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/.
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
Saturday, January 21, 2006
No Bill Murray in my dreams last night. I had some dreams but they're kind of hazy and just a lot of swirly colors and some cartoon dialog balloons but I couldn't quite make out what they said. Just my luck, my inner psyche spells out a message in a format even a child could understand and I can't quite get close enough to read it. Which is a complete joke in the bigger picture because I woke up feeling frustrated that I couldn't read the cartoon dialog balloons. Seriously, this stress and turmoil dreams are causing me has to stop. It was easier to have a sleeping problem. Yes. I am re-evaluating the sleep medication situation. So far the cure is worse than the cause. The whole point was to achieve 8 hours of sleep a night so that I'm rested and able to physically heal and deal with my every day stress better. So far: Not happening.
And the whole more sleep = sharper mind thing? Yeah. Not happening, either.
I have a tight budget. I can't afford most of the usual girl maintenance items and services. I either do without, do very seldom or do it myself. I'm not saying I'm good at a lot of these things, or that the results are as good as if I paid someone, an actual trained professional, to do it, but you know, in some cases it's better than not doing it at all.
Guys, you might want to go have a beer or watch ESPN. This is a girly post.
Let's talk in home waxing, shall we? Oh yes, let's.
There are two kinds of women: Those who can wax themselves and those who cannot. I'm talking legs here, just to be very clear. I've heard stories, folklore, urban legends I presume, of women who wax themselves other places, delicate places, sensitive places, places where waxing, even under anesthesia, the pain is likened to childbirth. I don't personally know any women who have attempted to do this to themselves. And I know some pretty tough women. One of my friends delivered a 12 pound baby. Naturally. No pain medication. She left hospital in less than 24 hours and was grocery shopping two days after birthing said 12 pound baby. She's of Eastern European descent. At times she would remind you of Natasha, of Boris and Natasha fame. She deliver big baby no problem. (flexing a forcep with a bicep) She do this herself. Doctors. Hospitals. She spits on their wimpy modern ways. It is only childbirth. It is nothing. Right. She's tough. But waxing down there turns her into a blubbering pile of tears begging for mercy. Even she would never consider "doing it herself."
Legs, though, I mean, that's different. It's not pleasant but it's not horrible. I prefer to have someone else do it for me, but I have done it myself. Hey. Leg waxings start at $60 for half leg in this town. (girls, don't you love the visual of the guys who didn't go for the beer or ESPN who are still reading this? Sitting there all confused, "Half a leg? Huh? What's she talking about? They charge fractionally? Who would only want half a leg waxed? Is that in case you can't take the pain and can't continue?") $60 is way out of my realm of reasonable maintenance fee, especially considering I can and do shave them. Especially since it doesn't last that long for me. Well, for anyone. Hair grows constantly. It never stops. But now and then it's a real treat to get every hair ripped out by the follicle and start with a fresh hair free canvas of flesh. I treat myself to this torture once or sometimes twice a year at max. The rest of the time it's the razor's edge or, sometimes, an in home wax job.
I decided to have an in home spa night. I closed the blinds, put on continuous Bryan Ferry, the entire catalog, lit a bazillion candles, chilled a bottle of champagne and a dish of raspberries, warmed a bunch of towels and my bathrobe and slipped into a warm bubble bath. I applied a deep hydrating hair conditioner and moisture mask on my face. You know, girl Heaven on Earth at home. I luxuriated there smugly thinking of how good I felt and how little money I spent, and how really, this is so much better than going to a spa because I'm in the comfort of my own home with my own music and my cat.
The jar of wax was looming ominously on the vanity. That was going to be the least fun part of the day. So I stuck to my plan to get it over right away. Out of the bath, off to the microwave.
Let's pause for a moment to reflect on some of the really idiotic things I've done in my life. Particularly the idiotic things I've done in the name of vanity. Yes. I have a history of this.
1. Slathering the family cat with my mother's special face cream, the one in the fancy jar she only used when she was going out on a date with my father. Insanely stupid. Okay, I was trying to beautify the cat and not myself, but I was three and I didn't realize I could beautify myself. Plus I loved that cat and he seemed to like the the cream rubbed into his fur. I was really confused and upset when his rejuvenating treatment resulted in a) a trip to vet for the cat and b) punishment of a week of early bed time with no story for me.
2. Trying to be like my older siblings by dying my very long dark auburn hair blonde with hydrogen peroxide: Well, I mean, that's just lunacy beyond compare. But I was only five at the time so slack can be cut for both the stupidity and desperation of wanting to look like my siblings. How about some props for knowing peroxide would lighten my hair? No? Yes I know it was really a pathetic cry for help, but I got in a lot of trouble for that bit of stupidity. I also got my first professional dye job and a pixie hair cut because of that bout of idiotic home beautifying.
3) Using semi-permanent markers to apply "lipstick," "eye liner," "eye shadow," and "blush." The night before family portrait day. Have you ever seen Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? You know Truly Scrumptious? Imagine if she had a child with Raggedy Andy. Yeah, that's pretty much the look I achieved. Which I thought was pretty darned cool. I honestly thought my family would be really pleased with my transformation for the event of permanent historic photographic archive of our family. I was wrong. I was an idiot. I got in a lot of trouble for that one. My sister made a special visit home from college for the photo, my mother had hair appointments set for her and my sister, my dad and brother had new suits, my mother, sister and I had coordinating (but not matching) dresses, and there I was: Raggedy Scrumptious. Let's just say photo retouching in the days before PhotoShop was a a true art form. Somewhere out there is a photo retoucher who performed a Michelangelo-esque miracle. Nonethesless, I was grounded for two weeks over that little in home makeover. And I lost my marker privileges for a month. And I seem to recall having to write a five page essay on the importance of obeying one's parents including the physical and financial ramifications of disobedience. But that might have been for another non vanity related incident. My parents were big on incorporating educational exercises with punishment. My brother once had to create a accounting speadsheet when he misappropriated a semester's worth of Scholastic book club money on hockey cards. He also had to use his allowance to make a donation for new books for the library and he had to read and write a book report on the books he was originally supposed to purchase.
4) Stuffing copious amounts of toilet paper between my face and my orthodontic headgear at night to prevent tell-tale lines embossed on my face in the morning. Okay. That's actually not idiotic. If you never had to wear headgear you cannot possibly understand the pain and embarrassment those things cause. I'm sure most kids "stuffed" their headgear or at least padded it. But most kids didn't do this at slumber parties. Slumber parties where cool kids were in attendance. To this day I have no idea why I even took the stupid thing to the slumber party. I mean, my best friend was cool, she'd seen me in it, she didn't care and didn't tease me but the other girls who'd already spent several years making fun of me, were there. I can only assume it's some sadistic death wish, some need to fail which compelled me to not only don my headgear that night after I thought the other girls were asleep, but also "stuff" so I wouldn't have tell-tale embossed lines in the morning. Julie. Swutting Julie. Always Julie. Let out a huge laugh and an "OMG, look at Trillian!" waking up the other girls who were in fact sleeping. If I could go back to that moment in time I would say what I wanted to say then: "Worried there won't be enough left for you to stuff in your bra in the morning?" Because I know she stuffed her bra for several years. She fell into me in gym class once and they were not real. Nothing cushions that kind of blow like several layers of toilet paper artfully constructed into boobs. Plus, she lived down the street and I'd see her after school, after she'd unstuffed before going home. Flat as a board. But miraculously every morning before first hour she'd emerge from the bathroom with a couple of C's busting out of her blouse. She knew I knew. And she knew I kept quiet about it. And yet she had the nerve to tease me about my orthodontia headgear and home made "cushioning." Bitch. I hated her then and I hate her now. Though I can't blame her entirely for this incident. I could have skipped my headgear one night. Idiotic.
5) Lime green eye shadow. I have no explanation. I was old enough to know better. But it looked really cool at the black light lit school dance. Well. I mean cool for a girl who was trying to deflect attention from her orthodontia. I don't know. Really. I don't know why I thought that was a good idea. Other girls were doing it. It seemed cool at the time. But it wasn't. It was idiotic.
6) Okay. This is potentially the mother of all idiotic ideas I've pursued in the name of vanity. One Summer of my teenaged youth I worked as crew on a sail boat. Our personal "area" was a small cot-like bunk and duffle bag sized storage cubby. When we were docked we were busy working so we didn't always have a chance to do any personal shopping. Consequently it became necessary to share personal hygiene items. Needless to say any form of pampering was out of the question. Brushing teeth was as close to a beauty regime as we got. But it was fun and we were all in the same boat, literally, so no big deal. Until the afternoon before we were going to dock in a town known for it's lively night life AND we were had the night off work. A few of us girls had a little dilemma. Our razors had become quite dull and let's just say the wearing our cute shorts out that night situation looked bleak. We lamented not getting waxed. Then someone who shall remain nameless hit upon a resourceful solution. We had several bottles of Elmer's glue at various repair stations onboard at our disposal. Do I really need to relay any more of this? I think you can connect the dots. And if you're sitting there thinking, "hey, that's not a bad idea..." you're an idiot. Just like I was an idiot. And worse, I took other girls down with me. Oh sure, they're responsible for their decisions, I didn't force them to slather their legs with Elmer's glue. But I pointed out all the seemingly good reasons why Elmer's glue would work like wax, even better because it's water soluble! Again, if you're sitting there thinking, "hey, that's not a bad idea..." you're an idiot. Because it is a very bad idea. For a lot of reasons. Primary among them: The stuff doesn't dry as fast as wax. In fact it dries really slowly when gooped on thick enough to act as a hair follicle pulling adhesive agent. I know somewhere out there someone is still thinking, "hey, that's not a bad idea..." you're an idiot. A complete, total imbecilic moronic idiot.
We'll leave it at that. You get the idea. I'm no stranger to idiotic in-home beauty treatment ideas.
I've graduated from Elmer's (seriously, it's not a good idea) and moved onto hot wax. (Really, Elmer's glue does not work) I'm not saying I enjoy this or do it with any frequency. But, occasionally it comes to pass that I attempt waxing my own legs at home. I have mixed results. Never the salon-like results the box of wax promises, but, on a good day not half bad, either.
You have to be able and willing to hurt yourself. I guess that's a given. But you need to know your threshold for self induced pain. Here's a handy tolerance guide.
If your wardrobe and home decor can best be described as "soft" and/or pink, you are not ready to wax any part of your body with an in-home do it yourself waxing kit.
If you tolerate a coworker who makes loud personal phone calls all day in the office, you are ready to try in home waxing small areas like knees or those fine little unibrow hairs which resist tweezers.
If you wear heels higher than 2.5 inches for more than 8 hours a day more than once a week you are ready to give yourself an in-home do it yourself lower leg waxing.
If you have ever tried an online dating site you are ready to give yourself an in-home do it yourself full leg waxing.
Okay. So. Wax: Check. Microwave: Check. Wooden stick applicator: Check. Entire roll of paper towel: Check. Shot of whiskey and a bullet: Check. Okay, ready to wax.
It's a hot wax treatment. Wax has to get really hot to melt so that it can be applied and then dry while on your body. Once you've done this you've gone to the point of no return. Because once it's on there the only way it's coming off is by peeling the dried wax off yourself. Even if you chicken out and "gently" peel small sections at a time rather than quickly rip full length sections, it's going to hurt. If give yourself third degree burns while applying the hot wax to your naked flesh there's only one way to administer first aid: The wax has got to come off first. And if you've burned yourself you're going to part with more than hair when you rip off that wax.
I haven't burned myself while waxing for a long time. I've learned a thing or two about the molecular properties of wax. I've grown as a person and as an in-home do it yourself waxer.
So when I burned myself on my in-home spa night I was surprised and angry with myself. This was to be my night, my little oasis night. My pathetic attempt at pampering myself because I can't afford to have these services performed at a spa or salon by trained professionals.
The wax was not the only thing having a meltdown.
My attempts at creating a tranquil spa like atmosphere at home, which I was pretty darned proud of prior to the burning, suddenly looked exactly like what they were: Stupid, pathetic attempts to disguise my tiny apartment into a peaceful chamber of pampering delights. A ridiculous notion girl magazines and manufacturers of in home beauty treatment products would have you believe can really happen. It can't. Even with a good cheap champagne buzz going, the fact is that it's still your home. In my case a very small apartment. Which I've lived in for a year. Which absolutely amazes me. Where'd that year go? Seriously, how can a year have passed already? Which depresses me because time is passing really quickly and all I'm doing it wasting it or at least not doing something life changing with it. I'm busy, it's not that I'm sitting around doing nothing. But. I'm not where I want to be in life which means I'm not doing the right things with my time or something like that.
This itty bitty apartment that I've feebly tried to transform into a serene zone of calm and self indulgence is proof positive that I am far, far away from where I thought I'd be in my life and where I want to be in my life.
Yes. It was a major meltdown.
If I had a better job I'd have more money and I could afford to go to a salon like normal women and pay to have my legs waxed. Or, as my friend pointed out, laser hair removal really is the best way to go. They charge by the square inch and it takes at least a couple of repeat sessions. I'm 5'11". A lot of that is my legs. You do the math. Oh sure, it's permanent and I'm a good candidate for success, but, um, as I explained to my friend, I can't afford to get my legs waxed. How am I supposed to afford the thousands of dollars it would cost to have laser hair removal? Yeah. Just one little detail she forgot. I don't actually have a husband bringing another income into the household expenses and therefore I do not have extra money. And I don't actually earn enough money to manage more than the basics of shelter, cat food and the occasional pair of sale shoes.
If I had a husband there'd be another income in the household kitty. (I assume my husband would work and bring in an income. He'd have to because there's no way two people could live on my salary. Or in my apartment now that I think of it.) He'd have extra money to do his stuff and I'd have extra money to do my stuff. Yes. It does come down to economics. I thought you knew that about me. I'm so far past the concept of romance and love that I don't even think about it anymore. Marriage is strictly a good economic decision.
I've had several men who agree with my outlook. Men with similar pasts as mine. So far, however, the men I've met who want to have this outlook are in fact, underneath it, still holding out hope for romance and love. Which amazes me. I really thought men, of all people, would be a lot more pragmatic about relationships than women. The guys I've met who were attracted to my profile stating my "no love please, just a financial partner" thought the idea sounded good. Most understand my attitude. They felt they should take that attitude, too. But, even if they aspire to it, they harbor romantic notions. Not necessarily toward me, but in general. Or, they assume because I'm not looking for love and romance I'm good for quick and easy no strings attached sex.
One guy, who I admire for his honesty, wrote that he completely agreed with my goal. He said he'd been in a long relationship that soured badly. He was jaded by love, too, and held out no hope or longing for love and romance. But the financial and sexual benefits of marriage were appealing to him. "When I reduce it to the basic components, I just want money and sex," he said, not grossly, but in a matter of fact, pragmatic, somewhat cynical tone. "I could candy coat it a lot of ways, but when when you remove love from the list money and sex are what's left." Too much candor? Not for me. I understand what he means. Having your romantic feelings and love ripped out, twisted, kicked around and left for dead permanently changes your outlook. I tried to think I could run damage control, love someone else, all that Lifetime network movie crap, but I can't. And I reached a point where that doesn't bother me. I don't care. It doesn't matter. I gave it my all, my best shots and I failed. Apparently I suck at loving or loving too much or just not being the woman men want to marry for romantic reasons. Okay. That hurts. But. What do I do now? I tried to change, I tried to find someone new, I tried not trying anything...and still: Nothing.
This was the abbreviated content of my wax burned leg meltdown.
I read the instruction and caution sheet that came with the wax. Nowhere on there does it tell you what to do if you burn yourself. Nowhere on there does it caution you that use of the product may cause a serious mental breakdown. I think they assume their market niche, women who are reduced to in-home waxing, are either poor or cheap and therefore they can expect some pain and suffering to result from use of the product.
In-home wax is not like in-home highlight kits. In-home highlighting kits, while also used by the poor and cheap segment of the female population, have a much wider appeal. All of us over the age of 17 know in-home highlighting kits are going to produce low quality results. Some women, on a Sunday afternoon whim, are willing to take that risk. After all, it's cheap and easy and if it does turn out badly the only pain involved is paying for a trip to the salon for color correction and enduring the embarrassment of having to admit to a stylist you were stupid enough to use an in-home highlighting kit.
But when in-home waxing goes wrong, it goes wrong in a big, painful way. I find physical pain often brings on emotional pain. Yes. Emotions. Which I've been really good at suppressing. The Angry Christmas Present went well. I won't say I enjoyed getting mad, but, there were a few incidents in which my allowing myself to be angry really felt good.
So in my physical pain, there on the floor, a bed of paper towels beneath me, flesh burning and pulsing from the hot wax, I got really angry at myself for making such a disaster of my life that it would come to this. "This" was me, sitting on paper towels on the floor of a really small apartment drinking a $3.99 bottle of champagne and waxing my legs with a do it yourself waxing kit target marketed at poor or cheap women. Even Bryan Ferry couldn't put that disaster back on track.
And just when you think it can't possibly get any worse...naturally it does.
My apartment is small. I may have mentioned that. Miniscule is the more appropriate term. I live with a cat. A very furry cat. So furry he's called the Furry Creature. He's also large. Not particularly chubby, but long and tall. The long, tall very Furry Creature apparently sensed my distress and came to comfort me. Because that's what furry creatures do. We feed them and give them a safe home and care about them to an almost irrational degree. They, in turn, offer support in the form of snuggles, purrs or just generally laying on us when we're upset. Furry creatures don't understand in-home waxing. They don't understand the need or desire to remove hair. They don't understand that leaning against a leg with wax on it will result in the removal of fur from the furry creature.
Yes. We got a two-for-one deal with that in-home waxing kit. I said, "Oh, Furry Creature, no no, that's not a good idea. I know you want to comfort me but not there..." too late. I tried to quickly pull my leg away from him. I could feel some of his fur coming with me so I stopped moving. But he, confused and hurt by the sensation of losing some fur, quickly pulled away from me. And left quite a bit of fur behind on the still molten wax on my leg. Fortunately he's really furry and once he allowed me to touch him we were able to brush and pouf up his fur so that you can hardly notice the five inch strip of missing fur down his left side.
No. Nowhere on the instruction and caution sheet that came with the wax does it tell you what to do if you burn yourself and accidentally remove fur from your pet. This is where their market research on their market niche, women who are reduced to in-home waxing who are either poor or cheap, failed them. Their market niche, women who are reduced to in-home waxing who are either poor or cheap are probably also single and living alone with a pet.
You probably know or assume that in spite of my no emotion stance, I really love my cat. A lot. You probably know or assume that we've been through a lot together. You probably know or assume he's my sole source of daily affection. You probably know or assume that I spoil and pamper him beyond all point of reason. But what you may not know or assume is that he has standing vet appointments.
And, in my true idiot format, my timing on this was impeccable. Furry Creature had a standing vet appointment the next day. So I had to take him to the vet with a five inch strip of missing fur. Try explaining that without sounding like you're trying to cover up some sinister abuse. I thoroughly expect the ASPCA to show up at my door any minute.
More sleep = sharper mind? Not in my case. More sleep = less physical pain? Not in my case. Maybe if I had a sharper mind I wouldn't do idiotic things which cause me physical pain. But so far even with 6 - 8 hours of sleep at night I'm still idiotic and in pain.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006 Why Can't We Be Friends? Last night Bill Murray and I went shopping. I helped him decide on a suit and some shoes. He bought me a pair of shoes he said "should do the trick." I said, "or at least turn a few tricks." This was kind of big because it's the first time I recall actual dialog from a dream and it was kind of funny. But he was still mopey and down because he'd been turned down for a role he really wanted. He was taking it well. I mean, better than most people in his position would take rejection. Then we were walking on a beach in Winter. It might have been Lake Michigan because there was snow and ice and it was cold. He was wearing a parka. Not a cool new fly parka, but a parka from like 1978. I was in my pajamas and socks. We were walking my stuffed poodle. He was saying there were only so many Life Aquatics and Broken Flowers out there and the audience is limited and they don't bring in money and artistic integrity is lost on the bottom line.
I hear you brother, oh boy do I hear you. In fact I probably put those words in your mouth.
I woke up feeling really depressed about the state and future of society.
These Bill Murray dreams are making me think about some things. Mainly depressing and stressful things.
We seem to be really great pals in these dreams. Which is cool. Being pals with a guy like Bill Murray, or even the actual Bill Murray is cool. He seems nice. Sincere. All that stuff us chicks dig. He's depressing and mopey and a perpetual downer in my dreams, but hey, what are friends for if not to ease the pain of bad times?
It’s not surprising to me that Bill and I are buddies in my dreams. I’m buddies with a lot of guys. In fact some of my best friends are guys.
I’m at that awkward phase in a spinster’s life when all her female friends are very, very occupied with babies and young children. If they don’t yet have them, they are consumed with trying to have them or making plans to have them.
Right now I don’t have much in common with my girl friends. Because my girlfriends are all married or in serious relationships. Most of them have babies and/or young children. Those who do not yet have children are absolutely consumed with having children. Buying bigger houses to accommodate the babies they want to have. Spending all their spare time in with their partner in the pursuit of making a child.
Great for them, bad for me. I don’t exactly fit in with any of that. I serve no purpose in their lives except to remind them how lucky they are they are no longer single. It’s awkward for all of us. And as for the friends who’ve had children, I dare you to try to hold an actual conversation for more than 90 seconds with a mother of a two year old. And if by some rare miracle you are able to have an interruption-free conversation with that two year old’s mother, the topic of conversation will inevitably turn to the two year old. Children consume women. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. My friends are just being good mothers. Bad friends but good mothers. Well. That’s not really fair. We just have very little in common right now.
So for single women in that phase of life, that all her friends are getting married and having babies phase of life, she either stays in, does stuff on her own, or cultivates friendships with single men.
I’m lucky. I already have guy friends. A lot of them. So I’ve never been at a loss for friends. Oh sure, they’re not girl friends, and yes, there’s a huge difference, but they’re good friends and that’s cool. I’m lucky. Really lucky. I’ve always had guy friends. Having guy friends has never been a problem for me. Guys like me in the just friends capacity.
I'm the girl who they can really talk to, you know? I'm the girl who can fix their iPod and not make them feel stupid for not knowing how to do it themselves. I'm the girl who can not only give them solid advice on what camera/shoes/wine/appliance to buy, but where they can get the best deal. I'm the girl who makes them laugh. I'm the girl they call when a date "goes weird" and they need advice. And reassures them that the girl is indeed interested in them or a complete wacko as the situation requires. Yes I'm the girl who listens to their problems with other women. I'm the girl who they never, ever, not in a zillion years would ever consider dating. Because "it's not like that" with me. I'm just a friend. And when they say this, other people know they're not lying. Because it's obvious he would never, ever, not in a zillion years be interested in me "that" way.
Yes. I am that smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women men say they want. But in actuality they want a pretty girl who's easy to get into bed and doesn't give them any lip or complications. They want to be friends with smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women, but they don't really want to date one.
That's the problem with smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women. When we open our mouths we tend to complicate things. We raise points and issues which haven't occurred to him. We make him think about something other than himself and sex. If he doesn't want to look like an idiot in front of us he has to think sharp. And he soon realizes he has to tell the truth because any smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women worth her description will see right through a lie and kick his sorry lying ass to the back alley where it belongs, or we'll toy with him by using our virtue, that nice thing, forgiving him while gently but firmly making him aware that we know he lied.
Men say they want us, but they don't.
They want to be friends with us, we can be very helpful and a lot of fun. But they don’t want to date us.
There are tons of us out here, us smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women. We're single and trying to find a smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring man. And this is what leads me to believe men a) lie, and b) have an entire double helix of hypocriticism.
I am that above described girl. I have lots of guy friends. I am often the lone woman with whom their wives/girlfriends are not jealous. They'll let him go away on entire weekend road trips with us because they know there would never be anything going on between us. Because even though I'm a great pal to their man, they know even if their man had a lapse of judgment or too much beer I, the shining beacon of virtue, would not allow anything to happen out of respect for their wife/girlfriend and the friendship. Yes. Their wives/girlfriends rely on us to keep their men faithful. If you think this sounds crazy, guess again.
I recently had a discussion with some other single smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women. We were sharing tales of our shared problem of always being the buddy and never the girlfriend. Why? we pondered, if we're not good enough for them to date us, why would they even want to be friends with us? Even if they just really like us as friends (and really, who could resist?) why would they be okay with continually hurting us by making remarks like, "Date her? Are you kidding? We're just friends." That's not a friendly thing to say. It's an incredulous and loaded statement implying we're not good enough for them to date. And yet we're good enough for them to call us in the middle of the night when they can't figure out how to merge two spreadsheets or load iTunes or select wine. And yes, that's what friends are for, of course. And we're good friends and so we help them and don't get hurt when they make comments implying we're just one notch above algae on the datable scale. We do this because we are good friends and gracious people. And after all, we're smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women. Stuff like that doesn't get to us. We understand. We care about him and his crisis of the moment. We don't mind helping him. That’s what friends do.
Yeah. Right. We don't mind.
Actually, we really don't mind if these remarks are coming from a guy we ourselves in fact would never, ever, not in a zillion years consider dating.
But that issue rarely gets any mention. It's rarely a case of people assuming we're not interested in him. If the question of the nature of a relationship between a man and a woman arises, it will almost without fail first be presumed they are "just friends" because the man is not interested in her "that" way. Apart from what you might see on Elimidate, ladies' choice is of little concern when assumptions about the nature of a relationship are being made.
I know, I know, there are cases where this happens. I know. But think about the people you know or even complete strangers you see when you’re out and about. What assumptions have you made when you realize they’re just friends?
I'm not saying I begrudge my guy friends. I like them. I really like them. And I know they like me. These are solid friendships with people I genuinely like.
But then there are the other guy friends. The ones which began as dates or crushes but went nowhere "that" way. We faced a choice: Be friends or part ways.
I used to think it was great to salvage these things with a friendship.
I'm changing that point of view.
I thought it was just me who felt bittersweet about these relationships. He's great, he thinks I'm great, we really understand each other, we get along really well, tell each other inner thoughts and secrets...wait a minute. That's exactly what I'm looking for in a relationship. So why am I spending time with this guy who likes me but doesn't deem me worthy in "that" way? Why am I letting myself get unintentionally hurt every time he has another new girlfriend who is absolutely not smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, and caring? Why do I make a quick witted one liner and smile like I mean it when he says, "I want to meet someone like you, you know? I want her to be my best friend."
While I’m sitting there smiling like I mean it, I’m thinking, “Erm, um, okay, that would be really great and I hope you find her because you're my friend and I want you to be happy, but could you please explain what you see happening to our friendship when you find this girl who's just like me but datable? And by the way, do you realize how insulting and hurtful it is for you to sit there and tell me you want to date someone just like me who’s not me? The assumption being that I’m not your version of a sex goddess and therefore not datable? Come on, I better than anyone know what you like. I’ve nursed you through two Fatal Attraction-esque break ups. Don’t try to kid me and don’t insult me or my intelligence.”
One of the smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women in the discussion was feeling particularly down about this exact situation because her best friend, a guy, effectively dumped her for his new girlfriend who is, well, just like her. He hasn't called her for two months. He sent her a form blast email holiday greeting. They used to do everything together. Let me be clear: They weren’t dating, they never dated, and neither one of them was harboring deeper feelings for the other. And she realizes they can't do everything together now that he's got a girlfriend, she's smart, remember? But he's dropped her completely. Dumped her. Except they weren't dating. They were just friends. Well. Just best friends. And now she's feeling not only hurt by her best friend's callous and unthoughtful behavior, but, because he's a guy, she's feeling that she was merely filler until his next great girlfriend came along. She’s questioning their entire friendship. And yes, that’s a girl thing to do, but still. This guy’s behavior toward his alleged best friend is deplorable. Maybe guys are okay with their guy friends pulling this kind of crap, but that doesn’t make it okay. It’s still rude and hurtful behavior.
Which is why I'm changing my outlook on boy-girl friendships. Unless both parties can and do simultaneously date while maintaining the friendship, it's not a good idea. Even if the honest intentions were good, someone's going to end up feeling like filler.
And apparently more often than not it's a smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman.
I'm feeling a little better about things after this discussion. I thought that kind of crap only happened to me. Ugly girls learn to expect this sort of thing. We understand it’s all about sex and having sex with a prettier girl. But these women are all very attractive. These are not Velmas. These are Daphnes with Velma’s brain. So no, their looks have nothing to do with it. And I find that somewhat comforting. I don’t usually like being a statistic or trend, but in this case it makes me feel a little better about myself. It doesn't make it right, but it helps me realize I'm not alone. Other smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women are plagued by the "just friends" thing.
A few went away from that discussion vowing to never enter into another friendship with a man. "He dates me or not. Period. If not, I move onto the next one never looking back."
If you're sitting there saying, "Oh, but they'll miss out on such wonderful friendships." I have two words for you: Bull shit.
This isn't grammar school and we're not in our twilight years. We have friends. Lots of friends. Good friends. Friends who've been with us and stood beside us through thick and thin. We really do not need more "guy friends" who will be interested in us only until their next girlfriend enters the picture or until they realize we in fact mean it when we say no friendly no strings attached sex, or even unfriendly sex.
So this whole Bill Murray pal thing doesn’t seem particularly out of place in my life. That’s the thing about these dreams: Apart from Bill’s mopey demeanor they’re normal. Friends, hanging out, no implications. And in the case of Billy Murray that’s cool. Because I don’t think of him that way. So there’s a huge comfort level in these dreams where we’re friends. Maybe that’s why he’s depressed and sad - he trusts me and knows he doesn’t have to put on a front for me. He doesn’t have to smile like he means it around me because he knows I understand and care about him. Yeah. I’m swell. Even in my dreams. What a gal. What a pal. Yep. That’s me. Swell person, great friend but you wouldn’t want to date me.
On the friendly theme, remember the aging Iron Maiden Fan? The smoking rock and roll guy with a rap sheet? Well, I did it. I went out with him.
That’s how low I’ll go. I went out with a guy I know is completely wrong for me, and worse, I know I’m completely wrong for him.
It became obvious on the date. The thing is, this guy is nice. He’s honest. He’s sincere. There’s no hidden agenda and he’s truly a nice person. He has terrific manners and is very respectful. He wouldn’t smoke around me even though I know a couple of times he really wanted a cigarette. I’m sure he noticed the two very attractive women who entered the bar, but he didn’t ogle them or even give them a glance. He focused on me, his date for the evening. (This is the first date I’ve been on during 50 First Dates where the guy didn’t at least once scan the room obviously checking out the “scene” and other women to hit on when our date ended. Yes guys, I know you do this. I know this because sometimes I do it, too.)
He asked me a lot of questions about me because he was genuinely interested in getting to know me. We both had to explain a lot about ourselves because we come from very, very, very different types of lives. The more we learned about each other, the more obvious it became that this is just never in a million years going to work.
And it’s too bad. Because most of our core values and what we want in a mate and relationship are exactly the same. But in our case it’s just not enough. He doesn’t understand why I would stay at a job I don’t like. That’s what he does. He’s quit several jobs. To say his resumé of work experience is a colorful and rich tapestry is an understatement. Well. More like a crazy patchwork quilt. He’s working right now, but only to save money so he can quit and spend time working on his bike when the weather turns warmer. He’s staying with a friend and as long as he pitches in for booze and smokes he’s welcome to stay there. Apparently his friend’s old lady is cool and doesn’t mind him hanging around.
Yes. The man is technically homeless. Which is why he has the luxury of being able to just quit a job. It’s not that he’s irresponsible, he had a place with his ex old lady and since she had kids and they were in school, when they broke up he thought it would be best for him to move. It would be less disruptive for the kids. Even though it meant he’d be homeless or at least at the mercy of friends and relatives until he got back on his feet and finds a place he can afford. Yes. The guy is very thoughtful and nice.
He wanted to know what I like to do for fun. I told him the basics and said I was into photography. He thought that was cool. He knows a guy in New Mexico who takes pitchers and sells them to tourists. It wasn’t until he mentioned this guy has his own darkroom that I realized he’s taking photographs, not stealing Native American Pueblo earthenware artifacts and selling them to tourists. Pitchers. Pictures. Photographs. I could relay the actual conversation which smacks of Who’s on First, but I don’t want to embarrass either one of us. I respect him. He is sincerely interested in what interests me. He’s interested in his friends. He’s a good friend. He’s hoping to ride out to see his photographer friend in New Mexico this Summer. He said he’d bring me a pitcher. He’s thoughtful. He asked me about my cat. I tried not to be too enthusiastic about Furry Creature's many fine qualities because that’s a huge turn off for men. For some reason men hate women who love cats. (I know the reasons, guys, don’t bother to explain. That’s sarcasm there.) He asked me more questions about my cat. He likes cats. He thinks they’re cool. He likes that I like cats. He wanted to know if I had a pitcher of my cat. I did. (natch) And showed it to him. He pointed out several small details which only someone who really likes cats and/or cares about me and/or is polite would notice. He offered to help me take him to the vet. He’s got a little trailer for his Harley. He thinks Furry Creature’s carrier would fit on it. Before I could say anything he said, “But the noise from the bike would probably scare him. That’s probably not a good idea. He doesn’t need that kind of stress.” He’s helpful and considerate.
But we both know we live in very different and incompatible worlds. He smokes. Cigarettes and weed. I don’t smoke anything and I don’t like being around people who do. He understands and respects this. I have a busy and demanding job and spend a lot of time in the office. I get up early, stay late. He sleeps in and works second shift. He’s not big on movies or museums or reading or well, anything that I do when I’m not working. I’m not big on motorcycles or in home tool and die shops. We could work around these things if we were head over heels with each other but we’re not.
So yeah. Back to the dating sites. Apparently a lot of men made new year’s resolutions to get out there and insult, I mean date women.
This week's creep of the week is a guy who on his profile claims to want an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman with a graduate or doctoral degree. Hey, he’s not fooling around with that intelligent thing.
Apparently he thinks I might be one such woman. But apparently he's not certain. Because here's the email he wrote,
"I don't understand your profile. It's really wierd [sic]. It must be a joke one, right? Men don't like wierd [sic] women but I like you'r [sic] smile so I'm willing to take a chance that your[sic] funny."
Erm. Okay. Well. Um. Gee, thanks.
Just to be certain everything was okay with my profile I looked at it. Okay. I’m willing to admit I’m weird by some standards. But. This was my more “normal” profile. I don’t think most people, or at least people who want to meet an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women, would judge me “weird” by this profile. If anything, I think I come across as boring on this profile.
But maybe not. GoCubbies thinks it’s weird. Lucky for me he’s willing to take a chance with me because he likes my smile. Whew. Those four years of orthodontia finally paid off for me. Wavy imagination sequence to me on my wedding day, GoCubbies at my side, me addressing the guests at our wedding, “And I’d like to thank my orthodontist for making this all possible. Without him, GoCubbies wouldn’t have liked my smile and wouldn’t have given me a chance because I’m weird. Thank you orthodontist, thank you. I owe you so much. You told me all the pain and suffering and teasing would be worth it and you were so right. Because of you I’m now Mrs. GoCubbies.”
His profile is sparse, but what’s there is the normal cliché stuff. Looking for an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman. Moonlit beach walks, romantic dinners, jeans or tux, Cubs season ticket holder. Looking for soul mate or at least a Cubs fan. Blah blah blah.
But when he came profile to profile with an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman what does he do? Insult her and compliment her only on a physical characteristic he found attractive. So much for the advanced university education and all that intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman stuff.
He’s normal. Normal’s good, right? I need more normal in my life. Obviously GoCubbies thinks I’m weird I should re-evaluate and evolve. Change to fit the mold men actually want. You know, normal. Forget all that intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring stuff. That’s only what men say they want. Some of them even honestly believe that’s what they want. But they don’t. Not really. Not in actuality. They like the idea of an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman, but when they’re staring one in the face as a potential date it turns out what they meant by an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman was a normal, mediocre, subservient woman who only laughs at his lame jokes and is thoughtful enough to sit through an entire season at Wrigley field with him. They don’t want her smarter than themselves because that’s intimidating and threatening and a huge blow to his ego. What they really want is a complacent, kow towing girl who’s pretty and easy to get into bed. I’m thinking GoCubbies, who’s willing to take a chance with me because of my smile might be just the guy to help me become normal. Help me be less intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, and caring and more vapid, insecure, dim witted, callous, rude liar who laughs at all his lame jokes, makes him feel superior and puts out on the first date.
Okay, fine, I finally tried taking the prescriptions my doctor gave me last Fall after the accident. I have a history, a lifetime history, of, um, well, a sleep problem. The problem is that I don't sleep. Because I can't sleep. Because I have difficulty shutting off my mind, relaxing enough to sleep.
The pain and the health problems and the regular stress in my life culminated in some issues. I wasn't healing as quickly as I should. My doctor theorized that my lack of sleep, real rest, was an issue.
And so it came to be that I was legally prescribed that oh so exotic and celebrity endorsed mix of pain and sleeping pills. Erm, "medication." Now. I have just as much of a rock star fantasy as the next person.
I have this thing about not wanting to take medication unless I am sick and really need it. Pain, sleeplessness...those are not exactly desperately ill and in need of medication issues.
I'm much more of a deal with the cause rather than treat the symptom kind of person. Sleep aids and pain medication masks the symptoms but does nothing to resolve the issue. This is just how I feel about myself and my body. Other people can take whatever medication they want for whatever reason they want. If it works for them, great, I'm happy for them. This is just my outlook in regard to my own body and personality.
But this sleeplessness thing is causing problems. Physical problems. I mean, it has caused problems in the past. A lot of problems, actually. I wish I could just go to sleep. I envy people who just, well, sleep. I have no recollection of ever sleeping 8 hours straight. Apart from a few times when I was sick. Once I had pneumonia and I lost three days of my life. I semi-remember waking up a few times, but not clearly. So I suppose, yes, since I know I lost three days of my life I can recollect sleeping a solid 8 hours when I had pneumonia. But generally I feel proud if I get four solid hours. That's an achievement for me. A huge deal. My nightly routine is usually more like an hour. Wake up, stay awake for an hour and a half, sleep for another hour or two, wake up, stay awake for an hour, sleep for 45 minutes, wake up, get up, begin the day. Basically I take a few naps during the night hours.
Anyway. This has been going on for well, hmmmm, yeah, well, all of my life.
So I never gave much thought to how it effects my health. I mean, I knew it wasn't healthy and I try really hard to get more sleep, but I never thought about it impeding say, recovery from an illness or injury.
So I gave in and tried sleeping "medication" And sometimes when I'm in a lot of pain I break down and take pain "medication." Which also helps me sleep. Interesting how much easier it is to sleep when I'm not in pain.
And you know what? I've been sleeping for 6 - 7 hours straight. Which is really cool. I am so proud of myself about this. This is the first time I've felt normal in some aspect of my life in, well, ever. Those of you who sleep 8 hours a night cannot understand. You have no idea what it's like to not be able to sleep. You have no idea how long nights are when you cannot sleep. Every night.
But, apparently like everything else in my life, there's a catch. Sleep for more than an hour at a time and guess what happens? Dreams. That's what happens. Vivid, long dreams. Dreaming should either be pleasant or terrifying. That's my opinion. If you're going to dream, dream big. Escape reality to a really happy place, or face your issues with big terrifying manifestations. Otherwise they're just idle daydreams you're having while you sleep. If you're going to give your subconscious 8 hours of free rein to think about whatever it wants, it might as well really let go and pull out all the stops.
Even though I don't often sleep for more than a few hours at a time, I've had some really, really scary nightmares. One recurring nightmare, the same exact waking up in horrified gasping panic nightmare since I was a kid. That's one of the reasons I don't sleep much. If I sleep long enough and hard enough to have a dream, sooner or later I drift into The Nightmare and I wake up and can't go back to sleep.
Paging Dr. Freud, Dr. Freud, you're needed on the third floor...
Right. So. Sleeping and pain pills. Me and Keith Richards. What's next? Maybe I'll start dating 14-year-olds.
But based on the dreams I've been having since I started sleeping, it doesn't appear that I'll be letting loose my inner rock star any time soon.
Because instead of salacious wild orgy filled pleasant dreams or face your demons scary monster nightmares, I keep dreaming about Bill Murray. Yes. Saturday Night Live, Scrooged, Ghostbusters, Caddyshack Bill Murray. Except he's more of the Lost in Translation, Razor's Edge Bill Murray in my dreams. Not very funny, quite tragic, and mainly woeful.
I have nothing against Bill Murray, in fact I quite like a lot of his movies. I have always thought him to be one of America's more talented entertainers. I was given some tapes of early Saturday Night Live and find I laugh the hardest at the sketches in which he appears. I'm more fond of some of his recent film work. I really enjoyed his performance in Lost in Translation. I even broke my rule about not caring about the Academy Awards and thought he should win. The Academy is stupid and overrated anyway.
The Life Aquatic was great, you know, really great. I think a lot of people just didn't get the depth he brought to the role. People don't get subtlety. A lot of people (especially the men I've met lately) have short attention spans and don't like to have to think. They're probably more into Caddyshack. Don't get me wrong, Caddyshack makes me laugh, too. But it's too bad people don't recognize he's grown and evolved. Broken Flowers. Yes. I'm one of of the 143 people who saw that movie at the theatre and I really liked it. I sat there thinking, "Bill Murray's great! Why don't people recognize how great he is?"
So yes, I guess, thinking about it, I am a fan. Not a fanatic fan. Just a person who appreciates his talent and enjoys his work. Funny, I never thought about that until now.
Let me be clear on that point: As much as I enjoy his performances on screen and television I'm not obsessed with him or his life or really anything about him at all. I'm sure he's swell. He seems swell. Here in Chicago people say good things about him. But I just don't care about him apart from how he entertains me onscreen. Not that I wish bad things for him or that I wouldn't care if he was suddenly gone. I would care. I would miss him. I mean, I would miss his performances. I would miss his talent and the way he makes me laugh. But it wouldn't be a personal tragedy for me. Sorry, Bill, but, I'd get over it.
If I were a betting woman, I'd put all my money on celebrity dreams on someone like Pierce Brosnan or John Depp or the Keno brothers or even someone like Tom Baker to have recurring roles in my subconscious escapades.
Bill Murray makes nightly visits to my internal entertainment module.
And no. They're not "those" kinds of dreams. Just dreams. And he's in them. And they all have to do with him and a continuing litany of bad things happening in his life. In most of these dreams we seem to be pals. Frequently there are other people around, often a woman I presume to be his wife. (I don't even know or care if he's married in "real" life. I mean, you know, I guess I care if he's married because being married is a thing normal successful people are and I guess I hope he's normal and successful, but I don't really care in the sense that it makes no difference to me or the way I feel about him as an entertainer.) Anyway, these dreams are all on the up and up, no hanky panky.
The few hours of sleep a night I get are sacred to me. And it's not that these are nightmares. But, he's kind of a downer in these dreams. And I'm generally a caring person, particularly where my friends are concerned, so in these dreams where we're pals and he's having problems I end up worrying about him. And I wake up feeling tense and stressed out over the anxiety I feel during these dreams.
I'm truly sorry if he's experiencing difficulty in his life. I'm sure it's not easy having people expecting him to always be funny or clever or wanting him to do the lounge singer guy. People are kind of stupid when it comes to expectations. (Further case for removing all expectation from life.) But I really need stress free sleep. I have a lot of stressful situations in my own real life. My real family and friends have problems which cause me concern for them and their well being. I don't need someone else laying their burdens at my door, or in this case on my pillow.
I'm not accusing him of mind control. I'm just asking him to sort out his personal life so I don't worry about him in my dreams. I don't really care if he's in my dreams, even though I'd prefer John Depp or Pierce Brosnan, as long as he's not a downer. He doesn't have to make me laugh, he just needs to stop being the perpetual mopey buzz kill he is in my dreams. I don't worry about him in real life (sorry, it's just pointless) but this intense stress and worry over him while I'm sleeping is making me wake up cranky and irritable. Well. More cranky and irritable than usual.
Last night, for instance, I fell asleep on the couch. Rollers in hair, poodle pajamas, fuzzy socks, you get the idea. The next thing I remember I was having a dream wherein Bill, the above mentioned wife-ish woman, another woman and myself were having dinner in a swanky restaurant. Everyone was dressed really well. I was in my poodle pajamas, fuzzy socks and hair in rollers. No one seemed to notice or care. The conversation at the table was low and reverent. I don't remember any of the actual conversation but we were all feeling sorry and sympathetic for Bill and he was trying to be okay but we all knew he wasn't okay. The lighting was dim, kind of candle lighty and at one point I looked at him, in my dream it was a super macro of his left face, and his eyes were all red and watery like he was crying. And that upset me because obviously he was upset and it was sad and all that. Next thing I remember is us in the same or similar restaurant dancing. Slow dancing. He in his nice suit, me in my poodle pajamas and fuzzy socks. Which, by rights, should have made me laugh. It should have made him laugh. But it didn't. I don't remember much, but I remember feeling him close and being very surprised that he felt weak, frail. I thought I could just pick him up and carry him off the dance floor. I knew he was upset and he started to get trembly and I led him off the dance floor and got him a drink and we were all trying to protect him from being seen in that upset state. I was trying to figure out a way to nonchalantly get him out of there unnoticed and I was all tense about it. Then I awoke to find myself all tensed up and stressed. I'd been grinding my teeth so hard my jaw hurt, my hands were clenched into tight fists and I had a really bad headache. See what I mean? These are not just any old dreams. These are really stressful and intense dreams. About Bill Murray. And his problems.
One night last week I dreamt I was at his house. Frankie was there, too. And the wife-ish woman and some guys. I was in my pajamas and my hair was a mess, pretty much how I probably looked in my real bed at the time. And my stuffed poodle who in real life is perched by my pillow was sitting on the counter in Bill's kitchen. We were all just talking, you know, I don't know, talk. I don't remember the conversation. But Bill was all intense and mopey and we were all trying to make pleasant conversation and trying to act normal. The phone rang, it was like in a movie, a long dramatic still shot of the telephone sitting there ringing, Bill answered it. We all tried to busy ourselves and not intrude. Then he hung up and told us his brother died. He was really upset. We all felt bad but apparently it was expected. We tried to console him. I took his hand. It was shaking. I remember exactly how it felt. Next thing I remember we were swimming. Nothing weird or kinky, just swimming. As in swimming laps. I woke up and realized I'd been crying. My eyes stingy and my cheeks were wet. I'd been actually crying. I dunno, Bill. I dunno. I usually only get upset like that for my real family and friends. This is a first for me.
Now. It's possible these dreams are manifestations of my inner turmoil. I'm projecting my repressed/suppressed/regressed feelings onto Bill Murray. Rather cavalier thinking, but I'll consider any possibility if it will help end this bout of night stress.
Let's explore the projection theory. Why Bill Murray? Why would I project my repressed feelings onto a middle aged guy known best for his on screen antics and glib mirth? My issues are really more suited for a younger Meryl Streep. Troubled, deep, intense and generally not fun to be around. The projection theory doesn't hold.
The other possibility is that Bill Murray symbolizes someone or something, some unresolved or stressful issue. Gee, really? Do ya think so, Dr. Freud? Because I have no unresolved or stressful issues in my life and that just makes no sense.
But again I ask, why Bill Murray? Why not, oh, I don't know, John Depp? A little eye candy with my emotional agony. Or someone tragic like or given my recent narcotic foray, why not Jimi Hendrix or John Belushi? And here's something: Why a man? If this is all projection and symbolism, why a man? Why not Meryl Streep or some Lifetime network sweetheart like Stockard Chaning or Nancy McKeon? The obvious answer is that I'm either blaming my issues on men, or, projecting them onto a man so men, or at least a man can have a less than pleasant existence. Neither sounds like how I think, you know, in real life. But, taking out my actual conscious thought process, the former seems plausible, the latter just seems vindictive and I'm not really a vindictive person. At least I don't think I am.
The last possibility which occurred to me today, as I tried to sort out, "Why Bill Murray?" might have something to do with Groundhog Day. Which is just a few weeks away, now that I think about it even more. Perhaps I've got some weirdo thing about the repetition/boredom/stuck in a rut/angst issues like Bill Murray's character had in Groundhog Day. My life does feel like one long repetitive litany of the same problems cloaked in different costumes. I keep trying to move forward but the same problems keep me firmly planted where I am. Gee, that's just swutting brilliant. For that I spent a lifetime wishing I could sleep well enough to have dreams?
Man, I don't know how you people who regularly sleep and dream deal with this.