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<





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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.
Find Federal Officials
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or Search by State

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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, October 10, 2007  
So, here’s a milestone I didn’t think I’d mark for a while. At least a few years, anyway.

I have to hire a nurse.

The kind of nurse lonely rich old spinsters have when they are not able to care for themselves and have no one to help them go to the bathroom and take their medications.

I recently came to the realization it would happen some day. I was just starting to try to accept that I'm on my own. Really, truly on my own. No one wants to date me let alone give me a chance, love me and marry me. So whether I want it that way or not, it's the single life for me.

I’m still working on firmly planting it in my brain that I am, and always will be, alone. And I think I’m doing a pretty darned good job of it for someone who never wanted to or thought she’d spend her life single and childless.

I’m not happy about it but I’ve accepted that I have to stop trying to fight it. And that’s a huge hurdle. Admitting it is the first step.

Acceptance is a process not an event.

But I am not far enough along in the process to casually deal with the fact that, because I live alone and have no one at home or close by to help me, I have to hire a nurse.

The ramifications of trying to accept a life alone haven’t really hit home, yet. I mean, not all of them. The big picture is clear: Loneliness.

But the other stuff, like a lifetime of dealing with life’s unexpected situations on my own, hasn’t really sunk in yet. I mean, I’ve dealt with all of it alone thus far in my life, there have been plenty of difficult situations I've handled on my own, but you know, you kind of think, “hey, I’m young, this was a fluke, it builds character, helps me appreciate the people in my life that much more, it won’t always be this way, some day I’ll have someone by my side and we’ll help each other…”





“Any questions about your surgery?” the surgeon asked me.

“Nope. You’ve covered every possible angle. I think I could teach a class on torn tendons in the foot and ankle.”

“Okay, then talk to the nurse about scheduling the surgery and I’ll see you in the O.R. Keep in mind we won’t release you without someone over the age of 18 to take you home and stay with you for 24 hours after the surgery.”

“Wait. Whoa. You didn’t mention that.”

“Sorry. With surgery of this nature we’ll sedate you quite heavily and because the surgery is on your foot and ankle you need to be extremely careful. You have to take your medications on schedule for the first few days. And if you’re woozy or tired after the surgery and off balance from the pain you’re liable to fall and injure yourself or rupture the surgery. Remember how I told you you’re almost literally treading on eggs for two weeks after the surgery? Very, very limited mobility means only absolutely necessary time standing vertical, little or no walking. We discussed this.”

“Yes, but not the ‘no being alone for 24 hours’ aspect!”

Affecting a ‘now now, it’s okay, this is all normal, don’t panic’ tone, “It’s common surgical procedure. You may be under the influence of the sedation and unable to practice good judgment for a few hours after the surgery. We can’t just put you in a cab and send you home, you need assistance.”

(Thinking back to the days following the broken ankle and concussion and remembering very little and realizing all told I was in ER 16 hours before they’d let me leave.) “But, but, but…oh. Erm. Okay. I see. Thanks.”

As the nurse started going over all the pre-operation paperwork and procedures I was in a daze. First I find out I have to have surgery to repair a torn tendon, then I have to deal with the fact that the surgery is invasive and painful and will require me to be off my feet and oh crap I live alone what am I going to do? My mind was racing through all the possible candidates for transportation and tucking in and bathroom assistance duty and coming up pretty much empty.

The nurse was reiterating the rule that I would not be released without an adult over 18 to take me home as I mentally checked off the last person on the possibility list. Tears started welling. It was one of those small, insignificant moments where the poignancy hits you and you are suddenly way, way too aware. The weight of the world crashes on you.

I don’t feel or say this very often. A few times in my life at most. I try accept stuff, deal with stuff, devise plans, solve problems. I am not, and do not want to become, a damsel in distress type of girl. But all I could think, over and over in a cacophony of tones and inflection, was “What am I going to do? What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”

Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. What am I going to do? Think, Trillian, think.

The nurse stood there looking at me, waiting for me to answer her question.

“I’m sorry, what? What was the question?”

“Do you need assistance? I have a form for social services. If you don’t have someone to take you home and help you social services can arrange that for you.”

Social services? Social services??! Me? Social services? Has it come to this? I need forms for social services??




“Oh. Right. Erm. Yeah. Maybe I should take that form. You know, just in case.”





Asking someone to take a day off work and wait in a surgery waiting room and then schlep a woozy patient on crutches home and babysit them for 24 hours, sleeping on a small couch, administering medications, making sure they don’t fall down and helping them to and from the bathroom is, well, asking a lot.

The logical candidate is my mother. But she can’t. She’s physically unable. Oh, I know she’d be fine, I know she’d take great care of me, but, she’s dealing with physical limitations of her own. My dad and I are looking after her.

My dad, well, my dad. He could do it. But my mother needs him to look after her. And there’s not room for both of them in my teeny tiny itty bitty apartment.

Frankie. Frankie would do it. And I wouldn’t feel “bad” asking her. But. She starts a new job the week prior to the surgery. She can’t just up and take a couple days off at that juncture at her new job.

Other friends: They have children they can’t leave that long, they have jobs, they live too far away…they’re busy. Excuse, I mean reason after reason, friends bowed out of my request for help. “Sorry, Trill…”

This is why I don’t ask for help. Apparently everyone except me has learned how to say no.

My brother has a huge assignment otherwise he’d come to my aid.

My sister.

My irresponsible, unreliable, clueless, selfish sister. Hey. Any port in a storm and how many times have I bailed her out of trouble? How many times have I helped her? Too many to count. She rose to the occasion and promised to make it “fun.”

“I’ll take the train over and we’ll get a bunch of movies and magazines and order take-out and make cupcakes and do mud masks, it’ll be fun!”

I knew it wouldn’t be “fun” but I had to give her credit for jumping in and agreeing to help me. She’s over 18 and that’s all that mattered. If she forgot to give me a pill or didn’t hear me fall on the way to the bathroom, well, so be it. At least she meets the required age limit and I could be released from surgery and go home. And I wouldn't require assistance from social services.

Whew. Okay. Problem solved. Weight off my mind. I’m a spinster, but I’m not entirely alone. And I don’t have to hire a nurse. I bought stuff to make cupcakes and some of those fancy frozen girlie pastries and gathered up all the home spa supplies I could find from the box of bathroom stuff I hadn't unpacked yet. I unpacked the cute tea pot. "This might be nice," I thought, "some alone time with my sister. Maybe this will be good for us."





Then the email arrived. “Trill, guess what?! I met this really great guy and I’m going to Sante Fe with him for a week! I can’t wait for you to meet him!”

No apology. Not even an acknowledgement of the fact that the dates of her week of sun and seduction in Sante Fe with new Mr. Perfect coincides with my surgery.

This is so like her. This is her M.O. I couldn’t even be angry. I deserved this for trusting her. I know better. She has never risen to any occasion. No one expects anything of her and that’s exactly how she likes it, she’s crafted it that way. Without expectations or responsibilities she’s free to do exactly as she pleases without any guilt or consequences. No one relies on you so you never let anyone down. It’s all a very neat and tidy little way of life.

Okay. Maybe I’m being a little harsh.

But. You might think your sister’s surgery would take a higher priority than going to Sante Fe with a man you just met. And let me add for the record, my sister “meets” many, many “perfect” men. This isn’t like someone like, oh, say, me meeting a man, any man, perfect or otherwise, which would be a huge deal.




So I was back at square one and a form requesting aid from a social worker.

I’ve had some bleak days. Dark hours. Long lonely nights. (way too many of those) But this ranks right near the top on the list of things which made me feel really, really pathetic and alone.

Even my own sister won’t help me for 24 hours.

(Here I stop to reason with myself, it’s not that other people won’t help me. Frankie would. My brother would. My mother and father would. MAF would. But for valid and serious reasons, they can’t. Bad timing. Physical limitations. Those things can’t be helped. Just so we’re clear. There are a few people who would help me if they could.)

Still. (Feeling pathetic again) Even my own sister won’t help me for 24 hours.





The social services people were a lot nicer and more understanding than I thought they’d be. One of them talked in that condescending “we” tone which I find irritating and ingratiating, but other than that they were actually quite helpful.

That is until they called to inform me that my health insurance won’t cover home health care. They delivered this news quite abruptly and said, “Do you still want to schedule a nurse?”

“Erm, well, how much will it cost me? I mean, I don’t really have a choice, they won’t release me without someone over 18 to care for me for 24 hours.”

“$500 - $1,500 depending on how involved the care is. That will be specified by your physician.”

“I see. Okay. Well. I guess I better talk to my doctor.”





The conversation with my doctor about what sort of nurse I’d need after surgery was interesting. I could tell he was trying not to sound surprised when he said, “You don’t have anyone who can help you?” He said it as if he’d never had a patient in this situation, as if he was questioning his hearing rather than my ability to get someone to help me. I envisioned him on the other end of the phone with eyebrows furrowed in thought, “she seemed like a nice person, she seemed like someone who would have family or friends…”




So now I’m waiting for a nurse to be assigned to me. The surgery was postponed until I could scrape up the money to pay for the nurse. And I’m in a tremendous amount of pain. With a throbbing swollen foot and ankle due to a torn tendon.

I can’t be the only one to ever be in this situation. A lot of people are single and living far away from their families. A lot of people are single and have friends who can’t take time off work or away from kids. Right? I mean, I’m not the only one in this situation. I can’t be. Or. Maybe I am.

The doctor gave me one of those long exasperated sighs when I told him I have to postpone the surgery until I can afford to pay the nurse. “I understand, but this tear is quite large and quite serious, you can’t let this go on indefinitely. There are already signs of secondary affiliated damage in your ankle and toes.”

I knew he wasn’t just saying that to scare me. My ankle is swollen, stiff and sore and two of my toes have gone completely numb. Sometimes I have uncontrollable spasms from the knee down.

But the home health care agents require payment up front. And my insurance isn’t going to cover much of my surgery. There’s only so much money coming in and only so much credit left on the credit cards. Rob Peter, pay Paul, rinse, lather, repeat.

I could blame my sister. She’s an easy target. But the fact about her is that she lives 6 hours away and realistically she can’t be expected to traipse to my aid. If she lived down the block or even an hour away that would be different. But she doesn’t.

The real fact is: I’m on my own. Period. I live a long way from family and good friends. The kind of friends who will sleep on your couch and help you go to the bathroom for 24 hours.

Somehow, somewhere along the line, my buddies, my friends, the people who I relied on and who relied on me for this sort of thing, all got married. They all have significant others, spouses, partners, to help rely on for this kind of stuff. They don’t need me, our “reciprocal pledge of help” has been voided because they have someone else to help them. Which is great for them, but what about the lone single person left without someone to rely on for this kind of stuff? I certainly don’t want to be the mercy friend, the recipient of pity help. “Oh, honey, I know it’s Friday and it’s our date night, but Trillian, poor old Trillian is all alone and has to have surgery and needs someone to take her home and help her go to the bathroom. She doesn’t have a great husband like you to help her.” Ye gads. When did I become that girl?

I’ve been trying to make friends here, but I keep running into the same stories. Women my age are married and have or are planning to have children. They’re buying homes in the burbs or very busy with their husbands/boyfriends/jobs. The women I meet who are single have not accepted life as a single person and are wrapped up (Hellbent) in trying to meet a man with whom they can marry, move to the burbs and have children.

It’s really hard to meet people once you reach a certain age and aren’t married or don’t have children. I met a woman who is my age and single, she’s nice, we get along well, but she lives in the suburbs and has a very, very busy social life. She doesn't have a lot of time for new friendships. Why? She has two children from a former marriage. She has loads of friends via her kids and their activities. She even was offered a great job and met a new guy via connections she made with parents of her kids’ friends.

I should have thought about all of this when I was younger. I should have had a Plan B. Well. In fairness to me, I did have a Plan B, it was actually my Plan A, I call it: a job, a career. It never occurred to me to depend on a husband for money. But. Unfortunately it never occurred to me I might need to depend on a husband to bring me home from surgery, either.

It never occurred to me that I wouldn't meet someone who would want to marry me.

It never occurred to me that I might end up so alone that I’d have to hire a nurse.

And I'm not even one of those rich mean bitter old dowager women in old movies who hires some sweet young girl as an aid/nurse and treats her horribly but the young aid hangs in there and takes the abuse and helps the old woman out of pure and kind heart and then ends up falling in love with the gardener or lawyer who has it in for the mean old bitty and the innocent young aid ends up unwittingly playing a role in the murder of the old shrew dowager...You have to be old, rich and (I believe) widowed to be a dowager. (note to self: Do dowagers have to be widowed? Are never-married old rich lonely women merely spinsters?)I'm neither rich or old and certainly not widowed. So even though that formula could provide some shred of interest to my life story, sadly, it's not possible.

I'm just me. A single woman, on my own, who needs surgery and has no one at home or close enough to home to help her.

And that’s a sobering reality. If this doesn’t force me to accept that I am single, really, really single, without a prospect in sight, with few (no) single friends, nothing will.

4:10 PM

 
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