to their guarantee. So here’s how you can help me: If you could just send me a photo of you on the bike with a letter saying you stole it, I can get enough money from Kryptonite to buy a new bike. Until then I am without transportation. See, I don’t have a car. And as I mentioned, I sold my old bike to add to the funds for the new bike you stole. I’m completely immobile without it. It might not mean much to you, a little toy for the weekends. But for me it was my freedom, my sole form of transportation, my way of getting to work and around the city.
Maybe you’re just riding it on weekends. Maybe we could work out a time share deal with it.
Maybe you could just give me back my bike and vow to never buy obvious stolen goods from anyone ever again.
9:40 AM
