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
Saturday, April 29, 2006
I think I'm old. As in officially old. Because I'm moved to spouting off about La Vida National Anthem Loco.
You may notice I try to keep politics off the blog. Not because I don't care or have an opinion. But because I respect you and your brain and assume you are aware and have your own opinion. There are lots of really good, intelligent political blogs written by much better and insightful people than me. This isn't my personal spout off at the government forum.
But in other forums I spout off at the government. My government and other peoples' governments. Government in general, government in micro, government class...you name it, if it's got anything remotely to do with government I've got an opinion and I've probably spouted it off somewhere. But not here.
Until now.
I don't break the blog rules very often. I, you know, try to behave and live by the rules I carefully crafted for my safety and yours.
But.
Swut.
I'm mad. Incensed, even.
La Vida National Anthem Loco thing has pushed me over the edge.
I'm not the proudest American ever to file a tax return with the IRS. That I acknowledge. There are a lot of things about America I really hate. And a lot of things about America which embarrass me. And even more which make me ashamed. And hurt me. My government does not define me, but it represents me. And sometimes that really, really bothers me. Because sometimes my government does things which are not representive of me.
And sometimes my government does things which surprise me and make me proud. Well. I mean. As proud as possible for me. The good and bad thing about cynical sarcasm is that it prevents you from feeling full heart swelling pride. Which is good because pride is a sin. (Yes, that matters to me - just because I have issues with God, Heaven and Hell doesn't mean I want to go around sinning all over the place. Especially a sin like pride which I can totally get on board with in terms of good and bad. Pride can be a really bad thing. Regardless of whether or not there's a God, you have to give the Bible folks credit for the deadly sins. They knew what they were talking about when it comes to the Sinful 7. A lot of really good and deep philosophy to be found in contemplation of the deadly sins. If all that were required to Believe was to be in agreement with the Seven Deadly Sins I'd be one of the most religious people around. I walk that walk but don't talk that talk because that would be proud and vain and those are sins so...yeah, you get the point.)
What was I saying? Oh yeah. Pride. My government. Sometimes I am proud of my government. Sometimes I am proud to be an American.
Kind of like a strained sibling relationship, I am at constant disagreement and animosity with my government. But the minute someone else attacks it I'm there at the defense, fighting for it's honor and standing up for its rights and defending its ways. Love. Hate. And yes, it's true, one of the really great things about America is that we have the right and freedom to disagree and even hate our government and the right (and responsibility and duty) to publicly say so. We're allowed to have an opinion, any opinion and we're encouraged by our Constitution to stand up and speak our minds. Cool, huh? Yeah. It is. You know. In theory. Like the Sinful 7, if all I had to do was get on board with the Constitution I could be a very devout American.
I've had the opportunity to travel a lot of the world. I've spent a lot of time in other countries. Heck, I've even been to Canada, or as my great cranial wonder of a mayor calls it, "Overseas." (Seriously, don't get me started. This is why I have a rule about politics. Wind me up over the mayor and I have difficulty stopping.) I have friends in far flung corners of the world. And Canada. And in a lot of topics of discussion America comes up looking really bad or at the very least: Confused. At best quaint, at worst egomaniacal. But always: Confused. We've got state and Federal laws and taxes. Supreme Courts of state and The Supreme Court. Are we a bunch of little fiefdoms or a unified people? Don't mess with Texas or one nation under God indivisible?
Which is why things like The Supreme Court, the US flag and the national anthem matter. We're a nation of diversity with very little in common with our neighbors much less our countrymen. And that's really cool. Seriously, that's really cool. I love diversity. But. All the more reason we need a few basic, distinct unifying emblems. There are official state songs and flags, (Michigan even has an official game mammal, reptile and soil), but they don't fill (most of) us with heart swelling meaning when we see or hear them. (Though I do get pretty excited about Petosky stones...) There are so few things Americans have in common that we really need to have a few strong, steady, always there, never faltering unifying symbols.
Which why La Vida National Anthem Loco really bothers me. I'm not offended by it, but I am affronted with it and angry about it.
But what bothers me more than its existence (and the press it's getting) is that other people are okay with it. Well. People other than George Bush. And that bothers me. And scares me. A) George Bush and I agree on something. I mean, just shoot me or send in the Horsemen of the Apocalypse and get it over with now. And B) Other people don't seem to care about La Vida National Anthem Loco. It bothers me that it doesn't bother them. People I respect and like and consider to be a lot more American (and cynical) than I am (yes, there are people more cynical than I) are saying things like, "It's just a song, it's still expressing pride in America so what's the big deal?"
"The big deal" is that this is America and at least for now our official language is English. (Oops, that's right, I forgot, thanks for the reminder, legislation to list an official language of the US is stalled, so for now we have no official language. Se habla español, anyone?) I understand learning a new language is difficult. I find learning a new language is easier when done via music. Kind of like Schoolhouse Rock. Set the lesson to music and voila! instant lasting education. And. Want to get to know a culture? Listen to its music. This is one of the reasons why operas are generally generally sung in the tongue of their native composer. The beauty of opera is the poetry of the words set to music. Words carefully crafted in a native tongue, words meant to be lyrical. Translating the songs into English or any other language not of their native origin strips the song and the opera of its lyrical brilliance and power. If you've ever heard Don Giovanni sung in English you know what I mean. If you haven't, consider yourself lucky and sheltered from a horrible crime against humanity.
And I mean, come on, we're not asking anyone to recite the entire Constitution, it's a few lines of poetry set to music.
One song. Just one song in English. The American National Anthem tune is difficult to sing, ridiculously difficult, so difficult it's funny, but the words are easy. As poetry goes it's not actually really very good poetry. We usually only sing the first stanza, but there are four. Just as well we don't sing the fourth because the final bits of poetic, um, well, yeah, "poetry" contain this gem of pith: Then conquer we must, when our cause, it is just, And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.” Nice sentiment but not exactly good poetry. But the National Anthem strikes to the heart and gets the job done. Kind of like a Beach Boys song - efficient and solid, mood evoking, but the real genius is in the simplicity. You laugh, you cry, you know how it's going to end, you sing along...it's comforting.
It's not okay to "let them sing it their way" as I've heard a lot of people saying over the past few days. It's our national anthem. There are so few things we share and have in common that we need to feverishly cling to the few unifying symbols we have. New Americans can learn eight, yes, only eight lines of poetry. It's really not asking too much.
Speaking of Canada, O Canada was originally written in French but didn't go over very well. Years after it was written and composed, revised lyrics in English were written and sung to a visiting English Duke. It took the nation by storm. Because Canada has Québec there is an English and French version. (They also have a "Royal Anthem," God Save the Queen which is only to be sung in, well, Queen's English.) But. Here's the official legal declaration on the singing of O Canada: "It is possible to translate the words of the national anthem in languages other than English or French; it should be kept in mind, however, that this translated version will not have an official status." Oh, Canada.
I did a little digging around for the Mexican National Anthem. You know, to learn about Mexicans and their national anthem. The first thing I noticed is that it's not Señor Don Gato. The next thing I noticed is that it's long. There are ten stanzas and a lengthy chorus. Like the US, they shorten the anthem so they don't have to spend so much money on the fireworks for the finale and so people can get their beer and don't pass out from the heat while standing during the anthem.
They shortened it to four stanzas and the chorus.
So. Mexicans learn a pretty lengthy song for their national anthem. I'm thinking learning eight measely lines of English should be pretty easy in comparison. Kind of a relief, really. A rather quick and jaunty anthemette compared to the long anthem of Mexico.
As for the Mexican anthem itself, it's, well, kind of, um, well, violent. It puts me in a kind of Reservoir Dogs frame of mind. The American anthem ends on the "land of the free and home of the brave," nice pats on the back to the American people, kind of a feel good pep talk, "free and brave, yeah, that's us, that's me, free and brave." The Mexican national anthem ends with "...a tomb of honor."
In between there's talk of an archangel, cannons, a lot of blood and battle and tombs and this scary bit of self righteous warmongering: "Prepare the steel and bridle...should a foreign enemy dare to profane your soil with his step, think, oh beloved Fatherland! that heaven gave you a soldier in every son."
Huh.
Okay. Well. See? We learned something. Music is good, it helps us learn. It's a shame hockey's not very popular in Mexico. That would make a really rousing start to a hockey game. "Prepare the steel and bridle...Heaven gave you a soldier in every son." Game on! Bloodshed! War! Kill! Kill! Kill!
I have a pretty good grasp on why millions of Mexicans would want to leave Mexico for America. But after reading through their national anthem I realize maybe a lot of the issues in Mexico lie in their unifying anthem. The American anthem is easier to learn and a lot more, um, optimistic. Even with the bit about the rockets red glare and bombs bursting in air we're a lot more hopeful and end on a high note as the verse gives way to hope and optimism that there was proof through the night that our flag was still there (gallantly streaming, no less), land of the free, home of the brave, yadda yadda yadda. There's a lot of hope and inspiration packed in those eight lines of mediocre poetry.
Ever wonder why Canadians don't flood into America legally and illegally by the millions? Well, some of the answer might lie in their national anthem. Easy, short, succinct, to the point, love, glory and freedom far and wide in the True North. Basically a prayer and a pledge for hope and loyalty. Sounds good at hockey games. There's no agitation to the lyrics or melody. It's, you know, kind of laid back, kind of Canadian.
O Canada! Our home and native land! True patriot love in all thy sons command. With glowing hearts we see thee rise, The True North strong and free! From far and wide, O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. God keep our land glorious and free! O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. (O Canada! Terre de nos aïeux, Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux! Car ton bras sait porter l'épée, Il sait porter la croix! Ton histoire est une épopée Des plus brillants exploits. Et ta valeur, de foi trempée, Protégera nos foyers et nos droits. Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.)
Sometimes I consider moving to Canada. One factor in the "pro" column is that I already know and like the national anthem. I've done the homework, I can talk the talk. Studying the Mexican national anthem made me realize: I can't talk the talk, and furthermore, I don't want to talk the talk. I have enough issues with America's violent and warmongering past and present. I can't take on another country's violent past and have violence! bloodshed! war! tombs! die! die! kill! shoved in my face every time I recite the national anthem. I can almost pacify my shame and anger at my government with a dose of "land of the free and home of the brave" at Wrigley. (Seriously, that's why I attend at least one Cubs game a year. For a few brief minutes, standing in a vintage baseball park with the National Anthem being sung, I feel American, I even feel okay to be American. "Yeah, this is what it's all about. This is America... It's like a micro-brainwash session and as long as I live in America I need a little brainwashing to help me cope.) So yeah. I don't think I'll be moving to Mexico any time soon. Which is good because I don't think Mexico is exactly eager to have me. But. If I do (never, ever, never say never) I will learn the anthem in Spanish so that I at least have that in common with my new countrymen.
I wonder what Norwegians, as in Norwegians living in Norway, would think of me traveling to Norway, taking up (illegal) residence and having an English version, my interpretation, of their National Anthem blasted on the radio and satellite airwaves as the revised anthem of Norway?
I love Norway, I love Norwegians, I am proud to be of Norwegian ancestry. My sentiments and feelings toward Norway and Norwegians is heartfelt and sincere.
But. I’m not a legal Norwegian citizen. My family left Norway to be American. They renounced Norway in hopes of a better way of life and success in America.
Somehow I don’t think my version of their anthem, though heartfelt, sincere, respectful and loving toward Norway and Norwegians, would be met by Norwegians with a welcome response and embraced as a “way for Americans to express their love and loyalty” to Norway.
I would lose respect for Norwegians if it was. They should be proud of their National Anthem, in Norwegian, just the way it is. It’s a nice anthem, a peaceful song of love and loyalty (seriously, for such a, um, well, you know, Viking country of people they’ve got a lovely and peaceful anthem). It's charming and loyal when sung/recited in its native tongue. My version would be full of love and loyalty, too.
But, part of the beauty of Norway (or any country) is its unique language. Because it’s how they communicate it defines them as a nation. Nowegian is not Swedish, German or even, believe it or not, even Spanish. It’s unique. And the poetry and style of the language are part of the composition and style of their national anthem.
Revising the Norwegian anthem in English so I or other English speaking people can join in on the Norwegian national pride wagon (or ship, in the case of Vikings) is to discredit and disrespect the Norwegian language and subsequently the Norwegian people. I respect Norway and Norwegians so I am not revising or Americanizing their national anthem. I don't have the cheek or bad manners to bend their anthem to fit my language. It's not about me or making things easier for me. It's not about me period.
So. In fairness and in setting a good example, and for your convenience, are the lyrics to the Mexican National Anthem in English and Spanish.
National Anthem of Mexico (Official version) Coro
Mexicanos, al grito de guerra el acero aprestad y el bridón. Y retiemble en sus centros la tierra, al sonoro rugir del cañón. ¡Y retiemble en sus centros la tierra, al sonoro rugir de el cañón!
Chorus Mexicans, at the cry of war, Prepare the steel and the bridle, And let the earth centers tremble To the roar of the cannon. And let the earth centers tremble To the roar of the cannon!
Estrofa I Ciña ¡oh Patria! tus sienes de oliva de la paz el arcángel divino, que en el cielo tu eterno destino por el dedo de Dios se escribió. Mas si osare un extraño enemigo profanar con su planta tu suelo, piensa ¡oh Patria querida! que el cielo un soldado en cada hijo te dio.
First Stanza Wreathed be, oh Fatherland, your brow with olive leaves of peace by the divine archangel For in heaven, your eternal destiny has been written by the finger of God. But should a foreign enemy dare To profane your soil with his step, Think, oh beloved Fatherland! that heaven Gave you a soldier in every son.
Estrofa V ¡Guerra, guerra sin tregua al que intente De la patria manchar los blasones! ¡Guerra, guerra! Los patrios pendones En las olas de sangre empapad. ¡Guerra, guerra! En el monte, en el valle Los cañones horrísonos truenen, Y los ecos sonoros resuenen Con las voces de ¡Unión! ¡Libertad!
Stanza V War, war without truce upon him who tries To sully the blazon of the Fatherland; War, war! Soak the homeland's flags In waves of blood. War, war! In the hill and the valley, The dreadful cannons thunder, And the deafening echoes resound The cries of Union! Liberty!
Estrofa VI Antes, patria, que inermes tus hijos Bajo el yugo su cuello dobleguen, Tus campiñas con sangre se rieguen, Sobre sangre se estampe su pie. Y tus templos, palacios y torres Se derrumben con hórrido estruendo, Y sus ruinas existan diciendo: De mil héroes la patria aquí fue.
Stanza VI Oh Fatherland, before your unarmed sons Bend their necks under the yoke, Your countryside be watered with blood And in blood may they stamp their feet. And your temples, palaces, and towers Fall with terrible thunder, And their ruins exist to say, "This was the Fatherland of a thousand heroes."
Estrofa X ¡Patria! ¡Patria! Tus hijos te juran Exhalar en tus aras su aliento, Si el clarín con su bélico acento nos convoca a lidiar con valor. ¡Para ti las guirnaldas de oliva! ¡Un recuerdo para ellos de gloria! ¡Un laurel para ti de victoria! ¡Un sepulcro para ellos de honor!
Stanza X Fatherland, Fatherland! Your sons pledge to you To breathe out, in your honor, their breath, If the bugle with its warlike tone Calls us to struggle with valour. For you the garlands of olive! For them a memory of glory! For you a laurel of victory! For them a tomb of honour!
9:09 AM
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Sometimes I lie awake in bed wondering if I'll ever not share walls with people, especially complete strangers. I lie awake contemplating this usually when a neighbor is a) having a party, b) having sex, c) peeing, d) slamming their door(s), e) cooking something odoriferous or e) listening to their television or stereo really loud.
My (not so new) compartment is a bazillion times better than my old place in terms of noise/smell/intimacy pollution. Really. The past year has been so much more calm and peaceful in terms of neighbor noise and smells there's no comparison. No screaming banshee nympho next door. No cacophonic lesbians below me. No 11PM to 3 AM Tuesday Night Bongo Sessions in the park. No couple across the courtyard fighting and yelling all day and night. No frat boy neighbor steaks and brats barbecuing on the back steps wafting the scent of blood and flesh in my windows and under my door. (Ahhh, communal urban living, ain't it the life?!)
Someone asked me if I missed my old hood. I got nostalgic for a second and then remembered the banshee nympho and the Bongo Sessions and I said assuredly, No.
My (not so new) compartment isn't exactly vacuous silence, there's noise. But. Not as much noise. There are rules in my new building. Too much noise gets a person "written up." Too many "write ups" gets a person evicted. We're a large and diverse community. There are a lot of us. We share walls, halls and a roof deck. There have to be rules. I think most of us are pretty cool about it, at least down in my neck of the plaster.
But. I can hear the guy who lives above me peeing. I sometimes hear a dog's bark echo through the air vent. When I first moved in I had an über hip guy living next door. He owned a restaurant. He'd come home around 2:30 AM, turn on super swank electronica music and have sex with his special of the day. All of this was muffled, at first I didn't even realize it was right next door. One night when he brought home a particularly exotic (noisy) special of the day I got mad enough to get out of bed and try to figure out which apartment held this bachelor Bacchanal. I quietly and gingerly stuck my head out the front door (in that way you do in the middle of the night, as if you might be "caught" by, hmm, I don't know exactly, just caught) and heard the music and screams coming from behind the door right next door. I was really surprised the Bachelor Royale lived right next door to me. In my compartment it sounded a lot farther away. Our bedrooms share a common wall. Even though he (more accurately, his daily specials) were loud, they didn't seem like they were RIGHT NEXT DOOR WITH NOTHING BUT A FEW INCHES OF PLASTER BETWEEN US. I thought about putting in a complaint because the music was really loud and it was happening on a nightly basis. But I didn't and in a few months he moved. And a med student moved in and she's either on rotation or studying and I never hear her. She's either really quiet or has a sex life as nonexistent as mine.
One night during some sports playoff the guy above me had a party. I know this because every few minutes the silence would be punctuated with a "YEAH!!!!" and hoots and applause and yells of "woo hoo" by a lot of people. It didn't occur to me to complain.
People let their doors slam a lot and the guy on the other side of me seems to open and close his kitchen door a lot.
When I actually notice some of these noises, that is, when they're loud or frequent enough to be noticeable, I think about the old place and the Banshee Nympho and the Grill of Death and the Friday Night at the Fights couple and I think, "ahhh. okay. perspective. This is but a mere whisper in comparison."
But.
That changed.
Something happened to make my lie awake in bed contemplating if I'd ever not share walls with complete strangers, or anyone, and how sad and pathetic my life is because I don't have walls of my own and that I'll probably spend my life sharing walls with complete strangers.
I am quite certain there's nothing in this world that can make a person long and yearn for a place of their own, with no shared walls, like Zydeco.
I am sure of this because with every fiber of my being I never wanted anything more than I wanted a home with no shared walls the night I "met" my new neighbor below me. Via their obvious love of Zydeco, Loud, loud, LOUD Zydeco. Zydeco is loud by definition. Accordions and twangy guitars are loud all on their own. Amplify them through speakers and they're REALLY LOUD. And annoying. Yes. It would be annoying if it were any type of music THAT LOUD. But. Zydeco is loud and boisterous by nature. It's all about New Orleans and partying and booze and crowds and dancing and hootin' and hollerin'. So yes, the fact that it's Zydeco is relevant. And yes, I am not a huge Zydeco fan. A little accordion goes a long way. So yes, it was even more annoying because it was Zydeco.
And it was even more annoying because it was 11:30 PM and had been going on non stop since 9:15 PM.
And even more annoying because I wasn't feeling well.
And so it was that it came to pass that I would lie awake contemplating the pathetic nature of my life. "Well, Trill, here you are wide awake listening to your neighbor's Zydeco when you need to be resting because you have mumps."
Yes. You heard me over the Zydeco.
I have mumps.
Yes. The Mumps. The virus most people get when they're a kid or not at all because they've been vaccinated.
Please don't ask me to explain how I got The Mumps because I have no idea. I don't remember having them when I was young. My father doesn't remember me having them, either. Though my father's not exactly good at remembering stuff like that. We didn't ask my mother because we didn't want to worry her. She'll worry if she knows I have mumps. I assumed I was vaccinated against it. Apparently even if I was vaccinated it was a long time ago and I'd need a booster to prevent this strain of mumps.
I didn't even know I had The Mumps until I went to my doctor thinking I was having a bad reaction to medication for something else. (Don't ask. Really. Do not ask. Suffice it to say it's more embarrassing than mumps, though not quite as much fun to say.) I told the nurse on the phone my symptoms: aches in my throat/neck, stinging watery eyes, pains under my arms and stomach, light headedness, feeling like my body's on a two second delay, headache, nausea, bloated everything, numb lips, salivating...and she said, "You better get back in to see the doctor. Those aren't the usual side effects."
So back I went to see my doctor who poked, (ouch) squeezed, (seriously, ouch.) swabbed, (ewwww) and squinted (what? what's that? what do you see?) at various parts of my body. Within three minutes my doctor proclaimed: "It's not the medication. You have mumps. They're going around and they're bad this year. Go home and go to bed for a few days. You're contagious. Stay away from children and the produce aisles and refrain from sexual activity at least until the weekend."
Yeah. That last one's really cramping my style. No sex until the weekend?! How will I manage?!
Actually.
I was contemplating taking up Shitz Ewwww's offers to go out this weekend. Shitz Ewwww has been relentless in his pursuit of grossing me out, I mean asking me out. So far I've had legit excuses to protect me. But he's persisting and I'm sick and tired and you know, I mean, I have mumps and I live in a tiny compartment sharing walls with someone who listens to REALLY LOUD Zydeco so do I really have any room at all to be even remotely particular about men? No. I do not. I have no valid reason to be selective. I have found a man who wants to see me again and that is the only thing that matters.
So what if I don't like him that well? So what if he's immature? So what if he doesn't get my sense of humor? So what if he's got a thing about poop? He's a man and he wants to see me again. Maybe you can be selective in those areas but I can't.
I told him I had mumps. He asked me if I was puking. I said no. He said then I could go out with him. I said I'd see how I felt on Friday afternoon.
It's him or the night in bed with The Mumps, the cat and REALLY LOUD Zydeco from downstairs.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
In case it’s not being enforced, I mean celebrated in your workplace, here’s a reminder: Today is Administrative Professionals’ Day.
It used to be Secretaries’ Day.
But that was back in the unPC dark ages when the now degrading term secretary was a commonly used job title and description.
Now we’re all enlightened and we know ambiguous, vague nondescript, open for interpretation job titles and descriptions are better for everyone.
By definition of the word administrative anyone who actually does something, anything, executes or manages anything at all, is an administrator. There are varying degrees of professionalism so I suppose there are arguments to be made for who qualifies as an Administrative Professional. I’m thinking if you go to work on a regular basis and actually do something for the business you qualify as an Administrative Professional.
But.
When I present this argument to anyone in my office I’m met with almost hostile responses. When I press for qualifications of administrative professionals, I get a vague list of job responsibilities which include basic office chores. Secretarial functions.
I don’t consider myself to be a throwback to old school office ranking. I understand why in many cases the term secretary is degrading and completely inappropriate to the actual work done by the person in that role. I realize administrative professional is a really good catch all term for a lot of people who essentially manage the office and business, making sure things get done, paying attention to details, making things run smoothly and often actually doing their boss’ jobs. I understand this.
But.
When Administrative Professionals’ Day roles around, boy, you better make darned sure you’re very clear on who’s who in your office.
The day is here and I’m still confused.
Smelly Coffee Woman makes copies, types, files and answers phones. She also compiles data and maintains a database. Administrative Professional or middle manager worker bee?
Spanglish flirts with the copier repair guy and sometimes answers phones. Administrative Professional or slacker wasting space and money and time in the office?
My new administrator doesn’t type, make copies or file, but she does answer the phone sometimes and helps sort out financial processes, consults with vendors and keeps track of job schedules. Administrative Professional or middle management process manager?
And yet, all of these people are to be feted on Administrative Professionals’ Day. I’m not saying they don’t deserve praise and recognition for the work they do. Of course they deserve recognition. (okay, maybe not Spanglish)
But, um, doesn’t everyone deserve recognition for their daily efforts in the office?
We’ve got Boss’ Day and Administrative Professionals’ Day.
We’re all supposed to fit into one of those categories, I guess.
But.
Because of the vague open for interpretation vernacular this is not the case in most offices.
Most offices have one “real” boss, one or two “Administrative Professionals” and a lot of other people.
All us other people get stuck doling out donations for presents, flowers, cards, lunches, theatre tickets...for the boss and for the Administrative Professionals on the designated days. We give them rewards, recognition for, um, well, doing their jobs. The things they’re paid to do.
Yes. I’m Scroogelike about this. I do believe a job well done is its own best reward. Well. That and a paycheck commensurate with the skills required and quality of the job well done. If you’re not going to reward and/or recognize everyone on special days for, um, doing their job, then don’t do it at all. Yes, I understand it's a "nice" thing to do, but, there's a very, very thin line between positive reinforcement and bribery. And most cultural and political climates in offices I know tip the scale heavily to the bribery side of the line.
No one gives up the cash for the rest of us. Those of us who are not The Boss and are not considered Administrative Professionals. Us, the lost souls of the office. Toiling away in a state of limbo between The Boss and Administrative Professional. We're in: Office Status Purgatory. Working hard and paying dues until we get promoted or demoted.
That's why there is no Creative Services Managers’ Day.
There is no Art Directors’ Day.
There is no Marketing Analysts’ Day.
There is no Web and New Media Reviewers’ Day.
There is no Financial Services, Payroll Managers’ Day. (Speaking of bribery, why don't payroll professionals have their own day of recognition? Aren't these the people in the office we should all be bribing, I mean recognizing and thanking?)
There is no Human Resources Training Developers’ Day.
We're in Office Status Purgatory. Maybe doomed to toil there forever or maybe not. But shelling out for the Administrative Professional gifts, cards, flowers, lunch and theatre tickets is a must if we don't want to stay floating in limbo for eternity.
We work hard, too, often quietly doing work that no one else wants to or can do. We often make the rest of the department or company look good. We make our copies and do our own typing and answer our phones and somehow manage our jobs and our lives all in 24 hours a day.
And yet we don’t have special days on the calendar. We don’t get presents and flowers and lunch and theatre tickets. (seriously, why are we coughing up cash for three people AND THEIR DATES to see Wicked at a price of $175/ticket? Why? Why? Why?) We get nothing. Heck in my case I barely get acknowledgement for the work I produce. But then again, I don’t think I’m unique. Most people in that "not the boss but not the administrative professional” ranking don’t get a lot of recognition or praise for our professional efforts. We come to work, do our jobs, and, you know, that’s pretty much the sum total of our existence in the office. Which is fine, I’m okay with that. Life. Work. Whatever.
But. Why should a select few people be anointed and feted while the rest of us cough up the cash for the presents and festivities? And don’t you dare sit there thinking it’s because we earn more money. Let me tell you a thing or two about Spanglish. She earns a very handsome salary for someone who can’t be bothered to speak English or Spanish in an office.
And yet we’re giving her flowers and lunch and theatre tickets to her and the boyfriend of her choice.(Yeah, it was the theatre tickets which really pushed me over the edge this year.)
Not participating is not an option.
Period.
Office politics.
Expectations.
All of that stuff.
I have to play nice and play by the unwritten rules. Because I have to work with these people. It’s a social obligation of the office.
I’m not big on tit for tat, keeping score is not my style.
I don’t want a special recognition day or presents or lunch or flowers. (though a theatre ticket would be nice, and I only need one)
But why doesn’t this madness end? Stop the insanity. Take away the recognition days and take away the expectation. I’m obviously not an official Administrative Professional, but, I am a person. And I find individual, personal, sincere recognition for a specific job or continuing good job performance is much more meaningful than “here’s your card, flowers, lunch and theatre tickets, happy Administrative Professionals’ Day, take off the rest of the afternoon.” It’s the whole, “If I have to ask you to give me flowers they don’t really mean anything” syndrome.
The problem is that everyone has to agree to stop it. Because even cynical old me doesn’t want some administrative professionals left out of the festival of delights while others enjoy gifts, cards, flowers, lunch and theatre tickets. That’s not fair or just or ethical. So until we all, globally, stop the insanity, it will continue.
This is how Valentine’s Day got so out of control.
So. Here we are. Again. administrative Professionals’ Day.
I had to fork over a lot of money for gifts, flowers, lunch and theatre tickets so I’m broke.
If you had to do the same, here’s my gift to you: Thanks for taking part in a greeting card company induced scam to bilk millions of people out of money solely to keep up appearances in the office and “do the right thing.” You’ll get nothing in return except administrative professional coworkers who will, um, lessee, oh yeah, do their job. The thing they get paid to do. No one’s giving you gifts or flowers or theatre tickets or even a card for doing your job, but I’m saying, “Happy employed person day. Great job, thanks, why don’t you take off a few minutes early today.”
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
There are lots of milestones in life, big ones, small ones, ones that you anticipate for a long time, eagerly, and others you shove to the cellar of your brain leaving them to lurk there in the dark, denying and repressing them as best as possible, but, you know if you continue to live those not so eagerly anticipated milestones are going to present themselves in your life. Ready or not, here they come.
A milestone was recently hit by a family member. It was an eagerly anticipated and happy milestone. My goodness they grow up so fast...
My parents have been helping this particular family member reach the milestone. Not just my parents - most of my family has liberally doled out support of all types over the past years in pursuit of this milestone. So. You know, A Big Deal.
My family's been in milestone limbo for a few years. Which is my fault. My milestones were next on the anticipated milestone timeline. Marriage. Children. My turn. But. Since we are all (except my mother) now no longer holding out any real or serious hope or plans for either of those milestones, my turn on the timeline has been skipped and passed onto the next stop on the family milestone timeline.
Ouch. That hurts. But. Well. I tried. I failed.
I forfeited my turns on the timeline.
Right. So. We've been in eager anticipated limbo for a few years, mainly due to my failure to get married and have children. My failures at these milestones caused a big gap in the eagerly anticipated milestone timeline. Consequently my family has had to endure the not so eagerly anticipated milestones without the usual buffer of a reprieve from sorrow and struggle offset by a happy or eagerly anticipated milestone.
My mother's illnesses. My aunt's death. My mother's months on life support. My father's, um, "situation." The unpleasant milestones. They've been flung at my family for the past 18 months without warning, hint or buffer or break. Well. I mean. You know. We all know people get older and with age often comes illness and decline.
Milestones.
But. They blindsided my family and I. I suppose they always do. That's their nature.
But.
Still.
It's all seemed so unlikely and sudden. And besides, we were still stalled at my place on the timeline. My mother shouldn't have been able to get sick, and then sicker, my aunt should not have been able to die until I took my turns on the milestone timeline. They looked forward to my wedding and children from the time I was young. It's what mothers and aunts do. No. They weren't feverishly planning my wedding from my point of entry out of the womb, but, you know, they're normal things to expect and anticipate. My cousins all did it. My sister did it. My brother did it. It was my turn.
And I mean, you know, swut knows people all gave me enough time and elbow room to hit those milestones. People waited. And waited. And hoped. And had a false hope dashed.
And well. Yeah. I mean, time goes on, the timeline continues, albeit with a huge gap where I should have had a few highs marked. I let everyone down with my failure to achieve the normal milestones of life. People, friends, neighbors, church people...distant relatives have stopped wondering "what's wrong with her" and have moved onto the assumption there's something really wrong with me. The kind of hushed tone something really wrong with her. The not so subtle but "fun cajoling" "isn't it time you thought about settling down" remarks have given way to hushed whispers, long suspicious looks and every now and then a pointed finger or dismissive sweep of the hand. "Oh, Trillian. Something really wrong with her. Avoid her. Such a shame. Her poor parents. Such good people. You'd think she'd get herself together at least for their sake."
If you're not from a small town and/or a certain type of family you probably don't believe that sort of process actually takes place. Trust me. It does. Those timelines are public knowledge, calculators and calendars of the passing of time and generations. And when something doesn't happen on the anticipated timeline, people wonder. And talk. We haven't actually come a long way, baby. And woe to any of us who actually really do want marriage and children and can't have either. We search ourselves trying to figure out how to achieve those milestones for our sake and for our family timeline. Every day we fail is an empty day and a larger gap on the milestone timeline. We're very aware all on our own, but add the milestone timeline and social jabbing of expectations and it's not only a lot of pressure, it's embarrassing and most of all, adding to the sad and lonely feelings of emptiness and heartache. I'm not saying everyone needs to be coupled up and reproducing - spare me the email - I know lots of people do not want these things and have to deal with a different sort of set of issues with their families and friends. Oh sure, I'm busy with work and friends and family and all that. I have an okay life, you know, for someone who doesn't actually long for a good relationship and children and a home and all the convention that goes with it. The only reason I'm sad and lonely is because relationships, or rather, one really good relationship, and family, and love and all that, is really important to me. Work, volunteering and hobbies cannot fill those voids. They pass the time, maybe add a little cranial fulfillment, and warm the heart a bit, but it's not the same as a loving relationship and family. But. I have a job and I volunteer and I have hobbies and I'm generally pretty busy, or at least occupied. So I play up that angle, try to act like it's all okay, that I'm on my timeline, that everything's okay. We all know it's not but the best I figure I can do for my parents is to try to pretend I accept and sometimes even want the life I have. I keep thinking maybe I'll actually believe it one of these days. Lonely nights and that big empty place in my heart should be getting more insignificant any day now, right?!
Right. So. Huge gap on the family eager anticipated milestone-o-meter because of me. Lots of really low lows and no real highs to speak of for the past few years.
And along comes the next stop on the milestone timeline. Which is, you know, really cool. Good. People are starting to focus on the next up on the timeline. Eventually they'll forget about me altogether. I can't wait to be shoved into oblivion by the rest of the milestone timeline.
So that's all the stuff brewing in the cellar of my mind. Mainly on those long lonely nights. The rest of the time is consumed with work and my mother. Which is cool. Fine. A husband and children would get in the way of me helping with my mother. As it is I am feeling like I am doing far, far, far from enough for her. I want and need to do more. I try. I have limitations. I'd like to think I do the best I can. I do more than my siblings. But it's not a contest. They have significant others, children, jobs and lives. I have a cat and a job. It makes sense for me to do more. But it's not enough.
How do I know this?
Because someone said something, one phrase, one sentence uttered somewhat offhand, which stung me hard. More than a slap on the face. More like a dagger in the heart and spine.
My mother's in a nursing home. I hate that. I can scarcely bear the thought of it. I'm trying to deal with it. I'm trying to make it okay for her. I'm trying to be positive and up! about it. I'm trying to convince everyone, mainly my parents and myself, that this is temporary. This milestone which should have come a long, long time from now, or better still, not at all, isn't a milestone. It's just a small setback, a minor issue, not an event. Certainly not a milestone event. Just a minor issue which will be resolved because my mother will get better. She will get better. She's getting better. She will get better. It's going to be okay. She will get better.
But.
Then.
Someone said, "Oh, how nice, they let her out for the weekend."
"Let her out."
Let. Her. Out.
A weekend pass.
Let. Her. Out.
Like she's being held in captivity against her will. Imprisoned. Letting her out for the weekend.
That sentence struck me so hard I barely made it to the ladies room in time to hide the hyperventilation and tears which followed that verbal assault.
She is being held. She's not happy about being in a nursing home but, in my mother's usual way, she's making the best of it. The problem is that there isn't really a best of it. It's a nursing home. Nursing homes suck. She's surrounded by people in advanced states of decline and decay. People die there almost every day. She's in the "transient" wing, which is to say at this point they do not consider her a permanent resident waiting to die. Her time there is spent in hopes of rehabilitating her enough to go home. Home home. But they're watching her. Keeping an eye on her. If she doesn't reach her personal milestones there's a room in the permanent resident waiting to die wing waiting for her. Well. That's metaphoric. There's a room in the permanent resident waiting to die wing waiting for all of us. But. She's way too close for my comfort or hers.
So the concept of "letting her out for the weekend" hit hard.
Hearing someone say it reinforced all the brain dark cellar thoughts I've been trying to ignore. It's not that none of us aren't facing the facts, but, well, we're trying to be positive! up! look on the bright side! smiling like we mean it!
And then someone innocently says, "Oh, how nice, they're letting her out for the weekend."
Allowing her to leave because of a huge family milestone.
But she must be returned by Sunday night. The "or else" heavily implied.
It was exciting for my mother.
She hasn't breathed outside air since January.
Because she's been held in captivity.
She was excited but nervous. Her first outing without the aid and relative safety of trained health care professionals and equipment. A wheelchair. A walker. Braces on her leg. Portable oxygen tank. And somewhere in there my mother.
My stylish, buoyant, with it, energetic, independent, always on the go mother trapped in captivity even when she's "let out for the weekend." She wanted to look nice for the event. She's lost so much weight her already small clothes literally fall off her. I've had to purchase all new clothes for her. I try to find stylish but comfy, easy to manage outfits. But infirmary clothes are not my mother's usual style. She's the type who's always put together nicely. She'd never dream of owning (much less wearing) sweats. Casual, yes, but always casually smart, even around the house and out in the garden. But. Now. There she is in her micro sized workout suit and orthopedic shoes. You don't know my mother so you can't comprehend how incongruous this is to how she is. If the circumstances weren't so awful it would be comical. Like she was dressing up for Halloween.
She wanted something nice to wear for the weekend event. I took her magazines and catalogs and department store ads. We came up with a few ideas and eventually I found her an outfit and matching orthopedic shoes. Which she liked, I mean, you know, she was enthused by the relative "properness" of the outfit compared to the stuff she's been wearing. But. Still. I know she would have rather been wearing something very, very different. It was a concession. Her big weekend out and she was stuck wearing what a year ago she would have called an "old lady outfit." It's the shoes, mainly, which really seal the deal. Old lady orthopedic shoes.
It sucks.
It sucks for her and it sucks for everyone who knows and loves her.
It's a milestone.
An unpleasant one.
Fortunately balanced by an eagerly anticipated milestone. One which my mother has contributed heavily for many years. She wouldn't have missed it for anything. It's been her goal for the past weeks. What she was wearing was of no real consequence. The fact that she's even alive is all that matters to any of us. The fact that she was able to be "let out" for the weekend was a huge, huge deal. No one cares what she's wearing, nor, really, does she. But. You know. This is a far cry from what she ever anticipated wearing to this event.
But.
Big picture.
She made it. She saw it happen. Live. In person. On her weekend pass from The Home.
Which is, you know, good. It's all positive and encouraging and all that.
Really. It is. She will get better. She will. (See? Positive! Up! Think no negative, see positive! It is going to be okay! Smile like you mean it and eventually you will!)
But. The fact remains: My mother had to be "let out for the weekend."
We had her on loan.
A milestone within a milestone because of a milestone.
And then we had to return her.
I'm the youngest child. My parents' baby. By a lot of years and a very, very long shot. It's no secret my, um, DNA creation was a surprise. My mother always covers the obvious age gap between my brother and I with, "We had to wait until he was settled nicely into a routine and activities at school...he was such a demanding child we couldn't consider having another baby until he was older..." Which has some basis in fact, some of my brother's pre-8 year old antics are the stuff of legends and Simpson's episodes. Still. We all know the stork knocking on the door with me came as a surprise.
But. My parents were cool with the whole thing. After what they'd been enduring with my brother I'm sure there were concerns of the "oh no, what if she's like him" type. Fortunately for all of us I wasn't like him in the bad ways. Right. So. Just setting the scene there.
My parents got a baby girl who was basically a well behaved, if a bit shy, breath of fresh child rearing air, a last gasp, last chance baby.
And. Well. Sometimes, my mother especially, behaved the way mothers do with what they know is their last baby. She didn't coddle me. Too much. But. There was (and is) no mistaking that I am her baby, her youngest, her last gasp, last baby. We joke about it. We're cool with it. It's okay. I was never that aware of it when I was a kid, it's only as an adult, looking back, that I realize what she was going through.
Once, though, one time, when I was starting kindergarten, a milestone, I remember being very aware that my mother was upset. She normally gently pushed me into new experiences, particularly social experiences (that shy thing was already a big problem) but on my first day of kindergarten, a day which I had been looking forward to for a very long time, my first day of school, off like the big kids to learn all sorts of things, embarking on my educational career (yes. I was a dork) I was eager and ready to trot off on my own, to let go of my mother's hand and boldly (well, for me) face experiences on my own. But. My mother, who usually gently but firmly prodded me into leaving the safety of her hand, pulled me back and hugged me really tightly for a really long time. The difference this time was that I wanted to go, I wanted to let go of her hand and run off on my own to walk into a new room full of kids I didn't know. I was so eager the shyness was secondary, I'd deal with that later. But. There was my mother oddly, after all that prodding the coaxing for me to let go of her, now holding me back and not letting me go. What I remember thinking at the time was, "She's sad. She's going to be alone when I'm at school." So I told her to get my best doll to play with while I was at school. Oh be quiet. I was trying to help. She laughed. We talked about what we'd do when I got home. I left.
And thus began a lifetime of milestone good-byes with consolation efforts and looking forward instead of backwards in an effort to make the good-byes okay. A difficult and uncomfortable hospital stay. I didn't want her to leave me. She had to. Every night she'd pull away and leave me with that best doll and a new book and talk about the next day's steps closer to home. My first slumber party, I couldn't wait to go, she had concerns, I stacked up a bunch of books for her to read just as if I was there and much anticipation of a trip to the library when I got home the next day. Summer camp. I didn't want to go. She pushed. I went. And found a teddy bear sewn into my sleeping bag, low enough so the other girls wouldn't know it was there, but within easy reach at night when things got scary in the tent on the first night, and plans for a family vacation shortly after I got home from camp. A Summer job away for three months. I pulled away and left behind hidden notes and drawings for her to find all over the house while I was gone, and plans for back to school shopping trips upon my return home. College, well, we both struggled with that one...it never ends.
This was going through my mind when we took my mother back to The Home. A weird mix of role reversal and history repeating. I couldn't let go of her. I just could not make my arms let go of her. They can't have you. I'm not giving you to them. They let you out, we managed, and they can't have you back because you don't belong here. You belong at home home, not The Home. My now frail, tiny mother hugged me and with her gentle, but firm, but, very, very weak hands, pushed me away and patted me like all those times she used to do when I was little - "Go on and play with those girls, Trillian, it will be fun!" "Go on, now, Trillian, it's okay, they're nice, you like hopscotch, go on and play with them, they want you to play with them." "I'll be right here waiting for you, go on, it's okay." - "It's okay Trillian, we made it through the weekend, I'm tired, they're taking good care of me, it's okay, they're waiting for me. Maybe next time we'll go home for good." Another milestone which should never have a place on our family timeline.
Yeah, go call your mother and tell her you love her.
