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
Monday, December 04, 2006
Is it me or is it the season bringing out the worst in people or is there actually a sudden and sharp decrease in tact, discretion and dignity?
Oh sure, there have always been people who are rude, braggarts, noisy know-it-alls...and now with blogging taking the world by storm these people have a worldwide forum.
Which I originally thought was good. Because the more tactlessness they dole out online, perhaps, hopefully, the less need they’ll feel to do it in real life. Give them an open forum, a forum which could possibly be read by the entire Universe, and why would they bother to behave badly to one or two incidental people they run into in the break room or coffee shop? Right? Wrong.
That theory has officially been proved overly optimistic and wrong.
My new theory is that the exact opposite has occurred. Because these people have this huge open forum, and utilize it, they feel validated and encouraged. This is a green light for them to have at it in all aspects of their lives so now they’re spreading their tactlessness, rudeness and indignities everywhere they go.
There’s no such thing as polite company. So there’s no need for manners or tact. There’s no such thing as keeping a little mystery, so there’s no need to preserve personal dignity.
Yes. I really do blame blogging.
Where did you first find about about The Britney Photos? If you felt a need to see them for yourself, where did you see them? I’ve got a pack of Pez to wager that it was a blog of some sort - an entertainment blog, a porn blog, or, shudder a “media” blog.
What I find slightly surprising about The Britney Photos is not that they exist (I mean, c’mon, it’s Britney Spears) it’s that a) people apparently care and b) the photos are being discussed everywhere, everywhere. Even here! And the discussions are not, “OMG, you can see her, um, her.” They’re “Ewwww, gross, you can see her cesarean scar.” Somehow, somewhere, something happened, a shift in the paradigm occurred and now it’s more scandalous to show a maternity belly scar than a full in your face beaver.
Just a few years ago a man over the age of 40 talking about Britney Spears’ snatch would have put the guy in dirty old man territory. Today I had the pleasure of hearing a 54 year old man tell a sophomoric joke about Britney to a 29 year old woman and a 35 year old man. And they all laughed and had a lengthy conversation about Britney’s scar and whether or not Lindsay Lohen’s stoned look is sexy. The verdict was only if she doesn’t have needle marks from shooting up. Apparently having a serious drug problem is okay as long as there are no physical scars. Britney snatch? Pfft. Whatever. But did you see that scar?! Battle wounds are apparently the new porn. We’re all jaded and cynical, we’ve seen it all, even if we didn’t want to see it or hear about it we’ve seen it. No mystery, no dignity, no shame, no pride, no modesty. It’s all there, everywhere.
But scars, marks of physical pain and aging, the unique talismans of life most of us acquire during our stay here, now, that’s gross/scandalous/titillating. How dare we show imperfections?! How dare Britney prove to us she’s had children and has the scar to prove it? How dare she show the world a physical imperfection?
After the Britney/Lindsay conversation (thankfully) ended, one of the group said, completely unsolicited, completely out of nowhere, “My xyz stock went through the roof yesterday. Talk about a Merry Christmas, I sold and made $7,500. Combined with (my spouse’s) bonus, we took in an extra $17,500 this week. Aspen here we come!”
Um. Ya know, I’m “happy” for their windfall, I guess, but, did I need to hear about it? Or at least in exact numbers? Of course I’m jealous because $17,500 just happens to be about the amount of debt the Furry Creature and I accrued in medical expenses this month. It makes me mad that I’m jealous. I don’t want to be jealous, at least not jealous of money. Money is a personal thing. My financial struggles are mine. I own them. In fact debt is one of the few things I own. I suppose I could and should be proud of that. But I’m not. I struggle with it. Every day. I know people who are in worse situations. I try to keep my financial problems in perspective. It used to be you never knew who was struggling and who wasn’t - apart from the obvious signs of wealth like new cars and big houses - because apart from loud mouthed braggarts no one talked about money. It was considered rude. You could force someone to feel envious or piteous by talking about how much or how little money you had, and that’s not a fair or polite thing to do. You weren’t supposed to want to make people feel uncomfortable feelings.
But not anymore! Now bragging about how much you made on stocks or on a signing bonus is accepted conversation even among near strangers. I frequently hear people talking to me about how much money they’re putting in their 401K and which plans are bringing in exactly how much return on their exact investment.
Someone at work I considered a semi-friend asked me how I was going to pay for some recent medical procedures. I thought it was rude of this person to ask, but, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and assumed it was a question borne of concern, as in, “Trill, what are you going to do?!” So told them I was trying to get a hardship loan from my 401K. We work at the same place, have the same plan, and in the past she told me she’d borrowed from her 401K. I thought this was sort of friend to friend talk.
A few days later my boss and a coworker confronted me about the risks and dangers of taking money out of my 401K. They had all sorts of scary warnings. I asked my boss if she was offering to give me a raise instead. She said no. The next day the Church Lady came in with, I kid you not, a casserole and a bag of cat food. “I heard you were having financial problems. Here’s something for you and something for your kitty. Just heat up the casserole in the microwave for 5 minutes and you’re all set!” If I was ever going to die of embarrassment that was probably the moment. But the Universe didn’t see fit to strike me dead at that moment so I had to just get out some sort of a thank-you and try to graciously accept the food. And don’t get me wrong, it was nice of her, very charitable. But. I mean. I work with these people. My personal financial business should never be their business. It’s one thing to help out a coworker going through a difficult personal issue like a death - there’s no personal shame involved in that, bereavement is universal. But money problems, I mean, that’s not so Universal and knowing everyone knows your financial problems is not comforting.
The original person who started the gossip about my financial problems is the culprit. And maybe they thought they were doing me a favor. “Ooooh, poor Trill, go easy on her, she has a lot of medical expenses and has to take money from her 401K to pay for them.” Nah. I think it’s just that the gossip is too juicy and too scary to not share with everyone in the office.
Like scars, financial hardship is another new form of shadenfreude-esque porn. It used to be wrong and tactless to discuss money, yours or anyone else's. Now it’s titillating. Been on a blind date or online match up with a man lately? No? Lucky you. Without fail men (and these are over 30 year old men, for the record, though I’m not sure that makes any difference) bring up the subject of money and how much they have in the first 30 minutes of conversation. I started noting this behavior about half way through 50 First Dates. If the date lasts an hour based on my data there’s an 87% chance he will have mentioned money - how much he has, how much he spends or spent on a high ticket item or what his financial goals are for the future. And yes, I mean, if you’re going to be a couple at some point this discussion needs to take place, but not within the first hour of meeting each other. And not when you have no intention of calling the woman. Which has been the case in every case. These guys swoop in, brag about their money, insult my looks or my career or some fatal flaw which deems me undateable, and are never heard from again. I should say “these” guys because it’s apparently almost every guy who will at least give me one chance in person. Why don’t I date? That’s a huge part of it. Feeding these egos by listening to them talk about their money is not my idea of a good time. But apparently it works for them, apparently a lot of women like a little money talk. It’s worked for these guys in the past and apparently they haven’t honed conversation skills beyond that. And really, that’s probably what it comes down to anyway. A transaction between adults. He: Brags about money. She: Wants things. He: Buys things. She: Gives him sex. Nothing new in that equation. But what baffles me is that these guys don’t want sex with me, they’re not interested in me, so why brag or try to impress me with their money? What’s the point? Ahhhh, to make me feel inferior and thus make them feel superior. Not only can they feel good about rejecting me as a partner, they can feel good about making it clear they’ve got money and I’m not getting any of it. I am: Unworthy. Success, ego fed. Onto the next one.
Yeah, okay, so I’m more than a little cynical and jaded when it comes to men. But really, I promise, my experiences are not unique. Many women cite the same issues with men on first dates. Whole lotta bragging going on in coffee houses, bars and produce sections these days. When did that become okay? When did dating become a tactless string of indignities thrown out as merit badges of sexual worthiness?
I’m guessing about the time it became more salacious to see a cesarean scar than a full beaver shot.
I’ve been mulling all of this over lately, wondering if it’s just me being fed up, old, cranky and cynical or if there really is a change in decorum, that we’re becoming a tactless, tasteless, rude, crude species.
I wanted to think not, I wanted to think I should chastise myself for sounding like some uptight old bitty, I wanted to go with the flow, adapt and evolve and let it go.
And then.
I went to a bachelorette party, to get wild with some new friends…
And like Ricky Nelson at an oldies concert, I felt out of place, out of touch, misunderstood, confused and like I’d unwittingly walked into a joke on me.
My friends are married. Or don’t want to be married.
So I haven’t been through the whole: engagement party, bridal shower, couples shower, work shower (where appropriate) bachelorette party, wedding gift parade in a while. Thankfully. It’s been really nice not having that pressure to show up at some party every month with a gift for the same couple.
There’s this girl, and yes, she’s a girl, very young, at work who’s getting married. I won’t say we’re friends, but, we get along okay and we’ve spent a few unhappy hours after work having a drink.
I think she has been feeling bad and guilty about the whole me not being invited to a department luncheon thing. I will give her credit there, she is one of a handful who I’m sure had no idea I wasn’t invited and felt horrible about it when she found out I was purposely and expressly not invited. She’s the only one who has dared to speak of it to me and had the integrity and compassion to apologize.
So, she invited me to her bachelorette party.
I could have declined and initially assumed I would.
But as the date drew closer she kept insisting she wanted me to come to her party and that it would be a fun girls’ night out and she insisted no one else from work would be there, she didn’t want me to bring a gift, just show up and have some fun. And so, I guess under some influence of too much work, too much stress, too many doctor appointments, too much medication, too much loneliness, I agreed to attend.
Big mistake.
Huge mistake.
Never, ever again.
Some of my friends had bachelorette parties, hen parties, mostly a few close friends going out to dinner, a few bawdy wedding cards, one more glass of wine than usual and talking about shoes and in-laws. If the wine really got spilling the subject of former boyfriends might come up, and by coming up I mean laid to rest forever: slate the jerks and make a wistful comment about his one good quality one last time and be glad we’d never have to speak of him again. Something wild like that. Yeah. Pretty freaky and loose friends I have. Actually, they were, which is why the bachelorette/hen parties were so tame. Been there, done that, bored with it, over it, grown-up, moving on, settling down, found a great guy, getting married.
So I when I finally gave in and accepted the invite to this bachelorette party I didn’t expect wild and crazy women being lewd and, um, well, kinda scary.
I bought a funny wedding card, a bottle of wine and a pair of fishnet stockings with hearts with daggers through them on the elastic part. Woo hoo! Trill, you naughty woman, you. Who’d a thought that about you?!
I know, I know, I know. Okay? I know. But I don’t really know this girl all that well. And even if I did I wouldn’t buy her anything which could be defined as an apparatus. I didn’t give my best friends apparatuses for their hen parties. I mean, I guess because most of my friends were older when they got married it was assumed they already had all the apparatuses they needed or wanted, or they would procure them on their own. I honestly hesitated with the fishnet dagger heart stockings because I thought they might be over the top and embarrass her (and me) in front of her friends.
Silly, silly Trillian.
My gift was prudish, as in Amish prudish, in comparison to the gifts given at this party.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I knew this was going to be a night I’d regret as soon as I arrived at the party.
I was greeted by a woman who smelled of beer, mainly because she had recently spilled beer on her dress, apparently while she was chugging a pony keg. She threw her arms around me and gave me: a) a green bouffant wig, b) a necklace made of candy “beads” in the shape of penises (I just learned Microsoft prefers penises over the biology class correct penes. Huh. Interesting. That’ll give me something to talk about at the next bachelorette party I attend.) c) a blow out party horn, you know, the kind that inflate and roll out when you blow into them? Well, perhaps you’ve seen these, perhaps I’m the last person on Earth to experience these…it’s in the shape of a penis and when you blow it 1) it looks like you’re giving a blow job and 2) becomes erect, and d) a penis shaped name tag. I was instructed to write my “stripper name” on the penis name tag and put it in a bucket with a group photo of a Chippendales troupe on it. Thank goodness I have a stripper name!
Okay, right. This is not exactly what I expected, but okay. Go with the flow, maybe it’s just one overenthusiastic friend who went a little overboard planning the party. There were already several girls/women in attendance. All of them were sporting “goofy fun! wigs in various crayon box colors and penis beads and various styles of hooker shoes/boots. I didn’t get that memo, someone forget to tell me to wear my hooker shoes. They were standing around a table with food and drinks, all of it sexually suggestive. There were Jel-lo shots pre-made and ready to chug in shot glasses featuring naked male models, bottles of Jack Daniels and Jagermeister, the pony keg, and of course, the penis cake and boob cupcakes.
My bottle of wine looked disturbingly out of place.
But even more disturbing was my co-worker who was in the middle of all this, wearing a blue wig, a tiara/veil, platform thigh high red shiny hooker boots, white fishnet tights, a pleather “skirt” which was basically nothing more than a belt, about an 8” wide strip of pleather wrapped around her, really nothing more than a way to avoid an indecent exposure in public ticket, ruffle lace panties with airbrushed bum cheeks hanging peeking out from below the “hem” of the “skirt,” a Hooters style tank top which said, “Last call for alcohol and beer goggle sex,” the gs in goggle made to look like nipples, a “Fuck me, I’m Irish and drunk” button pinned to the sleeve of her tank top and various fake tattoos of male and female anatomy and couples portraying different kama sutra positions. Probably needless to say she was staggering drunk. Or drunk and not used to wearing platform hooker boots. Nice. I’m so glad I went to that party. I knew this sort of thing happened, I’m a little out of touch but I’m not dead (or Amish) and I always wondered what sort of girls really got into this sort of thing.
Now I know. I work with one of them.
I knew these women were several glasses of alcohol ahead of me and I cut a lot of slack for that. But. Um, that outfit, the décor, the food, the party favors…it all took conscious, sober planning. You don’t spontaneously put together an outfit like that, nor do you spontaneously find penis necklaces and kama sutra tattoos. At least I don’t think you do.
Shortly after I arrived two other women arrived. They were excited to don their wigs, penis shaped stripper name tag and penis necklaces, enthused over my co-worker’s outfit and slammed Jager shots. I could say when in Rome, have a couple of drinks and get into the festivities…but, this wasn’t Rome, this was some bizarre planet from an unaired episode of Star Trek.
Now that everyone had arrived, it was time to play the games. The bachelorette party games.
I wanted to run, hide, die, anything to avoid the games these women planned.
I have never felt so old, so prudish and so horrible out of place in my life. I am pretty good about going with the flow, blending in and getting along in just about any situation. And I’ve been in some really weird situations in my life. But this one, well, this one takes the penis cake.
The irony is that I was not the oldest person there. There were a couple of women older than me, and most were just a few years younger. A few were the same age as my co-worker, very young, and if they were solely responsible for the party I would have a better sense of understanding. But it turns out one of the women older than me had done a lot of the planning and had acquired many of the party favors. Okay, I mean, you know, hey, let your hair down, (or put it under a goofy fun! wig) get into the spirit of the thing, I guess. Um. Yeah. Okay. Sure.
But.
Oh never mind.
The games, oh my what fun the games were: “Kama sutra bingo,” position numbers are called out and as you scratch them off the card an illustration of the position appears, “Dare to Do It,” a truth or dare type game wherein we’re supposed to either tell whether or not we’ve done a specific act and with whom, OR, take the dare and demonstrate your “technique” on a Twinkie (I find it interesting that more women chose to demonstrate their “technique” live, on a Twinkie, to a group of women they barely know, than admit whether or not they’ve done a specific act with a man), ”Pick-Up Dicks” (like pick-up sticks), “What’shisname’s Name and Size” wherein we were supposed to guess the nickname and size of the groom-to-be’s penis, “Pecker Ring Toss” (self explanatory (I assume)) and the big crowd pleaser, the bride-to-be pulled the penis shaped stripper name tags out of the Chippendales bucket and we had to guess whose it was. I have to admit, this was actually kind of funny. Especially because I have a really good stripper name. It sounds real. As in, everyone thinks there’s an actual famous stripper with that name. And no one suspected it belonged to me. Presumed innocent, bwa ha ha ha…
Yeah, it was funny until someone got hurt. We were supposed to wear our penis shaped stripper name tags the rest of the night and would henceforth be called by our stripper names. Anyone not complying with this was supposed to put a dollar bill in the Chippendales bucket. Why a dollar you ask?
Glad you asked.
Because by the time the bucket had about $25 in it, ding-dong, stripper calling!
Yep. A male stripper.
Who I found to be the ugliest, skankiest pile of oily lubricated flesh and muscle I’ve ever seen. But the other women seemed to find him appealing. I didn’t want to go anywhere near him, but they were shoving dollars in his thong, most of them writing their phone numbers on the bills and grabbing a feel. I mean, you know, yay women’s rights movement, we have the freedom to exploit and subjugate men as sex objects. Maybe I am Amish because if this is coming a long way, baby, I think maybe I’ll go back. I know it’s all in good fun and no one’s forcing the guy to do this and I’m sure he does it because he loves having drunk women paw at him, and I’m sure he gets more than his share of action at these gigs. He gets paid to have sex! Woo hoo! But. Is this really the sort of equal opportunities women needed? Personally I’d rather have a pay increase to match my male counterparts’ salaries than be given the “right” to paw at a skanky guy lubed up in baby oil. Yep, we’ve come a long way, baby.
After everyone except me posed for provocative photos with the stripper we opened the gifts.
I’m no prude. Really. I swear. I’m not. Or maybe I am. There was the “usual” array of battery operated items, loads of lotions, some undergarments for her and him, and a game involving a spinner and costumes. But then there were a few other items. And this is where I think maybe I might be a prude. Because I had absolutely no idea what some of her gifts were – I could make a few guesses but honestly? I’m really not sure what they were or how they’re to be used. There was not an obvious shape or “function” to some of them. Fortunately I wasn’t the only one baffled, one of the more drunk women said, “What the Hell is that?!” to one of the odder gifts. I’m not going to explain it but it involves a very distinct fetish.
My co-worker was the one to describe in great detail how it’s used.
Lovely. I have to work with this woman. And now I know. I know way too much.
And then she opened my tame little fishnet stockings. I wanted to die of embarrassment over how Amish those fishnets looked in comparison to the fetish implements her friends gave her. (Hey, had I known she was into that I would have known what to buy her…actually, I wouldn’t have been sure so I probably would have stuck with the fishnets) Fortunately we had to hurry through the gifts and cake because the limo was waiting. Two of the women took cans of shaving cream out to the limo. As we loaded into the limo they sprayed penises on the windows. Lovely. A rolling super stretch limo with penises on the window.
All along my plan was to leave at this juncture. But as I stood there trying to get a cab, the ladies loudly insisted I join them, the “fun was just beginning.” (Really? Learning about the implements required for a very specific and unusual fetish is just the beginning of the fun?!) I insisted I didn’t think I could handle any more fun, I’d had enough fun and booze to last me several months. Next thing I knew I was picked up and shoved into the limo by three of the women. Literally picked up and shoved, abducted, into the limo.
We went to a large bar with several “party rooms.” The bride-to-be drank for free. Because, you know, she hadn’t already had quite enough to drink. We played Pin the Penis on the Man. Apparently this bar frequently hosts bachelorette parties and provides this game as fun entertainment for the ladies. Yep. Big fun. Lotsa fun. Really, really, really drunk women wearing goofy fun! wigs, penis shaped name tags, blindfolded, stumbling around in platform hooker shoes with penises in their hands jabbing them in the air attempting to pin it on a poster. Lotsa lotsa fun. They also provided a “Fuzzy Pecker Pinata.” This was the finale. The bride-to-be was placed under the piñata where she was told to “do it with her hands until it erupted onto her.” Yes. The effect was supposed to be that of a hand job and an ensuing facial. What spilled out onto her and all over the floor were: Condoms. Lots and lots of condoms. Bags of Penis shaped gummy candy, a bunch of those champagne popper noise makers, penis shaped lollipops, different flavors and types of lubricants, plastic shot glasses attached to mardi gras type beads, “Decision coins” (“Do it! Don’t do it!”), Altoid type mints, “Cum Kleen” wipes in mango scent. (I read one of the packages, in case you’re not aware, they “make it easy to clean up after the fun. Disposable and Easy, cleans up messy lubes. Keep a few in your purse just in case.”
“Keep a few in my purse just in case?!” That cracked me up and made the whole night worthwhile. I mean, the fact that they spell this out as a selling feature absolutely cracks me up. And now, when I really hate my job and I think I can’t go on, I will remind myself, “It could be worse, Trill, you could be in charge of the Cum Kleen account.”
As we left that bar we were all given “treat bags.” Most of the women piled back into the limo to go to other bars. They were much too drunk to abduct me this time so I quickly got a cab and went home. I dropped the treat bag on the floor and fell into bed.
The next morning my hopes that it had all been a weird and bad dream were dashed when I found the treat bag on the floor. In it were: Another candy penis necklace, more gummy penises, a sticker proclaiming, “If found drunk or unconscious please return to…” with a place to write in a name and phone number, pink marti gras beads, a pin which looks like a sheriff’s badge proclaiming, “Pecker Inspector,” a black garter belt with a penis on it, a condom, a little tub of Nipple Nibbler (as far as I can it’s cherry Chapstick in a tub), a “Fetish Play” dice game, the dice say: “above the waist, below the waist, all over, wrists and arms, ?, and ankles and legs, tickle, spank, restrain, paddle, punish and whip or flog,” and an item requiring a battery.
You heard me.
No, I’m not kidding.
Yes, just one battery. AA. You do the math.
And unfortunately I have to face the woman, at work, who in every photograph taken that night has a visible button proclaiming, “Fuck me I’m Irish and drunk.” The woman who gave a male stripper a lap dance. The woman who told a large group of women the name and size of her soon-to-be husband’s penis. The woman who explained a fetish device to a group of women. The woman who jerked off a piñata. And I’m embarrassed about the Church Lady bringing me food because everyone in the office knows I’m having financial and medical problems? I mean, c’mon, what sort of messed up society is this where everyone knows everyone’s business, right down to their 401K balance and sexual fetish? I have to work with this woman! Every day. I have to face her, deal with her and pretend everything’s normal. I mean, everything is normal. She keeps coming to work and behaving usual, she even emailed me photos of the party. Her in her hooker outfit and penis jewelry feeling up a greasy male stripper. And I’m supposed to respect her and deal with her on a professional level? I mean, um. You know, in time, I suppose, I’ll get past this. But. Until then I’m thinking of moving to one of those Amish colonies in Indiana.
3:27 PM
