Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Tuesday, February 27, 2007 Vote Early, Vote Often
Does giving out donuts at a polling place qualify as electioneering?
Civic Duty So, I’m walking into my polling place this morning, which happens to be in my compartment building, and a man walks in behind me with a big box of donuts. It was early, the place just opened, and the workers were not all there yet. Those who were there were busy. So the donut guy held out the huge box of donuts at me in a gesture of offering me a donut. I, being me, chuckled and said, “It takes a lot more than a donut to bribe a vote out of me.” Nyuck nyuck implied.
The donut guy laughed and said, “Perhaps you have a dead relative who might like a donut.” Nyuck nyuck.
Har hars all around.
He sets the donuts on a table comes back over to where I’m waiting to check-in to vote. He smiles, puts out his hand as if to shake mine, I reach to shake his hand and...kisses it instead.
Okay, ewwwwwwwwww. Maybe he fancies it as a charming gesture. But unless you are in fact Maurice Chevalier and acting in a Merchant Ivory Edwardian period film, or mocking either of those, you cannot pull off this maneuver and come across as anything other than a ridiculous jerk. Way too swing for a guy with donuts at an election polling place. Way too swing for 6 AM. Just way too swing period.
So I beat it over to the kiosk and busy myself with voting. (not that I really believe my vote counts or matters, dis is Chicago, kid, but my civic responsibility is so ingrained in me I feel dirty and shameful if I don’t vote)
I finish my voting and I’m walking toward the door and the donut guy reaches out to shake my hand again. I fear another kiss so I hesitate and back a step away from him. So instead, on my way out the door he pats my ass.
You heard me.
This was no “oops, I accidentally brushed against her ass” situation. This was a blatant “hey baby, buy you a drink and take you to bed” situation.
Ewwwwwwwwwww. I mean, nice to have some attention from a man, but, ewwwwwwwwwwwww. Right there in front of the election workers and the voting kiosks and the donuts and the American flag and everything. Brazenly pats my ass right there under the flag.
There’s got to be a happy medium between being completely ignored by men and insulted by a creepy donut guy copping a feel of my ass in front of a bunch of people at the polling place. Right? I mean, it is possible for a man to show interest in a woman without being suggestive or molestive, right? And, who hangs around a polling place to pick up women? Ewwwwwwwwww. Who does that to a complete stranger in front of other (presumed) complete stranger witnesses?
I keep thinking there must be some misinterpretation. I must have got it wrong. I’m lonely and tired and stressed and surely I must be misinterpreting this. But I replay it and replay it and come up with no way this could be an accident. It was blatant and obvious. And just to ice the cake and cement my take on the whole thing, he raises a suggestive eyebrow at me and gives me a “hey baby” grin.
Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
I beat a hasty retreat back to my compartment, contemplate taking another shower to try to wash off the stink of the creepy donut guy, get ready for work and head back down to the lobby.
My doorperson, with whom I've become friends, stops me and says, "One of those election guys was asking about you." She then gives a description of the creepy donut guy.
I tell her what happened. She chuckles. She tells me he had a salivating dog look when he described me to her. He asked her my name. She, being a good security person and better friend didn't give up any information about me. I feel like I dodged a potentially weird bullet and head off to work.
I walk out of the building and turn the corner and: There’s the donut guy handing out election flyers.
He sees me, flashes that “hey baby” grin and raises the suggestive eyebrow and says, “I already got you.” Wink wink nudge nudge implied.
Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
"There's a party tonight, you should come, it's going to be a lot of fun," again with a suggestive eyebrow and a "hey baby" swaggering grin.
Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
I mean, what kind of person uses an election as a way to hit on women? Oh wait. I just answered my own question.
It's just, you know, gross. You think it won't happen to you and then it does and you just feel gross and dirty.
I'm above that sort of thing, and I go through life presuming it's obvious I'm not the kind of woman who falls for that sort of thing. Power doesn't turn me on, and politicians most certainly do not turn me on. I've spent my adult life trying to avoid politicians and real estate agents and anyone affiliated with either industry. Dirty. Rotten. Scoundrels.
But wait. There’s more. Because there’s always more.
Curious as to who would hire this guy to stump for him, I took one of his flyers. On the flyer is the name of an alderman running for election and a photo of the alderman running for election.
Guess who.
Yep. Donut guy. Way too swing kissing hand guy. Copping a feel guy. The picking up women at the election polling place guy. “Hey baby” grin and suggestively raised eyebrow guy. That guy is running for alderman.
I did some research before I voted, but he looks different in person than in his online photos. I never would have recognized him in person based on his photos.
Maybe it’s because in most of the photos his wife is beaming brightly by his side and his two kids and dog posing in front of him. Such a devoted family man.
And.
Wait a minute.
Isn't there a rule or an actual law about people running for elections not being allowed within a certain radius of the actual voting area?
I mean, even if all he was doing was dropping off donuts - let's pretend the hand kiss and ass pat hadn't happened - what was he doing hanging around the voting area in the first place?
Then again, any married man running for elected office who hits on female voters probably isn't too concerned with pesky rules or ethics of the voting process.
Buy hey, a guy made a physical pass at me, so, you know, that’s something.
I guess.
Right?
I guess that’s something, I mean, for me that’s a pretty big deal and I should be flattered. I guess. I don’t feel flattered. I feel gross and dirty and disgusted. Because polling places are not singles bars. Polling places are about serious civic duty. They’re not about lecherous politicians feeling up the local constituency.
Of course, dis is Chicago.
Post Script: The term evading me earlier is: Electioneering. The word for the day is: Electioneering. So easy even a child can do it, or at least learn about it, so no excuses. See page 10 of the "Let's Vote" public school voting education guide for grade K-3. While my aldermanic paramour didn't technically electioneer within the voting zone he might want to brush up on the election day basics. (Actually, do kisses on the hand, pats on the arse, or donuts count as electioneering? I'm thinking no to the first two, yes to the donuts. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Dohhhhhnuuuuuuts) His defense would have to be something like, "I wasn't electioneering in the polling place, I was groping a women at the polling place." I wonder which is worse for a politician's image: Getting caught electioneering in a polling place, or getting caught groping a woman who is not his wife in a polling place. I'm guessing it depends on the constituency. I'm guessing electioneering is to Chicago as philandering is to the Kennedys: Accepted norm.
Monday, February 26, 2007
I’ve been to a marvelous party. Oh lucky me, right?
Wrong.
Same old story: Nice function, loads of people, even eligible bachelors, me and a single female friend.
I put on my happy “I’m nice and easy going and approachable” face and set out to enjoy the evening. If I meet an interesting man, so be it, but statistically I know that’s a long shot so I just enjoy the moments and the event. A couple of men approach me, but, as is always the case, it’s my friend they’re interested in, not me. They’re using me to get to my friend.
She spends the night fighting off men, trying to enjoy the event and have a good time with me, but eventually it becomes obvious the men are not going to leave her alone and heck, she’s single and looking and dolled up and isn’t that really the point anyway? And eventually meets one she likes and the two of them leave for someplace quieter where they can talk.
It’s not enough that I have to go home alone (and pay for the taxi which my friend had promised to pay because I paid for the taxi there, ugly loser girls always know to carry cab fare, though, so I was covered. Still. What if I hadn’t been?) It’s not enough that I had to suffer an evening of being left out and basically on my own at an event where I was the guest of a friend. It’s not enough that every time I went to the ladies room or to the bar a man would start talking to me all nice and friendly and charming and then say, “What’s your friend’s story? Is she available?” It’s not enough that I’m left to watch the purse and the table while my friend dances and goes to another table to meet some guy’s friends. It’s not enough that I’ve suffered a lifetime of this, none of that is enough. There’s one more insult to be hurled to put the nail in the coffin. As I was standing out in the winter storm trying to hail a taxi, my friend and her new love interest were waiting for the valet to bring his car. Did he offer me a ride? Of course not, and I wouldn’t expect him to do that. I would if I were a guy in that situation, but my parents raised me differently that apparently other people are raised. Did he offer to help me get a cab by going a block up the street and hailing one for me? Of course not. Why would he do that? I’m a capable adult, why should he get wet, deal with an icy sidewalk or take five minutes to help me? Just because I’m a woman in heels and an evening dress and a friend of the woman he’s clearly hoping to score with later in the evening doesn’t make him responsible for me safely getting a taxi. Forgetting all those breaches of chivalry, the final insult came as they got into his car. My friend gave me a hug good night and told me to be careful going home. Gee, thanks, okay, I’ll take that advice, what with the ice and me in heels and not a cab to be had on this Godforsaken venue to which she begged me to accompany her, being careful is good advice which never would have occurred to me. As her new man nearly carried her to car, (“oh, be careful darling, it’s very icy, let me help you, those heels are lovely but hard to walk in, how about if I just carry you the few steps to my car?”) I heard him say, “Why do women like that bother to come to these things? It’s a waste of time and can’t be any fun, she’ll never get a cab around here and God knows no one wants to go out with her.”
To be fair, I did hear my friend attempting to protest his remarks but then he shut her into the car without a backward glance at me and off they drove to that quieter place where they can talk.
“Oh Trill, the guy’s a jerk, you don’t want someone like that anyway.”
“Forget it, Trill, it’s no big deal. Your friend’s a slut and the guy’s cad.”
“Why do you keep doing this to yourself, Trill? It always ends the same way.”
Here’s the thing: My friend is not gorgeous. And she’s a horrible conversationalist. The first impression she gives is one of scatterbrained and tired. She’s attractive, but wears a lot of the wrong make-up and desperately needs a haircut and could at times be described as unkempt. She is intelligent but it’s not obvious, and in fact she often comes off as a dull, dimwitted, loud mouthed, sometimes rude bore tinged with a bit of bitchiness.
No, I’m not lashing out at my friend. She has some great qualities, I like her, but only because I was put in a situation which forced me to be with her and get to know her beyond her surface and first impressions. I wasn’t fond of her at first, but as time went by and I was forced to spend time with her, I got to know her a bit and learned sparks of profound intelligence lurk in there. But let me tell you, it took a long time for those sparks to shine bright enough to see.
So, what makes her a man magnet? I mean, seriously, men literally flocked to her and a one point there was even a bit of a fight over her between two would-be suitors. She had her choice of too many to count men, and opted for the best looking and most smooth talking of the bunch.
Most of my other friends, the friends with whom I’ve endured similar evenings watching them get loads of attention from men, have obvious appeal. They’re beautiful. And charming. And witty. And intelligent. And good at flirting without coming off looking desperate or dumb. Heck, how could any man not be attracted to them?
But this woman, this new friend of mine, adds a new spin on the old tale. She’s not especially attractive. She comes off as humorless. And dim-witted. And when she does flirt it comes off pathetic and silly, and worse, she’s completely unaware that she’s making a fool of herself. Not only is she unemployed, she’s been fired from three jobs in the past six years. She’s living off an insurance settlement from her brother’s murder. And she has a habit of correcting people, especially men – their grammar, their manners, their choice of drink. She has a lot of problems and talks about them to complete strangers. And no, she doesn’t even possess that certain kind of vulnerability that some men find so appealing.
Am I jealous? Well, not of her. I wouldn’t want to be her. But I am jealous of the attention she got from all those men. She left with a man who was clearly captivated by her. Or at least clearly wanting something other than conversation from her. Tucked into her purse were several phone numbers and email addresses of other men hoping for a shot with her.
I studied this situation for a few hours hoping I could learn from her. Learning a few tricks or getting some new ideas on how to present myself to the world would make this evening worth my while.
But I’ve been re-evaluating it and I’m coming up with nothing. Well, nothing but more blows to my self esteem, more insults hurled at me and more proof that there really is no one who’s interested in me. There really is no one for me. If men like her they’ll never like me. Because I’m nothing like her. And I’m not gorgeous like my other friends.
So.
Let’s review.
Homeless in a few weeks.
Low income. (by real estate market standards)
Not just alone, but alone to the point of repelling men.
Medical expenses piling up and no end to the doctor visits (or pain) in sight.
No home, no money, no love, and increasing health problems.
What’s the point of life(?) again? Someone please remind me.
11:08 AM
