Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Thursday, June 22, 2006 Trillian and the Bee I went to a church pot luck and ended up in ER.
I love that sentence. It’s complete and perfect in its incompleteness and imperfection. I could begin and end with that one sentence and leave the rest to your imagination.
It could be a contest. See who comes up with the best fill in the rest of the blanks submission. Why was I at a church? Why was I at a potluck? Why was I at a church potluck? Was there a man involved? What fate befell me that put me in ER? Food poisoning? Struck down by the wrath of God? Stoned by the faithful congregation for my questions about the existence of God? And my vegetarianism? What about health insurance? Is it covered under the new health insurance plan?
I could also store it away for the title of yet another book of bad poetry or album I will never produce.
Or I could just say two words: Bee sting.
And one more word to develop a scary plot: Allergic.
And three more to create a cliff hanger story arc: No epi pen.
And throw in 11 more to add an ironic sub plot: Making nice for my parents by attending a church related event.
Yep, I’m allergic all right. No doubt about that. Didn't outgrow that allergy. Good to have clarification on that.
Fortunately my parents’ church isn’t far from a hospital.
My dad’s borderline dangerous driving finally paid off, got me there in record time. Apparently just in time. I was really dizzy and having difficulty breathing. Kind of cool, though, I had that weird standing back and watching it happen from a distance experience. I’m not really sure what happened after that, the next thing I clearly remember I was in one of those little ER curtained rooms with a Benadryl IV and an oxygen tube stuck in my nose.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the bee got me in the same ankle I broke. When I looked down at my ankle for a few seconds there I was all disoriented and thought I was back in the ER with a broken ankle.
Fortunately this time the swelling rapidly decreased and I walked out of ER in relatively little pain.
But with a fresh perspective on life.
That bee could have killed me. Or, well, I dunno, caused more brain damage. I know, I know, he didn’t mean to kill me. Defending his turf or mad at someone else or any other justifiable homicide reasons bees have for stinging people who are allergic to them. I don’t blame the bee. It’s society’s fault for overbuilding and overpopulating the once human-free meadows where bees could buzz and pollinate to their little bee hearts’ content. Anyway, I was sort of out of it there for a few hours and had a little bee venom v. Epinephrine and Benadryl smackdown going on in my blood stream. I remember feeling lots of prickly tingly sensations inside me, sort of between my bones and skin. That was really weird and uncomfortable. At the time I was pretty much unaware and out of it, but now I envision little bees with stingers for swords fighting medical compound molecules with biceps and tights, the molecules grabbing the bees by their bee necks, their stinger swords falling away, and the molecules punching the now stinger swordless bees in their noses and little birds chirping in circles around the maimed bees. Yeah. That’s how it felt exactly, now that I think about how it felt.
It doesn’t matter how it felt, though, really, because I’m okay, I’ll die another day. What matters is the drug induced thoughts I had.
This wasn’t an “as I lay dying” experience. I was pretty much unaware of what was going on with me at the time. I mean, I knew I was stung by a bee, I knew I’m allergic to bee stings, I remember the last time this happened and how it was a pretty awful experience and the doctor said the next time would be worse so always carry an epi pen. (be quiet, I usually have one with me. I needed to get the prescription refilled and those epi pens don’t come cheap and how was I supposed to know I’d be communing with nature at a church potluck?) I knew my ankle was rapidly swelling. I knew I was having difficulty breathing. I knew I was dizzy. I knew I needed to seek medical attention and I did. I trusted my dad and the medical community. I didn’t feel like I was going to die right then that evening.
But.
I was kind of disappointed I didn’t.
I thought, “Darn it all, this would have been the perfect accident. Witnesses and everything! Life insurance payout for everyone! Or, well, at least my beneficiaries,” and, “ya know, this really isn’t that painful, this might not be a bad way to go. Just drift off into an delusional sleep and never wake up again. Funny, I was under the impression it would be more horrific, more painful, more uncomfortable.” That last part must have been the drugs talking. I didn’t know what was going on at the time, you know, drug intervention-wise. I just felt all sleepy and tingly and sleepy. I remember trying really hard to hold onto someone, reaching and reaching and trying to hold on, it might have been my dad, it might have been a doctor or nurse, it might have been no one at all, but, I do remember desperately trying to hold someone close to me. I have no idea why. Well. I mean. I have several ideas why, now. But at the time I had no idea why. So yeah, that was kind of weird. I think maybe it was because I was swollen, everywhere, and my skin felt tight and constricted like I was being hugged and my brain got confused and was trying to hug back whomever was hugging me. I don’t get a lot of hugs, you know, really tight hugs, so when I get them it’s from a few people, people whom I want to hug so maybe that had something to do with the desperation. I dunno. It’s allergies and drugs, it’s pointless to try to explain.
Except.
Right.
When I was conscious enough to realize what happened and what was going on I was disappointed I wasn’t dead. And that should sound and feel tragic to me. But it doesn’t so don’t feel bad for me on any level, pro or con death.
New lease on life?
Well.
Sort of.
After I realized I could have died and didn’t and got over the disappointment, after I thanked my dad and the doctor for saving my life, after I apologized to my parents for scaring them, again, I laid there waiting for my vitals to stabilize so I could go back to my parents’ house and sleep. I was in that drug induced contemplative state of awareness. And I thought about work and a lot of other stuff. Stuff that annoys and angers me.
Yes. The experience made me angry.
Or, well, made me think about things that anger me.
And that’s what scares me. I apparently carry around a lot of unresolved issues mostly to do with repressed anger.
Big surprise there, right?
Maybe it is me. Maybe this stuff really doesn’t bother other people. Maybe I really have become a really angry person. Or, a person repressing a lot of anger.
For instance, I thought about the woman who interviewed for a job in my department a few weeks ago. It’s a mid-level job, a job dealing with people outside of the office. A professional job requiring a college degree and 5 years experience, which she had. I had high hopes for this woman. She looked promising on paper. I juggled my schedule to accommodate hers. Wait. Let’s stop right there. Her: Applying for a job. Me: Interviewing a lot of people for that job. Her: Job seeker. Me: Hirer. Her: Not in a position to make demands of my time. Me: In a position to dictate appointment times. Both of us: Busy people. I don’t flaunt the Me: Hirer thing. I really do try to accommodate other peoples’ schedules. I don’t have children or a husband or any reason to be home before 6 PM, one night late in the office is no big deal, particularly since I tend to stay late anyway. No big deal, right? I didn’t think so. But in hindsight I’m having doubts. This woman told me since she’s currently employed she would have to interview after her work day. She graciously offered to “try to leave a few minutes early” one night to get to the job interview with me. Now, that’s some kind of confidence, right? Or, some kind of false sense of entitlement. Okay, so I accommodated her schedule, stayed late to interview her. And she shows up wearing khaki Capri pants, a sleeveless blouse, no jacket, hair in a sloppy pony tail and, you guessed it: Flip flops. And not even “nice” flip flops. Standard $1.99 at Walgreen’s red rubber flip flops. And not even new flip flops. These were very worn flip flops.
Insert comment your grandmother would make here.
I’m pretty easy going about this sort of thing. However. I do believe in a sense of decorum. I do believe in professional attire. I do believe in respecting yourself and your colleagues enough to dress according to the type of work being done in and out of the office. I’m not saying expensive. I’m not saying the latest fashion off the runway. I’m saying something that doesn’t look like you’ve been weeding the garden for the past few hours and decided to mosey over and drop in for a job interview.
And. For swut sake, if you insist on wearing flip flops or foot revealing footwear of any type in public, much less a job interview, MAKE SWUTTING SURE YOUR TOE NAIL POLISH ISN’T CHIPPED AND FLAKED OFF PARTS OF ALL YOUR TOES.
Yes. I notice. Other people notice. You can’t help but notice. It’s not being picky or catty, it’s having the gift of vision.
I let all this go, you know, focused on her skills, her presentation, her ability to communicate. She was okay. There were better candidates. She didn’t get the job. And no, not because of her attire. There were better candidates.
But.
For some reason I remembered this when I was in my contemplative post-bee sting buzz. (get it? Buzz? Bee sting? Oh never mind.) And then I thought, “Wait a minute, who the swut is she to dictate when I will conduct a job interview? And how dare she show up to interview for what she knew was a professional level job wearing that outfit and cruddy old flip flops? It’s disrespectful and lazy. It actually really does make me mad. It shouldn’t matter, I tried to reason with myself. It doesn’t matter. What matters are her abilities which fell short of the mark. But. If she’d been a better candidate for the job I would have been put in the position of overlooking her lack of respect for me, herself, vendors, clients and job. I’d have to not consider the fact that she’s completely unaware or unconcerned about personal grooming and office decorum. Part of me really, really, really wants to send her a copy of Dress for Success. I won’t, I wouldn’t, but, part of me wants to really bad. She really annoys me now.
Her behavior reminded me of people in my office, people I already work with in a confined space. People who take the last cookie/chip/pretzel/chocolate/whatever and leave the empty except for crumb laden container behind. You had the guts to be the one to take the last one, so have the courtesy to throw away the bag/container. I mean, if you’re the one who takes the last anything, always in secret, wouldn’t you want to destroy all evidence that there was ever any treat at all? “What cookies? I didn’t see any cookies. There were cookies? That crumb on my lip? Oh, har har, that’s um, that’s from lunch.” But they don’t think that way.
They think, “Ha! I took the last cookie and no one saw me! No one saw me because I waited until no one was looking! And then, I left the empty except for crumb laden container behind because a) maybe no one will notice it’s now empty except for crumbs, b) someone else can/will throw it away, c) maybe someone will want the crumbs, or d) as a snarky calling card flaunting the fact that the treats are now all gone, someone finally took the last one, no one will ever know who, but I know, oh, I know, and I want them to know they didn’t get the last one. They didn’t win this time. This time I won. I got the last cookie.”
I didn’t know people felt this way until one night I was working later, (yes, it’s a theme with me) and I was in the restroom. There was birthday cheesecake earlier in the day and the lone last piece had been coagulating on a cardboard crumb laden plate on the community food area all afternoon. People would walk by it, look at it, reach for it, then look around, pull back and retreat to their offices, leaving The Last Piece there to fester and stink up the office. I was washing my hands when in came a coworker. I saw her reflected in the mirror. She was shoving the last piece of cheesecake in her mouth. I didn’t care. I don’t care. Take the last piece, please. I hope you don’t get sick because it sat out all afternoon, but really, have at it. She knew I saw her. Through cheesecake crammed mouth she said something about it being her dinner. “Har har, yeah, I know the feeling,” I said, trying to make her feel less self conscious. She was blushing. I know that feeling, too. I didn’t say anything about it, just talked about the project she was trying to complete. She continued talking about the cheesecake. “No one else ate it, I only had a small piece earlier and I really liked it and if I didn’t eat it Kevin would. He thinks because he bought it he’s got some right to it. He gave it to us. It’s no longer his. He doesn’t understand that principle.” Ummmm, okay. You go, girl. Justify all you want, it’s okay, really, I’m the one person in the office who doesn’t care. As long as you threw away that cardboard plate.
But of course she didn’t. There it sat. Empty except for the crumbs and still stinking up the joint. The cleaning people had already removed my trash for the day so I took the swutting cardboard to the break room trash can. She saw me. She glared at me and said, “That’s Kevin’s plate.”
“Um, it’s just the stinky cardboard which supports the cheesecake during transport. I don’t think Kevin or anyone else would be able to re-use it,” I said.
“No. I mean, that has Kevin’s name on it. I want him to see the cheesecake was gone, we all it, there’s none left for him.”
I’m not kidding.
This is a woman I used to respect and kind of liked. I thought she was one of the few sane people in my office.
But sooner or later they all reveal themselves to be one episode away from a nice quiet rest in the country at a facility surrounded by an electric fence.
Not only is she nuts, she’s vindictive and nuts. Which is a really scary combination. (See above, sending Dress for Success to failed job candidate.) She makes me angry. She expects the rest of the office to suffer, happily breathing in fumes of decaying food, looking at decaying community food and crumbs and dirty cardboard or plastic disposable serving wear left behind after they stealthily take the last piece. Disrespectful, rude and either lazy or weird.
Like revolving door/elevator conversationalists. The people who walk off an elevator or to a revolving door (or really, any entry/exit) as if to depart/enter, and then stop and carry on a very deep and long conversation. Blocking the way for anyone else who’s trying to exit or enter. This has happened to me a lot lately. It’s as if I’m jinxed with these doorway conversationalists. Standing there engrossed in their discussion while I try to politely squeeze by them to exit or enter. It’s particularly bad with elevators/revolving doors because you’re putting yourself at risk of having the doors shut on you if you don’t time it just right. If that elevator door shuts or someone else pushes through the revolving door before you’ve had a chance to make your away around the conversationalists, you’re pinched by the elevator doors or splatted up against the non moving portion of the revolving door. And even then the conversationalists continue to talk, oblivious or uncaring about their ridiculously rude placement in front of the entry/exit.
The only public conversationalists worse than this are the escalator platform conversationalists. They reach the end of their escalator ride and then stop on the platform and stand there having a conversation about where they’re going next. Meanwhile they’re blocking the way for everyone who’s been escalated behind them. It’s either shove through them or be gobbled up by the escalator. There really are no alternatives. Big mechanical metal sharp rotating staircase v. comparatively small, fleshy soft person unable to move because of the conversationalists blocking the exit platform. Machines: 256 billion, Humans: 0.
Well. There are other public conversationalists who are worse, but not a serious threat to human safety. Mobile phone talkers. I don’t really need to get into this. We all know the types. We’re all plagued by them. We all rue the day mobile phones were invented at one time or another. Usually in the grocery line or on the train, any place we’re held captive and forced to listen to the scintillating details about the fight with the boyfriend, the seven skirts tried on at Saks, the sister's episiotomy, the fact that this person is apparently completely incapable of selecting and purchasing cereal on their own without help from whomever is on the other end of that phone. The day anyone, any member of my family or any of my friends calls me from a grocery asking my advice on what brand or type of food product to buy is the day I pay to block their mobile phone number. It’s food. It’s the first world. It’s not a big deal. Yes. There are lots of choices. Choices can be scary and overwhelming. There's risk involved with choice. But. It’s food. If you feel uncomfortable, to the point of having to make a phone call, about whether or not you should buy it, or what kind to buy, chances are pretty good you shouldn’t be considering the purchase. In fact, chances are pretty good you should be spending time at a facility where they not only choose your food for you, but also give it to you in a community dining room with only plastic spoons and plates. Or, you know, maybe grocery shopping's just not your thing. So from here on out why not send whomever is on the phone telling you what to buy to the store since they know what to buy and you don't? **
And let's talk about food for a minute, shall we? Why is it waiters, servers, are snobby? And why is it they expect, and we deliver, generous tips to them even when they're snobby and full of "so much better than you" attitude? And I'm not just talking about ritzy restaurants. The attitude is universal, from esteemed cuisine establishment to lunch time fast food eatery. The uniforms and name tags are all that's different. There's a place I sometimes grab a salad at lunch. Their ingredients are fresh and the prices are cheap. My kinda place. Several times I've ordered a specific salad without the bacon and chicken. Sometimes I get exactly what I ordered. Sometimes I get something completely not what I ordered. And yet, every time, without exception, universal to every wait person there, when I say, "That's not what I ordered," they insist it is what I ordered without the bacon and chicken. What I should have is a plate of spinach, mandarin oranges, almonds, carrots, red pepper and topped with sesame seeds and dressing on the side. It's difficult to confuse that with a plate of iceberg lettuce, blue cheese, tomatoes, eggs and green peppers hidden under half a bottle of creamy ranch globbed on top. And yet, every time this happens I get attitude and blame and an accusation of ignorance. I'm told this is what I ordered and if I want something different I'll have to a) pay for it and b) wait for it. Sometimes I ask to speak to the manager. But usually not. That takes more time which I don't have at lunch. I usually voice my complaint, take the insult of not knowing what I ordered then pick through whatever they put in front of me. And they expect a tip. Which I leave, I think something to do with being a better person, rising above petty differences and conforming to social mores in an effort to fit in with society. Why do I keep eating there, you ask? Because it's close, cheap and fresh. And it doesn't really matter - I get attitude from wait staff in a lot of restaurants. I get "not quite" what I ordered or slow service or basically an unpleasant experience in a lot of restaurants. I just assumed it was me bringing out the worst in wait staff. Then I started talking about it and learned a lot of my friends have the same experiences. Food service people take note: We appreciate your hard work and efforts but we're not gonna take it much longer. Treat me badly, bring me the wrong food (and insist it's what I ordered), and we will stop leaving tips altogether. I'm sorry you work in a tip-based industry and have to wear a uniform and maybe a name tag and spend a lot of time on your feet. Really I am. But your attitude doesn't say, "I'm tired and cranky because I work long days on my feet serving food to disrespectful patrons." Your attitude says, "I'm a snob, I know more than you do, you're wrong, I'm right, I'll bring you what I want to bring you when I want to bring it to you, and for this you will tip me generously." I can only fantasize about what it would be like to throw around that kind of attitude at work, to customers, and not get fired and expect and receive a tip, encouragement, for bad behavior. I think maybe it's the sort of thing that sounds fun and good but in practice unless you're a naturally snobby, defensive, rude person would be more shameful and guilt inducing than fun.
And then: Men. Women. Dating. Urrrgh. Teeth clenching hostility on this topic. Men who tell you, often in lecture format, every way you're bad and wrong and not worthy of their time and affections. Not pretty enough, not young enough, not rich enough are the usual reasons. I've heard every combination possible from a lot of different types of men. It's weird when I don't get the not pretty/young/rich "friend to friend" line. Or the insult to my intelligence finale and stab at redemption and assuaging of guilt: "there's just no chemistry."
Right. No chemistry because I'm not pretty enough, young enough or rich enough. You already told me, "friend to friend" all the reasons why I'm unacceptable. The "there's just no chemistry" finale is a goes without saying statement of the obvious. Apparently you also think I'm stupid. Funny you didn't mention that in the "friend to friend" part of the date conversation. You weren't too polite to tell me I'm not pretty/young/rich enough, surely you could throw "smart enough" into the lecture if you think I'm too stupid to hear the feeble stab at redemption for your guilty conscience in "there's just no chemistry."
I've slated a few men for this. Not for my sake or theirs, but for the next poor woman who dates these shallow, ignorant losers. The hope is that the guy will forgo the "I'm doing you a favor and being really honest with you" lines and just jump straight to the "there's just no chemistry" bit. Which is a totally fine way to end things. Chances are really good she's not feeling any "chemistry" either.
The complete and utter crap and insulting, self esteem stealing, confidence crushing, rude behavior we endure for the sake of dating is revolting. I'm not excluding women from that, I know we're capable of doling out a lot of crap, too. And that angers me. I mean, what happens to people when they go on dates? Or meet someone they think they might want to date? I'm not into The Rules thing, but, who calls a person they barely know but want to get to know better and asks them "out" for a "date" in a few hours or even minutes. Again, not an isolated incident. I've had this happen so often I accept it as normal behavior. Why this angers me is that it puts me in a position of having to either drop everything and go on the "date" or turn down the "date" thus being branded as lacking spontaneity or a "Rules" bitch or risk giving the impression I'm not interested in the guy. It's disrespectful. I'm usually up for any sort of spur of the moment plan, you know, in real life. But in dating life, particularly early dating life, I like to have a little notice, get myself ready, take my medication... Stupid dating. Stupid men. Stupid shallow superficial people who say they care about what's inside but only if what's inside comes in a pretty/young/rich outside.
See what I mean about this repressed anger? One minute I'm laying there thinking, "Darn it, I could have died, accidentally, end of problem, end of story." The next minute I'm all mad and ranting. All that voiding of emotion, all the work, all the progress, all that no feeling, no expectations, all of it gone with one sting of a bee.
Or. Well, maybe not all of it. Apparently the feeling and emotion I've got an issue with is anger. I figured this out a few months ago and thought I was doing better about simply not feeling anything over things which would normally make me angry. But old habits apparently die very hard.
And it's difficult the tell the difference between repressing an emotion and simply not feeling it in the first place. That's the wisdom of the bee sting. Repression = bad. Not feeling it all = good. This was kind of a good test for me. I know where I need work. I know people are still annoying and angering me, I'm just repressing my angry emotions, not voiding them.
The good news is that I didn't swell with feelings of regret or sadness or, what's that word? The four letter one? Oh yeah, love. I think that may be because somewhere in all of it I didn't "feel" like I was in serious danger, or, if I was, that I was okay with it.
That's cool to know, useful. I must have felt that things were in control. Oh sure, the trust in the medical community factor is a little disconcerting, but the "eh, if I die, so what?" aspect is reassuring. I've never been afraid of death, but it's nice to know, by way of life threatening situation, that it's not just false bravado or delusion. Maybe if the whole thing had been more horrific or painful I'd be singing a different tune. Yes, the sting hurt, yes, the not being able to breath thing was unpleasant at first, but then it was all quite hazy and distant and removed and really not so bad.
Well.
Until I was released from ER and went to my parents' house and slept for 12 hours straight. Which, you know, for me, is unsurpassed. And what's the problem with me and sleep? Dreams. Weird, bad, dreams. Bill Murray showed up in one of them but I don't remember much about it except that I thought, "hey, Bill Murray's back in my dream, that hasn't happened for a while." HWNMNBS showed up in another one, I don't remember much about that either except he had a haircut and mustache from 1976 so he kind of looked like Burt Reynolds which is a really, really scary bit of Freudian weirdness. My sister and I were arguing in another one, something stupid, something which was making my mother upset and I was trying to get my sister to stop because it was upsetting our mother and you wanna talk about repressed and Freudian issues with that one?
But then I had a really long and vivid dream. I was sleeping in my little girl bedroom, exactly like it was when I was a little girl, right down to my favorite doll and teddy rabbit in the bed. Except I was old and not a little girl. And I was alone and I wasn't feeling well and having asthma problems and calling out for someone to bring my inhaler but no one came, and the room was all sunny and bright and cheery and happy little girlish, and I was struck by the irony of that happy cheeriness while I was laying there suffering and I was thinking how irony has plagued me from my moment of conception and how I could really do with a lot less irony in my life and how it doesn't matter anyway because it's just me and none of it matters and hey, sometimes it's good for a laugh, and then I woke up and discovered somehow during all of this I'd got up, crossed the room, reached up and plucked my doll and teddy rabbit from a shelf without knocking off the Beatrix Potter Royal Doultans or photos or books or other stuff on the shelves and taken them back to bed with me. I marveled at my somnambulistic prowess. Then thought my mother must have tucked them in with me, which would be a little weird, but not entirely, because my mother's kind of that way. Daughter not feeling well in little girl bedroom = give daughter her favorite little girl things.
But given the positioning and height of the shelf it would be more of a feat of accomplishment for my awake and aware mother to procure the doll and rabbit without knocking off anything else than it would be for me to do the same in my sleep. And that realization was the one that hit me the hardest. Okay, sure, it's a little freaky weird to think I was wandering about gathering toys in my sleep and taking them back to bed with me, but hey, I was on some pretty serious drugs and at least I wasn't dreaming about gathering pollen or living in a hive or building a honeycomb-like structure or working as a drone for the queen and I didn't wake up covered in honey.
Weird is relative.
The realization that my mother is incapable of basic things like maneuvering toys off a shelf without knocking other stuff down and maybe even losing her balance and falling in the process is scarier than any drug induced nightmare or somnambulistic escapade. So how about that? Not afraid to die but nearly scared to death that my mother's struggling and maybe nearing death. What the swut does that mean? I care more about my mother's life than mine. Well, duh, yeah. But there's something else there, more to it. Something about fear and anger and my complete lack of regard for my own life and paranoid concern for my mother's.
Ah. Well. Maybe there is something about that love thing. Not romantic love because I've made peace with the fact that that ain't gonna happen for me. I'm okay with that. It's not even sad to me anymore. I don't need to know what love is, I do know. Been there, done that, got the heartache and jaded cynicism to prove it. That's one feeling I don't miss. I used to miss feeling love, but the broken trust and broken heart suck and and I didn't miss those feelings. Stop remembering love, stop missing love, don't think about it, ever, and everyone's a lot happier.
But then there's that other love, that family love, friend love. Those kinds of love can suck sometimes, too, but somehow they don't suck the same. What I think I'm fearing is that even though I think I'm bitter and cynical and can face anything, even death, the fact is that none of this has prepared me or calms the fear over losing my mother.
I have no idea what the anger thing has to do with any of that. Maybe I'm angry at myself for not sorting this out sooner. Or maybe I'm kicking the jaded cynicism up a notch to embittered. Soon I'll be the weird cat lady who's always by herself shaking a cane in the air and yelling mean rants at the world.
Oh wait. Apart from the cane I'm already there.
Stupid bee sting. Dumb drug induced dreams. Idiotic ironic life. It would have been so much simpler if I'd just died or, better, never been stung at all. I was doing okay before the sting. Not happy, not sad, feeling nothing, merely existing. It had it's moments. Emotionally vacuous moments of nothingness bliss between plodding toil of work, eat, sleep if you can, life, death. And now this. Anger. Fear. Great, it's gonna be another rockin' Summer.
**Frankie's got a tactic with these loud public mobile phone talkers: She joins in the conversation. So far all she's had are dirty looks, scoffs and some "I'm not talking to yous!" Frankie thrives on this reaction. Because she then says, "Oh, excuse me. I'm sorry. It's just that you're talking loud enough in a public place to include all of us in your conversation so naturally I assumed you were talking to us so I joined in the discussion. Perhaps you might consider carrying out your private conversations in private place or quietly enough so as not to include the public in your private conversations." So far no one's scratched her eyes out or pulled a weapon on her which surprises me. I swutting love Frankie. I'd miss her a lot if someone pulled a weapon on her so I hope that doesn't happen.
It's Not Just Me, It Is Hot in Here So I've been all, "...but doesn't global warming concern you? You know, the dinosaurs weren't worried about the ice age, either, and look what happened to them. Fossil fuel. The glaciers are melting, Polar Bears are turning to cannibalism, Summers have been really long and hot, I mean, you know, this is right here, right now stuff."
And everyone's all like, "Oh Trill, it'll be thousands of years before the species human melts to death. You're really pale, you could use a little more sun anyway, and maybe those long, cold Winters are getting to you, you know, making you a little weird. Just relax and enjoy the warmer weather and use a stronger sun block if you're so worried. Now run along, go have one of those little tropical drinks you like so much and everything will be fine."
