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

 
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.

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2:58 PM

 
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