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/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<




Trillian McMillian
Trillian McMillian
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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






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.
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Contact The Media
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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.)

Quasar
Hyperbole
Amenable
Taciturn
Ennui
Prophetic
Tawdry
Hubris
Ethereal
Syzygy
Umbrageous
Twerp
Sluice
Omnipotent
Sanctuary
Malevolent
Maelstrom
Luddite
Subterfuge
Akimbo
Hoosegow
Dodecahedron
Visceral
Soupçon
Truculent
Vitriol
Mercurial
Kerfuffle
Sangfroid




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue

Slanglish

It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"


















 
Mail Trillian here





Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.



Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.





Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"







Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.


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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

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

 
Wednesday, March 28, 2007  
Did I find you or you find me?
There was a time, before we were born,
If someone asks, this is where I'll be


First a parka, now this:
Closing
 
Well, that’s it, I am now a property tax paying citizen and resident of Chicago. I’ve got the mortgage and the parka to prove it.

Happy? Scared? Nervous? Relieved? I should feel all that and more. But instead I feel almost nothing. Not apathy, I do care on some level, the level that is the tax break. And the level that is the knowledge of what my living expenses will be for the next 30 years...I care about that level.

But, as for the rest of it, mainly I feel numb. It's been a long, difficult stressful, anxiety ridden struggle, literally for survival, or at least a roof over my head, and now that I've not only found a place to live but actually purchased a home (the House of Mirrors, HōM) it's just another move, another place.

Why the anticlimax? Why no joy and rejoicing? Why no, "Take that evil apartment management and condo development companies?" Why so little elation after all this work and stress and fear?

Because like everything else in my life the good things are always tainted with bad. I am apparently not allowed some of the basic pleasures and satisfactions in life.

I closed on the House of Mirrors at 10:30 in the morning. The Furry Creature died at 4:30 that afternoon.

Fortunately I have a fantastic lawyer who was by my side during the closing. I trust him. Which is good. Because I was in no state to be signing loads of papers regarding a huge purchase and commitment. In fact, I'm really not sure what I signed. I just kept signing and signing and initialing and signing, and my lawyer kept talking, explaining everything, but I was too numb to understand any of what he was telling me. Fortunately we'd discussed most of this prior to the closing meeting, when I was in a better mental state and was able to make conscientious decisions without the throbbing, "I need to be home, I have to go home, my cat is very ill, I have to get out of here, I never would have left him if it weren't something as important as a home closing, I have to go home, my cat is in bad shape..." thoughts beating with every heartbeat. I was physically in that room at the title company, but every ounce of the rest of me was with my cat.

He took a turn for the much worse the day before the closing. Well. Actually a few days before that, but we were trying a new medicine and hoping it would kick in and help him through the rough patch. It didn't. I knew Sunday night he was pretty much already "gone" but it was Sunday night, the vet was closed, the emergency vet clinic sucks so bad I wouldn't send a termite there, and since he was holding his own and not in any apparent pain, I had to make the difficult decision to keep him home and as comfortable as I could until I could get him to the vet. Which would have been first thing in the morning. Except I had to go sign my life away at the closing for the purchase of a home. You don't change closing dates. There are legalities about these things. There are ways to postpone them, but a dying cat is not on the list. I could have given my lawyer power of attorney, but that would have taken more papers I would have to sign - in person - so that wasn't an option. I was stuck. I was stuck having to make the worst sacrifice I could make to get to that closing. I had to leave my obviously dying cat home, alone, while I went and signed papers for our new home.

What should have been a joyous, jubilant moment and day for me was one of the worst of my life. The Universe mocked and ridiculed me again. Badly. Note the proportional ratio of mocking the Universe bestows upon me: The bigger the "treat" or good thing, the bigger and more difficult the ironic twist will be. For every action there is an equal or greater reaction. This is a rule of physics and a rule in the Universe.

Part of me didn't think he'd still be alive when I returned home, but he hung in there long enough for me to get back to him. We had a few last hours together and then we went to the vet who did the deed. I hate that it happened, but I am grateful he didn't die alone and that I was with him.

There's an O Captain! My Captain! irony to this which is not lost on me. The ship, our new home, is finally anchored, safe and sound, the long and troubled, fearful voyage finally done - the "fearful trip" is over and the object has been won. It's time for "exalt O shores, and ring O bells" because the victory is ours, in the 11th hour we not only found a place to live, we bought a home. Victory indeed. Ring O bells. "But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead."

I know some people will find it far fetched and overly dramatic to reach for Walt Whitman over the loss of a cat. And maybe, so. Had it not happened on the day of the victory in our housing crisis I probably wouldn't have pulled Whitman out of my gray matter. But. As I left the vet's office Whitman's words were the ones my synapses chose to fire at me. And the metaphoric ironic poetry is not lost on me or the situation.

O captain, my captain indeed.

What has driven me through this process of apartment and house hunting has been more than a need to find a place to live. It's been the need to find a place for my cat and I to live. He's been fighting his cancer battle really well. Which is why I did everything I could to try to stay in the compartment. I didn't want to move, I didn't want to disrupt his world with the upheaval, chaos and stress of moving. But the money simply was not there. The most difficult decision and reality I've had to face in all of this was that I couldn't find a way to stay in the compartment and that I would have to throw him into the malay of moving. I felt crushed to put him through that. I felt irresponsible. So the quest for a place to live was more intense. I had to find a good place for us which I could afford. A quiet, peaceful place where he could be comfortable and spend his days relaxing and feeling safe, secure, cared for and loved. You know, a home. Our home. This fearful, anxiety ridden fight for a place to live hasn't been for me. I can stay anywhere. I have friends. There's always a flea bite motel. My office. Someplace I can stay until I find a place to live. But the cat, the Furry Creature, well, my responsibility is to provide him a safe, comfortable home. It's more than responsibility, though, I want that for him. I want it so badly for him that I have done things I didn't know I was capable of doing. I've searched high and low for a place to live which I can afford but will still offer him everything he deserves and needs.

And now, just in the darkest hour passed and the fresh dawn of a new day arrived and with it, a new home, my Furry Creature is gone.

Share the same space for a minute or two
And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till I'm dead
Eyes that light up, eyes look through you
Cover up the blank spots
Hit me on the head


My funny, furry, faithful, frisky, fearless, fluffy, four-legged feline friend lost his battle against cancer. Well. Actually. That's not quite right. He was doing a darned good job at keeping the lymphoma cells from spreading. But as they so often poignantly, bittersweetly say, the cure is worse than the disease.

I don't often blog about my cat. But that is not a measurement of the depth of the feeling I have for him. This isn't a cat blog, and, there are so many cat h8ers out there who for some sick reason find it funny or appropriate to make sick and violent remarks about cats. They especially like to make these remarks to people who like cats. Their hatred of cats is usually driven by abject fear. Which, is their issue, not the entire cat species'. But I find these loud mouthed bullying cat haters are often small minded, shallow people in other respects, too, so we can't really expect much from them. Interesting to note some of the most vile biggoted remarks I've heard in my life have come from the mouths of people who loudly proclaim to also hate cats. Just an observation. These people often call themselves animal lovers. What they mean to say is that they're dog lovers. But they like the altruistic sound of being an animal lover. So they'll say, "I love animals. Except cats, of course." I notce the "of course" is often added. I don't understand why it's a matter of course that an animal lover would hate cats, but, my brain doesn't work that way, and I like cats. And dogs. And all the other animals on this planet. I try not to judge, but time and again I find people who are capable of such hatred and seething contempt toward an entire species, especially when the hatred is based on nothing more than superstition or irrational fear to be untrustworthy in matters beyond cats. Anyone capable of even thinking some of the things I've heard is suspect in my book. The extreme nature of their remarks is alarming and appalling to me - if they're capable of thinking those things, especially with grand sweeping inclusion of an entire species, I shudder to think about what other hateful and violent, mean spirited, narrow minded atrocities their minds could devise. Anyway, rather then deal with the cat h8ers and violent, sometimes threatening remarks about cats and my cat, I found it's better to keep my feelings about my cat limited to places where words about cats are appreciated or enjoyed. I do understand my cat's antics and cleverness are not as amusing and amazing to other people. Though. If you met him, like everyone else who had the pleasure of knowing him, you probably would have seen some of the incredible qualities I saw in him.

And today, I'm going to blog about him. It's the least I can do for him. I should be packing up the final bits of my compartment in preparation for the move. But instead I want to talk about my cat. Because I just had to throw away the Furry Creature's precious toys, the toys he loved, and guarded (yet shared with everyone, "wanna play? I made up a new game, wanna see?"), the toys he would plop beside me or on my face expecting me to play, the toys he would line up in a row as if on inspection. The toys he would place around the apartment and routinely check to make sure they were where they were supposed to be. The toys he would carry around in his mouth. The toys he would snuggle with on trips to the vet and then timidly nudge with his paw to the vet as a sort of peace offering as if to say, "Okay, I guess that wasn't so awful. You're just doing your job, but I'm glad it's over. Wanna see my toy? It's a good one, I really like it." Those toys, his precious little playthings, had to be thrown away. I konw it's for the best. But. It sucks. I sat on the floor rocking in pain apologizing to him. Why? Because he hated it when his toys weren't where he left them. I respected this. I didn't mess with his toy placement. Ever. So throwing them away was not only difficult because of the finality of it, but also because I felt like I was insulting him.

Going into his treatment I was made aware of the options. His vet and a feline oncologist educated me on all the options and the possible outcomes. And the risks and side effects. I studied, I mean I feverishly studied every bit of information I could find on the topic and weighed the pros and cons. I made lists. I did everything I could do to make the best decision for him.

And it was working. We were giving that disease a real run for its money. The Furry Creature was a trooper throughout the whole thing - he didn't like the vet visits and the pillings, but, he dealt with it in that catlike way: Meow. Bat. Bite. Hiss. Claw. Okay. Fine. Let's get it overwith then. Sppittz. Snarky backward glance. Lick of the paw. Regain composure and dignity. Walk away. Sulk in the back of a closet for exactly 48 minutes. (just enough to make a human feel appropriately guilty and prepare a treat meriting the injustice of pilling) Casually, but with obvious pride, saunter past the human. Give a sideways rub against her leg. Sniff the proffered treat as if inspecting the worthiness of a sacrificial offering left by a disobedient heathen in a lame attempt at redemption. And here's what separates the Furry Creature from the others: Eat a few bites, enjoy heartily, then commence game time with human. After a rollicking round of soccer or attack and fetch the mouse, strike a beguiling yet approachable repose on pillow, beckoning the human. Then SNUGGLE ATTACK!!!! PURRRRRR PURRRRRR, PURRRRRR!!!!!!

Every night since June this has been our routine.

Apart from the pilling (and the pre- and post-pilling feline admonishments) that has been our routine every night since our first night together. I hesitate to call it a routine because this clever cat loved to make up new and different games. Once he made up a new game and mastered it, he'd begin devising another game. Many involved water, he was an exception to the "cats hate water" rule. His best games were water sports. He never, ever made attempts at any food which wasn't in his bowl. With one exception: A glass of water left anywhere, anywhere was fair game. After a few weeks of living with him I got used to his affinity and compelling desire to play with water. He trained me to not leave a glass or bottle of water anywhere but in the fridge or in my hand. If I left it anywhere else, I knew I would find him splashing his paw in it or would find a toy floating in it. But only once did he knock over a glass of water, and I suspect it wasn't an accident. I believe it was part of a game he was devising. My old apartment, the place where he I and I called home for several years, had a leaky bathroom faucet. The slumlord wouldn't fix it and the results of my attempts to stop the leak were never permanent. After my cat entered my life I stopped trying to fix the steady drip. Why? Because that drip of water was a constant source of delight, entertainment and interest to my cat. If the toilet seat was ever left up, he'd know it within minutes. He had a sixth sense about that. If the toilet seat was up, I would know it, too, because I would find him standing in it, knee deep in water, splashing and pawing at the drain. When he realized the toilet is capable of flushing and creating a vortex of water, he began a relentless lifetime quest for knowledge about where the water went as it swirled and splashed down the drain. He could often be found examining and pawing the back of the toilet. The shower, too, provided a daily source of interest and entertainment for him. Typically he'd perch on the side of the tub and watch the water, and every now and then the need to get to the source of the water and where it goes when it goes down the drain would get the best of him and he'd jump into the tub with me. He didn't mind getting wet and in fact seemed to enjoy it, slipping and sliding and pouncing on the drops as hit the tub and chasing the trail of water to the drain. I often muse that because of his affinity and compulsion to be near, in and around water in another life prior to this one he was a fish swimming in exotic underwater worlds or a viking sailor exploring new frontiers on the high seas. Or a plumber.

I have not needed an alarm clock since bringing this cat into my life. On schedule, every morning except on weekends (because yes, oddly, he apparently grasped the concept or rhythm of weekly work cycles), there was a purring, tickley whisker wet snout in my ear. If I was reluctant to respond, he'd bring in the secondary artillery: Huge furry wet paws patting my nose. I "caught" him in the pre-dawn act a few times. Splashing in his water bowl or in the sink, wetting his paws and splashing his snout in the water, gearing up for the day and making sure he'd be nice and wet, all the better to wake me and ensure his morning cuddles, kisses and chin scratches.

I know it sound annoying and maybe even gross. But. There are not words to articulate how much I miss that wet, tickling whiskery purring snout in my ear and wet paw on my nose.



This thing about this cat is, well, there are several things about this cat. But the overriding thing about him is how he was at the same time a "typical" cat and yet completely not like a cat. He didn't have the snobbery or attitude often associated with cats. Nor did he have the, um, well, grace. He was a big cat. And while far from being a clod (he was in fact extremely athletic) words like sylphlike and subtle are not appropriate. He loved to jump and often attempted Michael Jordan-esque record setting high jumps to a tall shelf or the holy grail of jumping feats, the top of the fridge. This is when his lack of grace was most obvious. He'd make his target, no problem, the strength in those muscular hind legs could propel him to a roof top if given the chance, but once there he would knock over something or, just stand there with an obvious look of, "hmmm, okay, now what?" and he would proceed to awkwardly move about trying to fit his long, tall body on whatever small space he'd jumped, and finding it boring up there he'd drop back down to the floor with a huge thud and move on to the next game. He was never one of those cats who gets up to a high place and stares down vulture like. He was too interested and too congenial to do that. He wasn't curious, he was interested. He was interested in everything. And determined. He'd work away at a new toy or game until he'd completely unlocked the mysteries of the toy or worked out all of the nuances of the game to his satisfaction. But he was relentless in those pursuits, never giving up until he was fully satisfied. He was also interested in whatever I was doing. He was always by my side watching and often lending what he deemed a helping paw. The computer, especially the printer, were sources of great interest to him. He was interested in people, too. He wasn't one of those cats who has to be the center of attention. He was very social and would greet every guest with a congenial greeting by walking up to them, sitting down and looking up at them with a "if you like cats I'm your guy, scratch my chin or give me a glass of water and we can be friends" look. He would often present one of his favorite toys to a guest, an offering of friendship and invitation to play. But he preferred to be part of the scene, not the center of it. He was interactive and friendly, not showy and egotistical. If anyone was visiting, he'd be right there for all the world looking as if he were understanding and interested in every word of the conversation. We're a lot alike that way (and many other ways, too). I think that's one of the main reasons we got along so well right from the start. Neither one of us is competitive, we're more behind the scenes types, the friendly, congenial brains and creativity working force types, active participants, not narcissistic divas. People would always comment on how handsome or cute he was. Sure, people say these things because it's the polite thing to do, but, in his case, the fact is, all pride and affection aside, he was truly handsome, a gorgeous feline specimen, the looks of a showcat. But not the demeanor. There was a humbleness to him, a regular guy-ness to him. He had no idea what handsome or gorgeous meant, or, if he did, he didn't see himself that way. Oh sure, he took good care of himself, kept himself fastidiously clean, but he was a neat and tidy cat in general. His grooming was borne of a clean body, mind and spirit attitude as opposed to an "I;m too sexy" attitude. He preferred to eat his crunchy food by picking it up in his massive paws, using his pads like fingers, and one by one eating the dry morsels of food. Some cats do this because they don't like to get their faces dirty or tickle their whiskers on the bowl. My cat didn't have those diva like issues. He liked to make challenges for himself, he liked to do things, and he liked to do them the interesting way, not the easy way. He had the attitude that challenging yourself is a good way to have some fun and add to the ol' skill set, too, life is all about learning. Again, we're a lot alike that way.

Last week, in the blink of an eye, he went from his normal self to a state of being which can only be described as: Fading. Several trips to the vet and many tests later, we got confirmation of the worst suspicion. The steroids which have been so effective in treating his cancer were causing difficult side effects, and a breakdown in his GI system. Weight was falling off him at an alarming rate and he became ever more listless. I knew we were in trouble when 5:30 AM hit on Wednesday and there was no wet purring whiskery snout tickling my ear or wet furry paw on my nose. It was all downhill after that. He made attempts, his best efforts, to be himself, but the increasing complications were too much for him. The spirit was still so very, very willing, but the flesh was literally too weak. I could see a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, and now and then a twitch of the tail, a small attempt to acknowledge me or act on an idea for a game, but then he seemed to realize the effort involved wa more than he could manage and thought he'd just go back to sleep instead.

I knew it was "time" when even that glimmer in the eyes was gone and the ever tell-tale twitch in his tale subsided to slight movements. He's always done this "funny" thing, a sort of response/communication: No matter what his state, sleeping, playing, cuddling, pursuing, pouncing, no matter what, whenever I say his name, or address him in any way ("I love you," "hello tiger," "hey, easy there fella," "would you like a treat?") his tail twitches noticeably. The reaction to his name or "I love you" has always produced, without fail, the most pronounced, enthusiastic and long in duration tail twitching, usually accompanied by eye contact, and a "lool," eager or inquisitive or sublime, and more often than not, he'd turn on the purr motor. A friend once noticed that saying my name would also invoke a twitch of the tail. But, when repeated "I love yous" would barely produce a slight movement in his tail, I knew he was fading. That long, big, hugely fluffy tail of communication was not responding. In there somewhere was the spirit of my dear friend trying, as ever, to acknowledge me, to respond as ever, to communicate with me, but even the biggest efforts on his part could only produce slight, barely tangible tail twitching results. And I knew It was time to do the thing I'd been dreading since the onslaught of this awful disease. I knew the day would come, I was prepared. Or. At least as prepared as you can be for this. But nonetheless, it comes down to making the "decision."

The vet suggested one last night together, a chance to say good-bye to each other. Another day, a few more hours, won't cause him any pain, she assured me.

Along with our morning furry alarm clock ritual, we have nighttime rituals. I turn on the bedside light and he knows: It's bath time. I read. He lays next to me and takes a bath and dozes. I often read out loud to him, something I find interesting or funny, and he usually responds with that slightly disconcerting look cats can have, that look of recognition of every word you say and deep thought and contemplation about those words. On our last night, when I turned on the bedside light he did not appear. I retrieved him from the other room thinking he must not have realized it was bath time. He sat there for a minute and then left me. No bath. No dozing. No reading out loud. He wasn't mad, or miffed or acting like a typical cat.

He was dying.



I love that cat. From the moment he pounced at me at the shelter I was in love. And, in whatever way animals are capable, he felt something for me, too. As an animal he may not be capable of love, but, he liked me. He really liked me. We got along great together. We didn't know it then, but, it soon became obvious we needed each other. He came into my life when I least expected it and he left the same way.

He was always so healthy, so extremely healthy. Strong. Robust. (20 pounds, and not overweight - long, tall, big, muscular, large boned, turns out he's most likely a Norwegian Forest Cat, as he embodies all physical and personality characteristics, look up a photo and description of a Wegie and you will get a description of my cat) Everything in full working order. Five months prior to his cancer diagnosis he had his yearly check-up. He was proclaimed fit and healthy as a kitten half his age. So when I noticed he wasn't acting quite like himself, sleeping a bit more, less enthused about a new toy than usual, I took him in for what I thought would be a routine trip to the vet. I thought he was probably fine and I was overreacting to him having a couple of lazy days. I thought the vet would say, "He's a cat, they can be moody, he just had a check-up, he's fine." Sadly, it turned out my intuition was right. Because one test led to another, and another and then the diagnosis was given. I was shocked. The vet was shocked. Just five months prior his blood tests were perfect. And now this. No one expects the Spanish Inquisition. Or a cancer diagnosis. He's too young. Too healthy. Too cool. Too special. But cancer doesn't care about any of that.

I knew one day I'd have to say good-bye, but that day was at least a few years from now. At least a few years. Given his perfect health it was reasonable to expect many more years.

Enter: Lymphoma. Exit: All reasonable expectations.




The death of a pet is one of the most difficult things us humans can endure. It's different from the death of a person. We treat our animals better than we do people in this regard: We're given, and even encouraged, to exercise the option of euthanasia for our pets. This is of course a good thing. Dignity and a humane end to suffering. However, all this enlightenment in terms of "doing what's best" comes at a price. Pets cannot speak. They can't write a living will. They depend on us to keep them healthy and happy, and perversely, we have to choose to end their lives. So it goes like this: The animal trusts us and puts blind faith in us when we bring them into our homes. We feed, shelter and care for them. This builds more trust and establishes a bond. The animal then has complete, unwavering trust in us and lets us do anything to them, with them or for them, and remains loyal. And then, in doing the right thing, we have to choose to kill them. Sure, most of us humans sit there saying it's what we'd want and it really is the most humane thing to do. And of course it is. No one wants their pet to suffer. But. It is a perverse irony that we are effectively betraying their trust in us. They don't expect us to harm them because we've only ever taken really good care of them. We always make things turn out okay for them. The pet may or may not know it's deathly ill. But for them, as in the past, they have no reason to think we won't make it better, like we always do. They trust, we do whatever we can for them and everything always works out okay. They have no reason to believe this time is any different that the other times they haven't felt well and we magically made them feel better just by going to that place with the people in lab coats and pills and needles. It's always turned out okay before, so the pet's reasonable expectation is that it will be okay this time, too. So why not now? Why is this time different? Why is that needle so much longer than the other needles in the past? Why are there tears and quiet glances?

To us humans, with reasonable, rational minds, this is the "right" thing to do. It's a benchmark of trust . If we can we be trusted to make the right decisions for an animal, even if it's a painful, difficult and terminal decision we are deemed "worthy" of having a pet. But in those moments before and after the final act of love for a pet, when other humans and their opinions of us mean nothing, when the only thing that matters is that animal and the bond and trust you've established and shared, it feels like betrayal. As much as we humans "know" this is the "right" thing to do, when that face with those whiskers looks up at your teary eyes and gives a look of confusion and concern for you, a look you've probably seen hundreds of times, all reason, logic and rationale disappear. "No, no, he's not ready, not yet, not now, there's still a little life left in him, look! look! he's aware and looking at me and no, we can't do this, not now, not yet, he trusts me, he thinks it's going to be okay, he thinks we're going to go home and have a treat and play with a new toy, he has no reason to think otherwise because that's what always happens...he trusts me with his life, I can't betray him..."




Every time I've been stressed, worried or scared, and every time I've cried, there has been a gentle paw reached out to me and a purring nuzzle and an insistence to be petted. In my darkest hours there has been a furry, purring friend by my side to comfort me and cheer me up and make me laugh. When he felt I'd carried on long enough he'd scoot away and return with a toy. He always seemed to be saying, "Okay, enough, let's forget about this for a while and have some fun. Let's play." Now those tears are falling because that paw is gone, the purr is silenced and the soft fur is not there to cuddle. The toys are gone and there are no more games. And I can't stop crying. My spirit lifter, my "snap out of it" friend ready with a diversion, a sympathetic purr, a toy and a laugh which always stops the tears is gone.



I wrote this to a friend a few years ago after yet another date gone horribly wrong. The last sentence has become one of our catch phrases. She emailed my words from a few years ago back to me today. "This," she said, "is why you're suffering over losing him. This is why anyone who knows you or knew him is suffering over losing him."

He (the date) cynically said, "I can't stand women who have a symbiotic relationship with their cat." I kind of understood what he meant, you know, crazy cat ladies. But sitting there across from him all I could think about was how much I wanted to go home...to my cat. In that moment I realized that I do have a sort of symbiotic relationship with my cat. We "get" each other. I know his moods and what he wants in each of those moods. And he knows my moods and knows exactly what I need (even if it's not what I think I want) in those moods. And we're happy to oblige each other's moods. We're good for each other. You know I don't believe in fate or destiny, not really, but, my cat makes a persuasive case for both. Our lives collided at the precise moment we both needed someone exactly like each other and we've been in sync ever since. I'm sure he could have been happy in plenty of other homes, and I'm sure I could have been happy with plenty of other cats. But I wasn't looking for a pet, at that point in my life I didn't think I could give a pet what it needed because my life was chaotic and unsettled. But he trusted me, he persuaded me to take a chance on him, he made me love him. He chose me. And I soon realized how much I needed him, that yes, my life was chaotic and unsettled, but I was suffering because of it. He brought joy and cuddles into a life that was tense and scary. I love my cat. Not to the exclusion of others (others being people or cats), not to the crazy cat lady level of dementia. But I can say, without shame or embarrassment, I much prefer my cat's company over that of many people I've met. He's accepting, nonjudgmental, friendly, funny, clever, playful, cuddly and has a voracious purr which starts the second I reach out for him or the second he reaches out to me. If symbiosis with an animal is wrong, I don't want to be right.

12:00 PM

Tuesday, March 20, 2007  
I hate moving house. I really, truly, absolutely hate it. I don’t think anyone actually likes it, but on the hatred of moving scale, I have come to the realization that my hatred registers on the high end.

Maybe it’s because the pain and suffering from my last move hasn’t yet subsided. The memories of that ordeal are still vivid. If I’d known I would be going through this again just two years after that process I would have, well, not moved into the compartment. But no one told me. As small as it is, and even with the Zydeco (which has ceased because my upstairs neighbor has already moved), I basically liked the compartment. I didn’t love it, but, it was conveniently located and for all intents and purposes the building itself is very nice. Not nice enough to justify the hassle and money involved with staying there for another year, but nice. It’ll make a nice condo building. Of course hardly anyone who currently lives there can afford to buy a condo in the building, but that’s not the point. The point is to sell small compartments at exorbitant prices and charge very high assessment fees to generate income for the owner and management company. Housing is a business. And the point of business is to generate profit.

I digress. The condo-izing of my compartment was beyond my control. It's a done deal and there's no point in giving any thought to whether or not I liked living there. There's no looking back because unless I get a lot of money there is no going back. People keep asking me if I would buy a condo in my building if I could afford it. The honest answer is: Probably. But it's a moot point. I cannot afford even my compartment sized condo. Apart from those with a hefty income, two incomes or a huge trust fund, no one can afford them.

I keep surprising myself with feelings of melancholy about leaving. I’ve spent time crunching numbers and budgets and trying to figure out a way to afford to stay another year. But alas, I’m simply not earning enough money to afford the luxury of staying in my compartment. Period. Even without my and the Furry Creature’s medical expenses there is no realistic way I can afford the increased rent and fees being charged to tenants who choose to stay another year. And the fact is, if I don’t do this now I’ll have to do it within the next year. So. Even though I’m potentially homeless in about a week, it’s now or later, might as well deal with this now.

I cannot speak of the real estate transaction at this time because I have an animal depending on me for crucial health care. Speaking of the real estate transaction causes me to enter an altered state of mental derangement. The frustration, stress and anxiety caused by speaking of the real estate transaction has reached a level of intolerance. I can no longer use polite words when I speak of the real estate transaction or House of Mirrors (HōM). And even my usually low blood pressure elevates noticeably when I speak of the real estate transaction. What remains of my mental and physical health is crucial because I need to be able to a) perform my job and b) take care of my cat. Therefore I cannot speak of the alleged real estate transaction. I may, or may not, have a place to live at some point in the next three weeks. Never mind that I have to be out of the compartment on or before the 31st. Never mind that I have a very ill cat who needs a lot of care and a warm, comfortable and safe place to spend what are looking like his final days. Never mind that I have some really intense, time consuming, brain power consuming projects at work. Never mind that I have already dropped a ton of money on this endeavor – an endeavor I endeavored because I qualified for a low income mortgage, meaning, obviously, I don’t have a lot of income and consequently a lot of money to spare or waste on real estate transactions that are difficult or don’t come to fruition. On the plus side, I have a great lawyer who ensures me that should this all go wrong, I will get almost (operative word, almost) all of the money I’ve invested into this endeavor returned to me. I’ll believe it when I see it in my bank account. And even then it will be small consolation if I have to spend even one night as a homeless displaced person.

Urrrrgh.

Anyway.

Moving.

No matter what happens with the real estate transaction, I have to once again box up my life and vacate the place I’ve been calling home. I hate moving. Hate it, hate it, hate it. And I’m surprised by that. Moving never used to bother me this much. I’ve moved a lot in my life. It’s never been fun, but it’s never filled me with this much contempt. I suppose it’s the circumstances. This move was not by my choice. My plan was to stay in the compartment a few more years. I wasn’t even remotely considering moving house. And yet: Here I am, once again sorting, discarding and packing up the physical possessions of my life. Fortunately I haven’t had money (or space) to accumulate anything since I moved into the compartment. And I’ve been constantly sorting and discarding since I moved into the compartment. And now I’m doing that at a hyper speed. Contemplating packing something in a box and paying someone to move that box is the best and fastest way to make difficult and harsh decisions about “toss or keep.” Unfortunately the decisions I am stuck with this time around are all over sentimental objects. I have downsized to all but the things I “love” or truly want to keep, but that’s still not good enough. I have to purge more. If I am homeless I’m going to have to store this stuff somewhere, and storage space goes for a premium price. Which means I have to eliminate stuff. The fewer boxes the better. If, by some freakish miracle (and I do not believe in miracles) the real estate transaction happens and at some point I move into the House of Mirrors (HōM), it, too, is small and the need to eliminate stuff is crucial.

I realized one of the reasons why I now hate this process so much is that at this point in my life if I move it should be to a larger home, not a smaller one. (and seriously, how much smaller can it get than the compartment? Don’t ask. It can get smaller.) I have a lot of resentment and, well, other negative feelings about this move. First and foremost because it was forced upon me, but almost equal to that is that the “here I go again on my own” factor. Another temporary place to live.

I never in my worst nightmares could have imagined that this is where I’d be at this point in my life. Not that I had lofty ideals for my life, but I certainly didn’t anticipate living alone in teeny tiny little hovels the size of dorm rooms.

Speaking of dorm rooms, my building has taken on the feeling of the last day of the semester when everyone is packing up and leaving for the Summer. Abandoned stuff everywhere, people posting notices trying to sell stuff, people bargaining for boxes and freight elevator time. (Both of which have become precious commodities. I booked the freight elevator for a charity pick-up and someone actually offered me money to switch times with them.) But instead of the carefree woo hoo! it’s Summer break feeling, there’s a pall of dread and tension. I am not the only one who hadn’t anticipated a move right now, and I am not the only one resentful over it and uncertain about where they’re going to live after next week. Three large rental buildings in a five block area have gone condo in the last year. I estimate that’s approximately 2,000 renters who have been displaced due to condoization. Sure, some of them can, or will find a way, to afford to buy one of those condos. But my guesstimate is a third, at best, can or will actually buy. Consequently the anxiety is palpable and the tempers among tenants are flaring.

And in a weird way, that’s helping ease my inner turmoil about yet another move. I don’t want to move, yet I don’t want to stay under these circumstances. Even if I had the money to stay another year, I do not want to give it to a management company or building owner who cause so much trouble, expense and stress to so many people. I may be homeless, but it’s a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done…

But there have been some less pride filled moments which have been difficult. In anticipation of homelessness and the need for a storage facility, I donated the few larger items I have to a charity who agreed to handle the pick up and removal of the items. I have, well, had a really comfy couch. Okay, sure, recently one end of the couch was less than comfy, but still, it looked decent enough and provided a great place for the Furry Creature and I to relax and snuggle. I liked that it was long enough for me to fully stretch out on and sleep on if the occasion warranted. But that length is bad for storage or a small compartment. So, just like that, it’s gone. As is my table and an oversized bookshelf. And a lot of my books. And a set of dishes. (who needs dishes if you don’t have a table, or a kitchen for that matter?) And a ton of other donate-able items. I did it like taking off a bandage. As quickly as possible and without looking. Rrrriiiip! Ouch! Toss! Gone.

The only things I have left are items given to me, some heirlooms, some sentimental things I will use or really like, clothes for work, a few paintings (also given to me), a few favorite books, some blankets and towels, a television (also given to me), my computer junk, a desk, a mattress and that’s about it. The contents of my life reduced to some boxes. Good for my soul? I dunno. Tell my soul that when I’m looking at a “to throw away or donate” pile of boxes and bags which is larger than the “to move” pile. I’m not a college student and I shouldn’t be forced to eliminate the stuff of my life. And yet, here I am.

I suppose in the Shaker or Buddhist sense this ridding of possessions is good for the soul. But. Um. I’m not actually a Shaker or Buddhist. Nor do I want to be. I want to be a professional in a capitalistic society, a consumer in a comfortable home. Fortunately for my soul, I guess, I can’t afford to be a consumer in a comfortable home.

But above and apart from all of that is the uncertainty involved with this move. Time marches forward to March 31st, and even though it's possible the House of Mirrors (HōM) might come through in the 11th hour, and I have some contingency plans (a few friends with couches or spare bedrooms and a willingness to take on not only me but a sick cat), there are aspect of life which require, well, an address. Mail, for instance, needs to be forwarded. So I've rented a post office box. Because I have to do something about my mail and the post office requires a week's notice to get the change of address in the "system," and as of right now: I have a change, but no address. A PO box? Me? Well, I guess it will come in handy if I ever finally get that porn distribution company I've been wanting to start off the ground.

Phone service? Internet? These things take time and these things require an address. If you don't have quite enough stress in your life, call the phone company and tell them you will be leaving your current address but do not wish to transfer your service because you do not have a new address. You'll be met with a) confusion "No new address does not compute...does not compute...does not compute..." and eventually b) a Super! Happy! Service! Associate! who will try to sell you on all their "special" rates and plans, but once again, the concept of no new address will result in confusion and the does not compute routine. The end result is that my phone is going to be on temporary hold until I get my life together and have an actual residence requiring a phone. If I simply cancel service I will have to start from scratch when I do get an address. And starting from scratch costs more money than simply transferring the service. Apparently most people know where they're moving and have a new address to which they transfer their phone service.

I used to be one of those people. I used to be a person who had a forwarding address. I had at least that bit of certainty in my life. But now I am NFA. No. Fowarding. Address.

And that is why I now hate moving house as much as I do.

1:55 PM

Monday, March 19, 2007  
I don't Myspace or Adsense, but I do Squidoo.

Why? Because it's for a good cause. By clicking the Squidoo link you're making a contribution to the ASPCA. I don't pimp out the blog for a warped perception of popularity or ad revenue.

But I will pimp it out for a good cause. And animal rights is a good cause.

April 10 is ASPCA day. By the way. Maybe you, too, would like to Squidoo. If not for the ASPCA, for another charity or nonprofit of your choice.

Squidoo. I do. So should you.

9:49 PM

Friday, March 16, 2007  
Take That
We did it! We raised money for television air time!
Now we're getting somewhere. Hate George Bush? Hate global warming? Love the environment? Care about animals?
Yes? Then tune into CNN next week at the following times to see what others like you did to send a message to the world.
Mon, 3/19 6:55am, 12:10pm, 8:05pm
Tue, 3/20 815am, 12:15pm, 7:05pm
Wed 3/21 6:25am, 10:35pm
Thu 3/22 1:25am, 6:35am, 7:55pm
Fri 3/23 6:55am, 12:25pm, 7:25pm

Polar Bear

3:02 PM

 
I Just Wanna Go Home...
I feel numb - born with a weak heart
I guess I must be having fun


Here’s a question, perhaps a naïve or rhetorical question, but a question I feel a need to put out there in the Universe: Why are real estate transactions notoriously difficult?

I had no idea things “always” go wrong. Now that I’m in the middle of a lot of things going wrong I understand how many variables and people are involved. I suspect those are the main issues. Lots of people, lots of paperwork, lots of “experts” are “required” so there are loads of chances for things to go horribly wrong.

Everyone who’s been through this keeps telling me problems and snags are normal. I know only one person who’s had a smooth, on schedule home buying experience. And I know a lot of people who’ve bought homes. Just about everyone I know has a mortgage on something, and all of them have shared some tale of woe or crisis.

Which is good because I’ve learned from their experiences. And they’re all eager and willing to share their experiences with me. One of my friends had such a horrible ordeal buying their first place that they bought a new telephone with a completely different ring because the sound of their old telephone made them panic and feel queasy. I’m not that bad yet, but, I can now understand their anxiety and hostility about the whole thing.

Why am I stressed and plagued with weird dreams during the few hours I can sleep?
A) Because of all the things going wrong with my negotiation, and B) because of all the horror stories my friends and family are telling me about their house buying experiences.

The general rule of thumb is apparently: If it can go wrong, it will.

I’m lucky, I’ve got a great lawyer and a good real estate agent. But that doesn’t really mean much of anything because this isn’t all about me and my ability to find reliable, knowledgeable, experienced professionals. There are factors beyond my control. I am in the middle of a contractual negotiation with someone whom I have never met. This person has their set of people. And apparently this person does not have the skills or luck that I have in securing reliable, knowledgeable, experienced professionals. Unfortunately the House of Mirrors’ owner has a less than stellar agent and a sub-par lawyer. So even though I’ve lined up a great team to get through this process, they are only half of the required players. The seller’s responsibility is to line up the other half of the team. I have no control over the team the seller assembles. Which is really a ridiculous situation if you think about it for more than a minute.

Two complete strangers enter into a legal, contractual negotiation which is really no more than one person giving the other a load of money in exchange for a set of house keys, walls and roof. These two complete strangers are required to assemble two teams of agents, assessors, inspectors, lawyers and bankers. These teams are then required to play together. Both teams are simultaneously running offense and waging strong defenses. Meanwhile, the seller and I, who have never met or talked to each other, are losing sleep, trying to pack and arrange a move, oh, and, finalize the real estate transaction. We have the same goal. We’re effectively on the same team – we both want the same end result. And yet, in between us and our common goal are two sets of real estate agents, bankers and lawyers.

My lawyer rocks. Seriously, he totally rocks. I think I’m developing a sort of Stockholm Syndrome with him. Not that I view him as a captor, but, I am certainly at his mercy, and it wasn’t by choice I hired a lawyer. I was forced to hire a lawyer. The great state of Illinois requires homebuyers to hire a lawyer to represent them. There are ways to get around this, and situations where a lawyer is not required, but, those cases are few and far between. And as everyone who’s been through this advised me: The one person worth the expense in all of this is a good lawyer. Scrimp on whatever else you can in order to secure the services of a good lawyer. So I did. But the fact remains, he’s making a lot of money from me simply because I’m attempting to buy a condo. I’ve read what I can about real estate transactions and real estate law, and what I’ve read confirms what I was told: Pay a professional to represent you. So really, I’m held captive by ridiculously difficult and complex real estate laws, not the lawyer. But. He’s the human contact so he’s the captor representing the laws. And yes, I know, the laws are there to protect me. And if/when this all goes wrong, my lawyer assures me that he, and those laws, will protect me. Just like the SLA assured Patty Hearst they would protect her. Fortunately for me it won’t take a presidential pardon to get me out of this real estate deal when (yes, it’s starting to be when, not if) it all goes wrong, it’ll just take some good work on the part of my captor, my lawyer.

All of this simply because I need a place to live.

We’re not talking about a Donald Trumpian transaction, here. We’re talking about a teeny tiny condo changing owners. The money involved is paltry and in the big picture, not worth all the headaches, phone calls, racing around, faxes, and hassles involved. Seriously. There are cars sold daily for more money than the price of the House of Mirrors (HōM). Yes. It’s a lot of money to me, and probably a lot of money to the seller, but to put this in perspective, we’re talking about a low income housing situation here. I could go out this afternoon and buy a car for the same price as the House of Mirrors (HōM). Get the insurance and drive away. Done. Over. No lawyers. No assessors. No inspectors. No relying upon other people to secure reliable professionals. Just me, the sales person, the insurance company and the bank. All of whom would be selected by me. And in a day, maybe two, I’d have the car. I realize a car is an entirely different commodity than a condo – but, if we’re looking at bottom line price, why would a car of the same value as a condo be easier to buy? Or, more correctly, why is low income home, a condo so cheap and small it’s the price of a car, so much more difficult to buy than a car? By virtue of the selling price, value and low income buyer it’s a small transaction between two people who do not have a lot of money. So why are we forced to pay a lot of money to people who have a lot more money than us simply because the seller wants to sell their condo and I want to buy it? The inspector, assessor and lawyer fees are pretty much the same regardless of the price of the home. The only variable is the agents’ cut of the deal which is typically a percentage of the final price of the home. Why? Why do us low income buyers and sellers have to pay a ton of money we obviously do not have merely to exchange money and house keys? I know, I know, it’s real estate. It’s different than a car, it’s (hopefully) going to appreciate in value. And of course the reason: there are property taxes and a heck of a lot of other taxes involved. Taxes = money in the system at an annual rate. A lot of money. So why not begin the homeownership process by throwing the new homeowner into the deep end of the pool right from the start? Get every penny you can out of them so they get used to paying a lot of money above and beyond their mortgage payment. A “you’re in the Army now, kid” approach.

This is why I’ve never been too bothered about paying rent. Sure, the rent money goes into someone else’s bank account, but that someone is also responsible for all the headache and hassle involved with owning real estate. My tiny little tax deduction I’ll get from the House of Mirrors (HōM) is hardly worth all the stress, anxiety and hassle I’m dealing with in the process of trying to buy it. People tell me this is all normal. People tell me it will be worth it. I have doubts. Especially since I don’t love the place. I don’t even really like it that much. What fuels a lot of people through the real estate transaction process is more than a need for a home. They’ve typically found a place they want to live. They are driven by desire. The headaches, hassle and ridiculousness of the situation are a means to a happy end for them. They’ve got their eyes on the prize of a home they want and maybe even love. Me? I’m dealing with all of this for a House of Mirrors (HōM) about which I feel nothing. It’s a place to live, shelter from the elements, a small tax deduction and a lot of property tax in Daley’s pocket.

Remember the Ben Dover joke in Fletch? Yeah, well, that’s how I feel about the House of Mirrors (HōM). Every time the phone rings I want to answer it with, "Ben, BenDover here, how much money would you like from me and how much pain would you like to inflict upon me?"

Everyone says it’s normal to feel this way. Everyone says it’s part of the process. People roll their eyes or laugh knowingly. “Har har, I remember my first real estate purchase, hoooooo boy, I don’t envy you right now. But it’ll be worth it, you’re doing the right thing even though it doesn’t feel like it at this point. Talk to me next year at tax time, you’ll be grinning from ear to ear.”

Okay. Well, I’ll have to take that on faith at the moment.

But why is it a universally difficult and painful experience? It’s more than the huge amount of money for the mortgage, it’s even more than the huge amounts of money paid to affiliated leeches extorting money from prospective homebuyers (though that is a huge part of it, to be sure), it’s the hassle and headache involved. A lot of people buy real estate every day. Why, in all these years, hasn’t the system been streamlined and simplified? Oh sure, there are many industries involved and a ton of money to be lost by simplifying the process, but, it stands to reason more people would buy real estate if the process weren’t so painful. Because let me tell you, if by some miracle I a) stick with the process and b) I actually end up owning the House of Mirrors (HōM), there is no way I’m going to turn around and go through this again any time soon. There’s a slim chance it’s like childbirth, you forget the pain really quickly, so quickly you turn around and do it again, but from the perspective of someone smack in the middle of a difficult labor process, it seems unlikely I’ll forget about how badly it hurts.

1:56 PM

Wednesday, March 14, 2007  
Bill Murray showed up again. This time at my parents’ house. He was giving me crap about my little girl bedroom, or well, laughing at it with me, not at me. I think it’s safe (and definitive) to assume that Bill Murray is in some way connected to my subconscious stress synapses. Why Bill Murray? I dunno. The now obvious fact that stress in my life triggers a Bill Murray response in the form of dreams is something I can’t (and do not want to) tackle. It’s not hurting anyone, even me, so no big deal. Just kind of weird. Or maybe not so much. I’ve always liked Bill Murray’s certain, um, can you call it charisma? Whatever it is that he has when he does something like Broken Flowers or Lost in Translation (to name just a few) is something with which I identify. He has something not quite identifiable to which I deeply relate. Which sounds ridiculous and nonsensical. If I relate so deeply why can’t I even identify or label it?

Enigmatic. I guess. Sort of. Perception. I guess. Kind of. Existentialistic wisdom. Yeah, that, too. Knowing and sardonic smirk. Oh yes. Almost always. Does all of that equal charisma? I don’t think so, but I don’t know another word for it.

But he’s got it and I relate to it.

So on that level it’s not at all weird or surprising that Mr. Murray would show up in my dreams. But why when I’m stressed? Am I channeling some sort of buddy thing with him, a knowing comrade united in the war against life? Maybe that’s it. And you know, a person could do a lot worse in the dream manifestation capacity, especially when said person is under a swutting load of stress every aspect of their life. Bill Murray is non-threatening, generally easy going and gives you the feeling a really funny comment is just about to spring from that smirk and make you laugh till your sides hurt. There are indeed much worse things which could appear in dreams in times of stress. So I’m not complaining. It’s just, you know, kind of weird.

And if my subconscious stress synapses are craving some relief, I can think of plenty of men other than Bill Murray to manifest in the form of, um, “stress relief.” Because much as I like Bill, I’ve never thought of him, you know, “that” way.

Oh whatever, it’s not for me to unlock the mysteries and stupidities of my brain. Bill Murray’s back in my dreams again offering proof that the Bill Murray dreams are stress related.

Last night we were at my parents’ house. Which probably indicates that I am trying to get to some sort of safe place in my life. And, sadly, the last (and only) time I’ve ever truly felt “safe” is in my parents’ house. That childish trust and belief that nothing bad will ever happen to me because my parents will take care of me and protect me is difficult to shake. Especially since the fact is that nothing bad has happened to me while under their supervision. Everything bad or scary or stressful in my life happened when I ventured away from their home. A = B, B = C, therefore I never should have left my parents’ home. Okay. Well. Maybe that’s more than a little psychotic. But. Welcome to the life of a lonely career single person. You think about stuff like that in the sleepless dark hours of the night. There’s no one there beside you to curl up to and make you feel less alone, so your mind starts wandering to comforting and safe places so you don’t feel so scared and alone.

Now that I’ve been single a really, really, really long time I find more comfort and safety in the one sure, unwavering thing in my life: My parents. No matter what they’re there for me and love me and support me. They don’t always understand me but they care enough to try to understand me and even when they can’t understand me they still accept me and love me. They would never, ever say or do anything to hurt me. They are simply not capable of that. That’s a good thing. I know I’m lucky in that respect. But. It bugs me that the only sure, safe and unwavering people in my life are my parents. And. Well. Now Bill Murray.

For a while I had HWNMNBS. That was nice. I liked that. He had all that and more: For the most part he understood me. And even now, still, that’s what I miss most. He was the one port in the storms of life, that one safe, unwavering place that’s not my parents. Okay, sure, my stupidity is to blame for trusting him, my stupidity is to blame for thinking he was incapable of hurting me, but still, there for a while I had no reason not to trust him. There for a while I felt safe.

Which probably has something to do with Bill Murray, too. In all his roles he’s reliable in terms of not hurting anyone. He’s trustworthy. Okay, sure, in Where the Buffalo Roam his Hunter Thompson role was a little, well, you know, Hunter Thompson. But even then he didn’t have an air of hurtfulness or hatred, just an air of, well, Hunter Thompson. Even when he was a jerk in Scrooged there are hints that this mean guy is not really who he is, that he’s a tormented and conflicted person who is actually quite nice and funny and makes the right choices.

Ta-dah.

And now we come full circle.

I’ve been kind of, um, well, not myself for a while. The past year has been especially, um, “odd” for me. My mother almost died. Twice. My cat is very ill. I had some scary health issues. Money has been a problem. Work has been more difficult than usual. Friends have become even more scattered. Polar bears are dying at an alarming rate and no one seems to care. Daley was re-elected. I’ve been existing from day to day as best as I can, but I know I haven’t been me. My sense of humor fails me. I simply do not see the humor in many situations. I see the harsh ramifications of medications and aging and financial cut-backs and unskilled coworkers and friends who are simply too far away to “be there.” Global Warming is here, now, and it’s on a killing spree. Daley will probably die in office collecting taxes and fees on anything he can slide through under the table legislation. There’s nothing funny in any of that. For me or anyone else.

And I’ve become Murray’s Scrooged Frank Cross. Well. Maybe not that bitter. Yet. And unfortunately not that wealthy. Which is probably a good thing because some of the most bitter people I’ve ever met are also the wealthiest people I’ve ever met. Money truly does not buy happiness, by the way.

It does, however, make life a lot more easy and comfortable.

So. Bill and I were at my parents’ house and I was in my little girl bedroom complete with ruffley canopy bed, Barbie Dreamhouse (with real swimming pool that holds water, thank you very much, and that was no dream, I really did have that set-up, and yes, I was spoiled within a whisker of rotten) and loads of books and various achievement awards and trophies and a heck of a lot of art I created. Oh. And. Cats. Every cat we ever had and the Furry Creature were all sprawled out around the room. None of these cats were ever alive at the same time, but hey, my dream, my cats.

Happy place, indeed.

Bill was leaning against the door smirking and laughing at me. Or, at the room. Or, more probably, at the situation. Me, an adult, sitting in the middle of this amalgamation of my entire childhood created a jarring and ironic tapestry of weirdness.

What wasn’t weird was that Bill Murray was there. Like a big brother or kid from next door or sister’s boyfriend, he wasn’t out of place. He just smirk/laughed and then we went downstairs and had French toast that my dad made. Then he had coffee with my parents. Then he went outside and played street hockey with my brother and I and the actual kid from next door (which is also kind of poignant or weird because in real life the actual kid from next door died a very tragic death a few years ago). No one seemed to notice or care that it was Bill Murray. The Bill Murray.

Game on.

They say you shouldn’t take dreams too seriously and I believe that. They’re just your brain having some fun when you close your eyes and let the synapses run free.

But these Bill Murray dreams, well, they’re different from dreams I usually have. They’re more, I dunno, more real. More topical. Less dreamy and more messagey than my usual dreams.

Maybe my subconscious is telling me to lighten up a little, try to laugh more, get out, go see some movies. Or rent some old Saturday Night Live DVDs. Or maybe they’re just dreams.

Remember when Bill Murray lost the Oscar for Lost in Translation? Remember that look, that defeated, what the… look? when Sean Penn’s name was called and not his. The only real contender of note was Ben Kingsley, but since he already garnered an award for Ghandi (and can we talk fear factor and shoe-in? How can you not give an Oscar for the role of Ghandi? I mean, who would mess with that karma?), since Kingsley already had an award and Jude Law was too cute and too young and too bad of an actor to be considered (we shan’t mention Mr. Depp), Murray’s award was obviously in the bag. Everyone knew it. Everyone knows who really won that Oscar, and he was never married to Madonna. Not that anyone takes award shows seriously. But. Here was a chance to turn that around, here was a chance to prove to the world that these awards can mean something, and once again they failed. The weight of that decision was visible on Murray’s shoulders. In those brief moments all of that and more was expressed on his face. Gotta be a good sport about these things, right? Right. Still. Everyone, including Bill, knew, and knows, he’s the one who really won.

Right. Well. I’ve been feeling like that for a while. I’ve been working hard, taking care of people (and a cat), helping out wherever I can, doing the very best I can possibly manage and: Nothing. Nothing but more crap. Not that I’m doing anything for the purpose of recognition.

But.

Would it kill the Universe to throw me a little nod, a little, “Hey, Trill, you’ve had a rough go of things for a while, you’ve been working really hard, here’s a little break, a little something nice, a little recognition of the fact that we know how much effort you’ve been expending and how difficult things have been for you.”

But, as we all know, these award shows don’t really matter and certainly don’t mean anything. The right people never win.

Instead, an "internet and technology coordinator" who doesn’t know how to download photos from a digital camera, load songs onto an iPod and who has never heard of RSS gets a promotion and a raise which pays for a lavish wedding and a swanky condo. Instead, a "media manager" with an alleged journalism degree who writes, “the door is broke, do not use” (apparently the door has fallen upon difficult financial times and until it can get some money together we're to stay away) and “there was eight of them” (Was there six of them yesterday?), this perons who writes this horrible grammar in daily press releases, brings in a tidy salary which affords a four bedroom home, two cars and private schools for the kids. Which is probably a good thing because with grammar like that being spoken at home they’ll need all the schooling they can get. Meanwhile, I churn out project after project, on time, using the latest technology and resources (which I learn by reading and going to classes and making swutting well sure I keep up with the advancements in my field) and what do I get? Certainly not more money. What I get is a mortgage approval because I qualify as a low income single woman.

Okay. Better that than nothing, right? Yeh, I guess so. Count blessings and all of that.

But. It’s finally hit me that I’m like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, reliving the moment of deflation and disappointment for not getting the deserved award for Lost in Translation.

There’s a point where it’s insulting. There’s a time when you say, “Okay. Enough already. I quit.”

That time is now.

Except there’s a slight problem.

I’m homeless in a few weeks and somewhere between my lawyer and another lawyer, there’s a real estate contract with my name on it. The good news is that I haven’t closed on the property and I can still back out of the deal. It’s not the right thing to do, and it’s certainly going to cost me a lot of money to get out of it.

But.

In the long run it’s seeming like the best thing to do. My job sucks. Or rather, the people with whom I work suck. It’s not just that they’re incompetent in their alleged areas of expertise, they’re stupid. Really. They are literally stupid. And they are being rewarded for being stupid. While I, and a few others, who are not stupid, toil away and are ignored or even insulted for doing great work. I can’t live this way any longer. It’s already killed huge part of me. I know this, I have known this for quite a while. I’ve been trying to find the “right” opportunity, the “right” location, the “right” salary. But in case you haven’t heard, the job market isn’t exactly booming and neither is the economy. I’ve come really close to being rewarded with a couple of jobs, but second best isn’t good enough when there’s only one job being offered.

I got the news about the latest rejection yesterday. I really thought it was a viable possibility. I really thought finally, finally things were turning around for me. I honestly thought, “hey! New home, new job, change is good, might as well change everything at once, woo hoo! finally some progress!” Sure, the compartment building going condo is a nightmare, but it led to me finally being accepted for a mortgage which led me on a whirlwind househunt which led to a teeny tiny condo and then: Nothing. Lawyers. Contracts. Negotiations stalled. The deal might not go through, or at least before I’m homeless. The recent promotions of undeserving people at work is an insult, but it led to a whirlwind flurry of applications for a few jobs I wouldn’t have normally considered, which led to some interviews and one of them looked like done deal and then: Nothing. HR directors. Contracts. Negotiations stalled. The job was given to someone else.

And along comes Bill Murray to remind me that the only true safety I’ve ever had in my life, the only sure thing, is my parents. And suddenly all I want to do is move in with them and play with Barbies and cats and read books and play street hockey. All those ideas and dreams that sprang from the haven of idealism and support otherwise known as my parents’ house have not materialized. All those dreams and ideas I had about who I am and what I wanted from life remain more elusive now than they were when I was a kid. That goofy, nerdy, buck toothed kid who was alternately too aware and too shy for her own good is lost in transition to adulthood. Something, somewhere went horribly wrong and led me to where I am now. And where I am now is not a good place.

Unless and until the lawyers can sort out the contract and settle on some issues, I am homeless. Unless and until some miracle happens and I get another job, I am stuck in a hateful job situation.

The “good” news about the real estate contract problems is that it’s given me space to consider what I’m doing. Maybe everything does happen for a reason. Had there been no contract problems I would have closed on the teeny tiny House of Mirrors and I would have been stuck in a mortgage when I got the news that I didn’t get the job. Now that I know I am stuck in the torturous and confounding nightmare I call my job, before I sign that final commitment to real estate, maybe it’s time to make a clean break. Cut my losses, pack up the cat and run home like a little girl. Nothing says failure like an adult moving back with their parents.

But then again, nothing says failure like a job rejection letter, real estate issues (homelessness, for that matter), and no boyfriend for years, either. So really, what's the difference between staying in situations which spell failure deluding yourself that maybe things will get better because they can't get worse, or, just admitting defeat and moving home to what is sure to be a fast decline into obscurity and more failure. But, at least that obscurity and failure come in a safe, comfortable home with people who love, care and support to the bitter end. As one of my friends reasoned, "Trill, you don't have a boyfriend or any viable prospects, so it's not as if moving in with your parents is going to put a damper on your romantic and sex life. You don't go out with friends that often because you can barely afford food and CTA fare, so it's as if moving in with your parents is going to curtail your 'active' har har social life. You already live in a really small space, so it's not as if moving into your little girl bedroom is going make you feel claustrophobic. You hate your job, you hate Mayor Daley, why stay in job you hate just so you can pay rent or a mortgage on a tiny place to live when you could quit your job and move in with your parents rent-free? It's not as if you've got any kind of a life, you're not giving up anything of any substance or purpose except some volunteer work, and I'm sure you can volunteer where your parents live and at least you'll have your parents to keep you company."

And that's really what this is all about: Nothing like mortgage and homelessness issues and job rejection news can make a single person feel more alone. These are big and tough life issues. They're hard. Yes. Many of us can deal with them on our own. We're skilled and capable. But that's not the point. It's not a matter of ability. Navigating the home buying process on my own doesn't make me feel any more empowered than I've ever felt. I mean, it's a pain in the rear end, the process stinks and costs a lot of money, but people do it every day. Apart from the headache and stress and money, it's not a big deal. It's not worth playing "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar" nonstop while clutching a paycheck to bosom while the wind billows hair behind a power suit and sensible, not sexy, shoes. But. It is a lot of money and stress and time and effort and all the process does is make you feel lonely. And getting that dreaded phone call of job rejection stings that much worse when you are going home to deal with the disappointment on your own. Can you do it? Sure, of course. But like I said, this isn't a question of ability. It's a question of mental health.

Labels:


2:58 PM

Thursday, March 08, 2007  
Guess that this must be the place.

I can't tell one from another


Once I gave in and gave up on my hopes for a decent (or at least safe) neighborhood and a place larger than 600 sq feet and, well, an habitable place, the real estate market became a vast opportunity for home ownership. Sure, most of the places would best be described as hovels and situated in ghettos or gang turf, but hey, you wanna play the home ownership game, you gotta have the bucks or be able to make tough choices. I've looked at so many apartments and condos (and one really frightening house) in the past month that they've become a blur. They're all small, they're all far away from the work and the places I go when I'm not at work. None of them are "worth" the asking price and make me feel like a sucker for even considering taking out a mortgage on the place. None of them have any standout features to make them memorable. Well, actually, that's not true. Some of them have standout features burned in my retinas - features like mold in and on the walls, obvious signs of bugs, wiring which doesn't work or looks like Dr. Frankenstein's lab, or odd smells permeating the place. Apart from the really, really bad ones, though, they've all become a blur. Oh, I printed the listing sheets, took notes and photos, crossed the obvious "no way can I or anyone else live there" off the list. Ditto the "no way can I afford to live there" places. Because even though I've got a mortgage, the mortgage payment is just a portion of the monthly housing bill.

Here's the math:

Chicago = Condo. Condo = Assessment fees. Assessment fees + mortgage payment + utilities + ever increasing "fees" = broke before you even sign on the bottom line of the mortgage agreement.

I've made a very organized assault on the real estate market. And yet, they've all become a blended concoction of blurred "I don't think so..." I am, a low income buyer, after all, and low income buyers don't exactly have their pick of the real estate litter.

What I find interesting is that there are several places in my budget. I have friends, a married couple, who are also in the real estate market right now. They're looking to buy their third home. With another baby on the way they feel a need for more space. Apparently their current 3,000 sq foot home isn't large enough to accomodate two adults and two children so they're looking for at least 3,600 sq feet of real estate. They've got a nice budget on their hands thanks to previous real estate luck and a trust fund and a high income job. They have a lot of parameters, though. School district is important, the yard is important, and it needs to "feel like a home" as my friend keeps insisting. She's big on feelings. She has the luxury of being able to afford choices based on feelings. Still, at present they only have three choices. Compared to the plethora of abodes I've seen in the last month, they're starved for choices.

The difference is that their choices are things like, "are the granite counters in the kitchen the 'right' color and do each of the children's bedrooms have private bathrooms?" My choices are things like, "does the (one) toilet work and is it on gang turf?" Without exception, all of the places I've looked at, even the scary house, would fit in 1/4 of their proposed home. Sure, that's life in the city, right? Right. Still, kind of interesting that I, the low income buyer, have looked at dozens of places I can 'afford' while they, the high income buyer, have looked at three. How is this possible? Here's how: They can afford to be choosey. They can afford to discriminate. I cannot afford those luxuries. I'll take what I can get and 'feel' lucky to have that.

The other difference is that while yes, there are a lot of low income properties, the fact is that most of them will not pass a building inspection. Which means you take the risk of buying the property "as is" without an inspection. Which means: You're in for it. Big time. I'm told these properties are usually sold to people who intend to tear them down and build something else on the lot. Or, they're sold to "flippers" who are going to invest a little time, money and sweat equity on the place and hope to re-sell it at a higher price. I am not a developer or a "flipper." I just need a place for the Furry Creature and I to sleep and hang out together. And I need it now. I don't have the luxury of time or money to make an inhabitable place habitable. Functioning plumbing and electricity are crucial. And yes, I have looked at several places which would not qualify based on the need for plumbing and electricity.

And then there are the assessment fees. If you're not familiar with the condo market, you might not know much about assessment fees. Assessment fees are "rent" you pay to the building managment. Assessment fees cover either very little or a lot. The more prime the real estate, the higher the assessment. Also, the bigger the building, the higher the assessment. Which makes no sense to me. Seems like bigger buildings with more condo owners sharing the expense of maintaining the building would mean a lower assessment. Oh silly, silly, Trillian trying to apply logic to an illogical situation. Fair enough, larger buildings require more upkeep and generally offer their residents "more" - full time door staff, exercise rooms, roof decks, maybe a swimming pool or community room, on site maintenance staff, that sort of thing.

But I've found an alarming and illogical weirness about assessments: There is little rhyme or reason to the fees. Some buildings have very low assessments which cover a lot - heat, air conditioning, maybe even electricity, cable television, all the utilities that can cost a homeowner a lot of monthly expense are included in a low assessment. While on the other hand, there are buildings with very high assessments which don't include any of those utilities. I can only assume the buildings require a lot of maintenance and: They're trying to keep out the rif-raf. The condo association has little control over to whom an owner sells their condo or the selling price. However, by keeping assessments high, they ensure that all buyers at least have the money to cover a high assessment fee and their units will maintain or increase in perceived (or actual) value. If that's the case, their ploy works: I've been discouraged from even looking at several condos simply because the assessment fees were astronomical. My real estate agent might have been able to work magic with the selling price, but there's no negotiating the assessment fee. One promising condo was being sold at a reduced rate. It was a relatively large space in an okay neighborhood and definitely interested me. The mortgage payment would have been well within my budget and for all that space and the location it was an incredible bargain. However. The assessment fees for the unit were hundreds of dollars higher than the mortgage payment would have been. Seriously. The assessment fee alone was higher than rent on a very nice apartment. Sure, the condo itself didn't cost much and it was a bargain based on the space and neighborhood. But add in that monthly assessment fee and you've got a monster of a monthly living expense on your hands. All those amenities and landscaping and perceived value cost money. And the high assessment makes sure low income buyers like me stay far away from the hoi paloi who apparently live in that building. I'm sure they're trying to protect their investment. They want their condo value to increase. If someone sells their unit at a low or undervalue price that could bring down the appraisal value of other units in the building. The assessments make darned sure the message is clear: We don't want just anyone moving into our building, even if someone should decide or need to sell at a drastically reduced price. We can't have bargain basement shoppers living among us. I might be a little extreme in those assumptions, but having been in the real estate market long enough to see some pretty weird and extreme things, I doubt I'm too far off the mark.

This entire ordeal has not endeared me to the real estate business. It's only confirmed what I already knew: It's not a business, it's a racket. People have a need to live in a dwelling safe from the elements and danger. Going into any type of housing for sale or lease situation is like selling your soul to the devil. You obviously need a place to live because you are going out of your way in search of a home. By the very virtue of the fact that you chased up a for rent or for sale ad, you are put in a submissive and vulnerable position. You obviously need a place to live, they know this, and therefor you are at their mercy.

Mercy. Pffft.

I've seen more fake smiles and passive aggression in the past month than I have in my entire lifetime. And I've seen a lot of fake smiles and passive aggression. I date and have a job, remember? But even online dating and a job with a bunch of nobrain trend victims didn't prepare me for what I've encountered in the real estate racket.

I'm "lucky." So far I like my real estate agent. But. Let us never forget: He's in this to make money. He's making money from me. He's profiting on my real estate transaction. I swutting well better like him and he better do everything in his power to make me happy. That's his job. He took this assignment, accepted the mission, and if he wants to make any money from me he's going to have to see it through to the bitter end.

He has been extremely patient and he has steered me away from some places which would have been an economic stretch for me, even though he would have made more money off me had I leaped at the higher priced condos. And he's protected me from the really bad ones. I've seen what I thought are really bad ones, but he keeps telling me there are actually much worse places out there. I begged him to show me one place which I thought held promise. He warned me, he told me I wouldn't like it, he said it would be a bad investment, but I wanted to see it. So he took me to see it. I have now walked through the valley of the shadow of death. Horrific. Nightmare. It's this close to being condemned by the city, so the owner is trying to unload it as quickly as possible. Oh. And. There was a gang execution in the condo below it, so no one's living there, either. Yep, two condos available in a three flat, both going at bargain rates. Sure the water comes out brown and there's an odd and unpleasant smell, and the walls are either cracked or, um partially missing, or are moist (and look as though warnings spelled out in blood could appear at night), and the windows need replacing and the wiring needs some updating, and the kitchen and bathroom need "some" work (like appliances, sinks, and potable water) they're both large condos with a lot of space, and heck, pull up that shag carpet and you might find lovely wood floors, or maybe Jimmy Hoffa. Just think creative, use your imagination, these could be great places. Anyone? Anyone?

That was the worst of the worst. But. Most of the places I've seen have been, well, pretty bad. And by pretty bad I mean: Not fit for human or domestic animal habitation. Mold, bugs and questionable wiring are the common denominators. My guess is that the owners can't rent these places because they're not up to city codes so they try to unload them on someone who is in a desperate situation and will buy it thinking they can fix it up and make it better.

There was one place I liked a lot. And I lost the opportunity because I didn't have all the required money in enough time to put it on contract before someone else snatched it up.

That happens a lot. There are a lot of people like me. Not really looking to buy a place, but being bitten badly by the high rent increase bug and realizing the better option is to try to find a place to buy. The thing is, there are so many of us out there right now that the low priced places in decent neighborhoods get snatched up in days.

Which is why I have made an offer on a small (okay, teeny tiny) place so far away from the hub of my life that I can't believe it's even in the city limits. (It is, but I had no idea the city limits went that far, and I really thought I knew the limits of the city.) I don't love it, in fact I don't even really like it. It's okay. It's really, really small and I don't like the neighborhood. Oh wait, I mentioned those issues. I didn't mention that it's covered in mirrors. At some point in this little condo's life, someone heard that mirrors give the illusion of space and depth. They took that idea and ran with it. I mean really ran with it. They ran so far that I could earn a little extra money by hanging out a Fun House sign and charging admission. Or by setting up a velvet rope and hanging a disco ball from the bedroom ceiling fan, (yes, bedroom) dimming the lights and charging a cover charge. But, even with it's diminutive size and narcissist's fantasy decor, the House of Mirrors (HōM) is the biggest and best of what I've seen in my price range. The assessments are low because it's a no frills building. We're talking basic everything. But no frills is easy on the budget.

I should be excited, right? I know, I should. But I'm not. It's a purchase borne of desperation and frustration. It's a long, long, long way from even a remote dream home. It's walls, some windows and roof and that's what I need. They were going to have an open house and I knew what that meant. Someone would grab it. I've been to a lot of open houses lately and I know what goes on at those things. If I didn't put in an offer prior to the open house, I'd lose out on another place.

I'm a long way from closing on it, but, an offer has been made and the games have begun. Price, closing dates, and earnest money are being negotiated. Inspections are being made. Appraisals are being typed. Lawyers are going to be involved. And guess who pays for all of that? And lemme tell ya, none of it coms cheap. Everyone in the affiliated industries are there to leach off the home buyer. They know the situation. They know the desperation. They know the vulnerability. They know what would normally sound like outrageous pricing seems like a bargain compared to the other money congruently being discussed and changing hands. $200 to turn on the faucets to check the water pressure? Hey, that's nothing compared to the $450 the lawyer gets or the endless fees the mortgage company keeps requesting. What gets me is they, the mortgage company, know better than anyone, and in fact keep reminding me, that I am a low income buyer. Low income, people, low income. And getting lower every day.

You know you're getting a mortgage when: Every day you get at least four credit card offers in the mail. Credit card companies pounce on people in my situation. They, too, know the high stakes money grab known as real estate, and they, too, know preying on people in a vulnerable time in their lives is the best way to make a lot of money. All those real estate fees breaking your budget? Fear not! Get a credit card! Want to fix up the new place or buy furniture but don't have the money because of all the fees and expenses related to buying a home? Fear not! Get a credit card. What gets me is that people, lots of people, must take the bait. They wouldn't send out mailing after mailing if it weren't garnering results. But for crying out loud, I'm not even a home owner yet, The deal could fall through and I could be as homeless as ever. And the timing of these credit card mailings makes me suspicious about their motivations. They know it's not a done deal, yet. They know it could all go wrong. And that's when those credit cards are going to start to look even more attractive. Desperation.

Mainly, I cannot wait for this to be over. Tell me if I've "won" the place or send me back onto the streets looking for a place to live. The waiting truly is the hardest part. My life is still in limbo, but an expensive limbo. It's an odd situation: I have a mortgage but I don't actually have a home (HōM). I'm technically no further ahead in the house hunt than I was when I started all this. My real estate agent and lawyer both remind me, daily, that I shouldn't do anything rash like move my phone or internet service or notify the post office or even buy paint, because it's not a done deal and it's certainly not mine. I am as homeless as I ever was until everyone gets as much money as they can from me and the seller and I and our lawyers and real estate agents all sign the proper documents and exchange more money.

9:39 PM

Monday, March 05, 2007  
"Turn Cyberlosers into Social-networking Magnets”
I've never liked Myspace, Facebook or Friendster. Mainly because I'm not 14. And I have an aversion (perhaps even an allergy) to bad graphics, spam, infantile comments posted by complete strangers and pervy men trolling for, well, what pervy men troll for on those sites.

Most people know this sort of stuff happens. It's been an accepted practice on online dating sites since the dawn of online dating. "Seeds" are planted - good looking, "fun" sounding people posing as members to lure in would-be dates. When they don't respond to email sent by prospective wooers, it's not a big deal. The wooer simply thinks the "member" is rude or not interested. The reliable dating sites have slowed this practice in the past few years because they have enough legit members and because they don't want to risk losing those credit card carrying members because of something as silly as their reputation as an honest service provider. But free and less reputable sites use this ploy. A lot.

It stands to reason the practice of renting fake friends for the sole purpose of misrepresenting yourself in a community where it's very difficult to get caught, and if you do get caught, it doesn't really matter, would latch onto this practice. These are not people you will probably ever meet face to face. If they get hurt or offended by a fake friend list, so what? What difference does it really make? There are loads of other people to meet online, sure, they were good for some comments and a twinkling fairy graphic now and then, but let's face it, they're hardly going to drive you home when you've had too much to drink or give you a place to stay when your apartment building goes condo.

This is an entire industry being built around Myspace et al, an industry based on lies and deception. At best it's spin doctoring, a little PR for the lonely and/or uncool, the people who just need a little nudge to get them started. I call this de Bergeracking. Sad but innocent attempts to fit into a community which values looks and "coolness" above all other things. It's the equivalent of trying to hang out with the cool kids in order to give off the perception of being cool. Deep down they're very cool, but a little socially awkward. Rent-a-friends give them the confidence to let their cool shine through their social awkwardness.

At worst it's fraud. It's fueling false self-esteem and perpetuating the bad reputation the online "community" has due to the scams, fraud and cyber stalkers who come with the territory. In either case, and every variation in-between, it's pathetic and sad that it's come to this. I call this lying.

Either because of Sims or the safety needs of anonymity, the line between reality and fantasy is blurred online.

People who are big in Sims worlds often have a distorted sense of their real life identity. For many people it is not just a late night diversion. Their persona in Sims world is attractive, popular, wealthy and in many cases oversexed. Heck, who wouldn't want to live in Sims? It's compensating for all the shortcomings in the real world. It's a trip to Fantasy Island without having to fly on that sea plane and deal with the unpredictable and sometimes hard nosed Mr. Roark. The "good" thing about Sims worlds is that everyone knows it's fake, everyone knows it's all a lie. The whole point of the thing is to lie. But when John Bigbucks leaves Sims and wanders over to Myspace, is he going to shift gears and become Percy Nobody? I strongly doubt it. He's on a popularity buzz from Sims, he's riding high on the drug of acceptance and power, he's going to want to take that with him to the next community website.

And then there are the safety issues. I'm big on online safety. Real big. I know of one too many people who've been badly burned by slacking with their anonymity online. I strongly believe in anonymous blog posts. If you can't lose your job or your significant other, do not blog about them with your actual name. So to some extent I'm guilty of perpetuating the online lying epidemic. I, and many other bloggers, blog away under a pseudonym for personal safety reasons. It's not important who we "really" are. We're not misrepresenting ourselves and most of us don't post fake friends or comments by fake friends. We're not blogging to gain popularity or get a date or widen our social circle with hot, cool friends. We blog some words, maybe a photo or two, and then resume our regularly scheduled lives. Basically, we don't live to blog or blog to live.

But then there are the others. The others who do exactly that. They've got some need to be accepted, some craving to be popular. Mainly I feel sorry for them. If they're suffering so badly that they need to rent "friends" well, I mean, ethics lessons are not the first reason why these people need to seek counseling.

As for the increasing attention the rent-a-friend services are getting, I see this as a good thing. Eventually word will spread and people will be more savvy about selecting friends online or even using those sites in the first place. People won't trust cyber "friends" as being reliable or honest and the popularity of the sites will decrease. Heck, people might even bother to get out in public and make face to face social connections.

3:06 PM

 
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