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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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

 
Saturday, March 29, 2008  
Apparently Earth Hour was a "success." Rock on, WWF. And no, I'm not talking about Hulkamania. WWF is a great organization that does amazing things for wildlife of the world. The scope is international. Conservation knows no political or religious boundaries. Or, well, that's the goal, anyway. So, s'all good and I was excited and into Earth Hour. I'm still not clear why Earth Hour doesn't happen on Earth Day, but hey, whatever. Conserving energy and doing something about the huge problem of climate change is good and necessary, no matter what day of the year.

I know, I know. I hear you loud and clear. I hear you saying, "Give it a rest, Trill. We do care about glaciers and polar bears and yes, we believe global warming is real, and here now and will have a negative impact on the planet and on each of us very soon. Some of us even made it through Al Gore's yawn fest of a PowerPoint. Heck, some of us even believe Al Gore invented global warming right after he invented the internet and by golly he's got the Nobel Peace Prize to prove it. So get off our backs and off your blog about it already, will ya?"

Okay. I know. You're smart and conscientious and you care and you do your part. Yay you.

Around the globe, for one hour, individuals, businesses and municipalities turned off some or all of the lights. I had dinner with some friends at a restaurant featuring a "lights out" green meal. The menu offerings were items which do not require cooking. However they did require refrigeration which is a food health and safety code, for good reason. Green and ecologically conscious is one thing, botulism is another.

And that's a good point. You don't have to live without electricity completely to play an integral role in doing something very real, very now in creating a positive impact on the climate. Just be a little more conscious of your use of electricity and conscientious in turning any power switch. There are probably some times you don't need all the lights on in the house, or times when the television is on and you're not in the room, or nights when you could make a seven veggie salad for dinner instead of using the stove, oven or microwave.

Lighting experts say it's pleasing to have "layers and levels" of light in our homes. To the HGTV uninitiated, that means having a room awash with: recessed ceiling lighting, chandeliers or pendant lighting, table lamps and even sconces in some cases. That's a lot of lighting. And yes, I get the theory and have seen the pleasing results. All on a nifty remote control/computerized system. One of my friends has a house with a light timing system which, when you hit the switch, lights your way down the hall and into the kitchen. The light travels with you, like a spotlight, as you walk down the hall. It sounds cool but in practice it's creepy. If you stop walking the lighting continues to go off and on down the hall and into the kitchen without you. Lighting systems like these are popular and to some extent energy efficient. But c'mon. My grandparents didn't have electricity in their home, the entire huge three story farmhouse had no power, and yet somehow they managed to get by without layers of lighting, and they even managed to get to the kitchen for years before the county brought power lines out to their neck of the woods and they hooked up to them.

Am I saying we should all start fumbling around in the dark or using candles to light our way at night? No. But I know there are ways we can all cut back our energy consumption. I live in a small, teeny tiny condo. I don't need a lot of lighting and I don't use a lot. But nonetheless I am vowing to have a conscientious hour (or more) of no power (apart from the fridge) every night after dark. Seems like a no brainer, right? Wellllll, maybe not as simple as it seems. No power means no computer. No charging the cell phone, laptop or iPod. No air conditioning in the summer. Are these huge sacrifices? Oh good grief, of course not. It's getting into the habit of heightened consciousness and awareness, remembering to not hit the on switch or plug in that requires the discipline. If we all take small steps we'll have a big impact. We had a big impact in Earth Hour.

But Ireland, well, Ireland. Sigh. I'm not casting aspersions. I'm just observing and reporting, sharing the AP news quote. "Ireland's more than 7,000 pubs elected not to take part — in part because of the risk that Saturday night revelers could end up smashing glasses, falling down stairs, or setting themselves on fire with candles."

And that differs from any other Saturday night in an Irish pub?

Note to Ireland's pubs: I dined in a completely candle lit restaurant which was very crowded. Libations were served. I noticed a lot of bottles of wine being consumed. And the restrooms are down a flight of stairs. I'm happy to report that even with the very large crowd and libations served, no glasses were smashed, no one fell down the stairs and shockingly, no one set themselves on fire.

And if people setting themselves alight in pubs is a problem in Ireland, well, here's a thought: What say you encourage people to stay out of pubs for an hour?

Then again, this is a country which bans smoking anywhere anyone is employed except police holding cells, prisons, college dorms, nursing homes and psychiatric hospitals. Ummm. Again. Not casting aspersions on Ireland or the Irish. But why in the name of boiled potatoes would you make special provisions in your smoking ban for clinically physically and mentally infirm people? "Gran's so physically incapable of taking care of herself we have to put her in a nursing home, but by golly she better get to smoke there. In her bed. In the nursing home." "They finally put ol' Crazy Sean away in the looney bin, about time, eh? How many houses has he burned to the ground? I lost count. But at least he can smoke in the psych hospital." Maybe reasonable logic may not apply to personal safety issues in Ireland.

So along with doing our own part, we have to compensate for Ireland who apparently can't be trusted around open flames.

It's not necessarily lights out time for me since my lighting consumption is already minimal, but it is power out time. I'm a participant and therefore guilty party of modern times. I'm on the go and my life goes with me. I use computers. Extensively. I have a cell phone. An iPod. Digital cameras. These modern conveniences all use power. So it's time I curtailed my reliance on those items. My grandparents would scoff at this. My gran would say this, exactly: "Oh for the love of Edison, girly, you'd think you were making some divine sacrifice. Get over yourself. All those newfangled gadgets of yours have clouded your perspective and judgment. If you ask me you're far too reliant on them. I managed and entire household and managed my clothing design and sewing business without any electricity, surely you can do without it for a an hour." She's right on every point and I'm setting out to do her proud by not looking at this as a sacrifice but as natural as breathing.

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11:44 PM

Thursday, March 27, 2008  
I have a new kind of Hell at Work. Yes. I’m a bitch because I’m generally not in favor of office romance. Yes. I’m a bitch because I have low tolerance for people who spend their days in the office doing everything except the job they were hired to do. Yes. I’m a bitch because I resent people who shirk their responsibilities and expect other people to a) understand their personal problems are more important than work and b) cover for them and their lack of ability to do their job.

Okay? Yes. I’m a tyrannical bitch because I don’t think romance and personal problems should interfere with work and the professional workplace.

Yes. We all go through personal problems, and yes, an otherwise hard working responsible employee deserves to have a lot of slack cut when there’s a personal problem. If they can’t take time off to deal with their problem, then a few days or weeks of helping them out at work during their crisis is the right thing to do. See? I’m not always a complete tyrannical bitch. I can be very compassionate. I have helped (read: covered for) a lot of colleagues in crisis during my working history.

But we have this new employee who is under the impression that her love life is the sole reason to come to work and that the rest of us are supposed to understand the priority is her romance and relationship issues, not actual work product.

Maybe if she’d had a proven track record I’d feel more generous, more understanding. Maybe if she produced anything, something, anything at least once a week I’d be more inclined to cut her slack. Maybe if she were actually at her desk and not on her cell phone I’d feel more compassionate about her situation.

But that’s not the case.

She finagled an interview at the last minute, after we’d already finalized the offer to someone else. She played every EOE card in the deck and made trailing remarks hinting at “unfair” hiring practices. She knew a lot about our company’s policies and cited them almost verbatim. Never mind she couldn’t cite her personal qualifications for the actual job. Never mind that she had a spotty and questionable work history. After the initial interview which wasn’t actually an interview, more just her telling us our company’s policies, she made several calls to our HR department with thinly veiled threats and more policy citation. My boss and HR felt threatened and so she was hired. Even though there were two candidates HUGELY more qualified for the job, one who already had an offer in the works. The squeaky wheel gets the job, regardless of its ability to turn and get the vehicle where it needs to go.

Within a week of her arrival many pieces of this enigmatic puzzle fell into place. Her boyfriend and her step mother both work for our company. That in itself is not a problem. We have a lot of familial relations in my company and for the most part it doesn’t cause problems. Though the relationships tend to be more along the sibling, cousin, aunt/uncle line, there are a few parental combos. There was a husband/wife duo a few years ago, but she left because they were getting a divorce and things were getting awkward and difficult at work.

See? That’s the mature, responsible thing to do. Is it fair that she felt she needed to leave a job she liked because she was in the middle of a divorce? Of course not. But. It’s also not fair to subject your coworkers to bickering, bullying, treading on eggs behavior which stems from a couple getting a divorce. Taking the high road of behavior is very rarely “fair” or just.

The fact that her boyfriend and stepmother work for our company isn’t a big deal. The big deal is that she and her boyfriend view the workplace as one long date. They kiss and get all gooey over each other in the halls and at their desks. If they’re not holding hands he’s got a hand on her bum. If they’re not together she’s cooing on the phone to him.

That is, when things are going well. Which is only about 40% of the time. The other 60% of the time they’re fighting. I mean knock down, drag out fighting. Yelling, shoving, pouting, slandering fighting. If they’re not fighting she’s on her cell phone talking (loudly) to her friends and family about whatever awful atrocity her boyfriend just committed.

Yesterday another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Apparently the guy either used to date someone here at work, or that woman had the hots for him. I’m not clear on that specific. But I am clear that our new employee is very, very upset about a certain woman who works in another department and has a very friendly relationship with her man. She appears to be jealous and feeling scorned and threatened. “What if I didn’t have this job? I’d never know about her. I knew there was something going on with you here, I KNEW it. You think I wouldn’t find out about her? You think I don’t know what’s going on? I’m here and I know everything now, you can’t hide at work anymore!” Mind you, I wasn’t eavesdropping. Everyone in the office could hear her yelling at him.

Oh, I forgot to mention they announced their engagement three weeks after she started working here. Yes. This couple with an extremely volatile and bi-polar relationship are planning to get married. So we’re either hearing her a) coo and lovey dove with him in the halls or at her desk with him, b) plan her wedding, c) argue with him or her step mother about the wedding plans, d) fight with him about his dirty socks on the floor of the living room, e) having a knock down drag out with him about the many other women he’s allegedly “juicing.” And I don’t think she means steroids.

But wait, there’s more! Her step mother, who has worked here for a number of years, works with the “alleged” other woman. Side-by-side. And the new employee is mad at her step mother for not “getting” the alleged other woman fired.

I know. I have a hard time keeping up with all this, too. And I try to avoid it as much as possible. But. They carry on all of this drama in our office, on display for all of us to see and hear. Apart from walking out of the office and the building entirely, there is no way to avoid it. And some of us actually have jobs, clients, deadlines, projects which need to be done. In the office. One of my coworkers was on the phone with a client. The client could hear the yelling in the background. The client chuckled and was good-natured about it, but, not exactly a shining beacon of professionalism or confidence instilling.

The new employee has been pulled aside and talked to about the disruptions in the office. But. She’s good at producing the tears as quickly as she can cite company policy. “I’m just so stressed with the wedding plans…” Oh. Right. Of course. We’re supposed to feel sorry for a woman we don’t know, who has yet to produce a day of work and disrupts the office with her relationship and family problems. Of course! I mean, duh, who doesn’t have compassion in that situation?!

Well, me, for one.

I’d like to say her personal life is interfering with her work but I have no idea what she is capable of doing. It may not be interfering at all. She has the attitude that work is interfering with her personal life. And we’re all supposed to be sympathetic to her about her wedding plans, “cheating” boyfriend and step-mother who won’t “get” someone, probably an innocent someone, fired.

I know. Suddenly your life seems a lot less complicated than it did when you got up this morning. I try to take that road of enlightenment to help me get through the day. I try to be thankful for this display because it helps me realize how simple and good my life is. I try to get a lesson from it. I didn’t actually need these lessons, but hey, school’s in session I might as well go to class.

Yes, this an extreme office romance situation. But I’m quite sure it’s not unusual. Maybe the antics are a little louder, but the issues are same. Sooner or later problems arise in relationships. And when both people in that relationship work at the same company, it will interfere with work. Period. Even if the relationship remains hunky dory, the cutesy love buggy cooing and hand on assign and stolen moments in the supply closet are interfering with work and probably driving coworkers batty. We come to work to work and collect our paycheck, not tiptoe around lovebirds in the copy room.

Frankie had a weird situation last year: She “caught” two of her coworkers holding hands in that special tender caressing precoital way, staring deeply into each others’ eyes in the copy room. Awwwww, how sweet, right? Aack.Well, I mean, not a huge deal to have their budding romance outed, except, well, outing the romance meant outing one of the players. It was two guys.

And one of them is married.

To a woman.

Yes. Brokeback Copyroom.

And there was Frankie, working late on a deadline just wanting to make color copies for a client. She now had the responsibility of all those “secrets” thrust upon her. She didn’t know and didn’t care about her coworkers’ love lives. But they forced her to know about it. They forced her to share in their “secrets.” I know, I know, the psychology of it says deep down they wanted to get caught. But not by Frankie. Frankie just works with them. Should couldn’t possibly care less about their personal lives, least of all their romantic personal lives. And yet, there she was, forced to share in their passion whose name must not be spoken. Things have been very, very awkward for all three of them since then. There’s the whole I know they know I know but I don’t want to know/I know she knows I hope she doesn’t tell my wife thing. It’s very, very unfair and more importantly, unprofessional for them to put her, or anyone at work, in that situation.

And yet there it is. I’m sure it happens a lot. I’m sure in offices around the globe there are people subjected to things they really did not want to know about their coworkers. They’re there to do their jobs and they get a daily soap opera played out in front of them. It’s a personal Hell that is completely undeserved. And yet the issue goes on and on because supervisors and HR departments hope the whole thing blows over and one of couple quits before they have to deal with complicated dismissal procedures. And this is why some companies have policies banning interoffice dating. Unfortunately I do not work for one of those companies. So my daily installment of as All My Coworkers plays out in front of me and will continue to do so.

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11:51 AM

Wednesday, March 26, 2008  
Red State
Red State
There I was separating my lunch of Mike and Ikes from the vending machine by color, as I always do when I have Mike and Ikes or any other multi-colored food, when I noticed the red Illinois shaped Mike and Ike.

Think I can get $1,175 for it like the Illinois shaped Frosted Flake on eBay? Any bidders? Since you're my pals I'll let you have first dibs.

Anyone know anyone high up in the McCain campaign? Seems like they'd get a kick out of Illinois as a red state. Or maybe even Dub would like it. I bet he likes Mike and Ikes. I'm sure he'd love to see Illnois as a red state.

You could also pass it off as Nevada. So all you Vegas-philes, here's your chance at a unique and rare collector's item.

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3:27 PM

Monday, March 24, 2008  
Mulleted. Like me.

After the injury but prior to the surgery I started wearing my hair a little shorter. A little shaggier. A little more Chrissie Hynde, a little less Heidi Klum. It’s a lower maintenance style for me. My natural waves and curls can do what they want and at best it looks artfully casual, at worst it looks unkempt.

I gave up caring about style. And more importantly, due to a lot of pain in my foot and limited mobility, I gave up caring what anyone, especially men, thought about my hair. Pfft. It wasn’t as if men were flocking to me (or my hair) anyway. And those highlight touchups and haircuts were a pain to maintain and afford. Men be damned, I was happy with my shorter, darker shaggier hair. I felt like me.

I tried really hard to make my hair fit the mold, to conform to the standards men set in their criteria for a date. “Long soft hair.” “Long hair a must.” “No short haired chicks” Long hair, long hair, long hair. We get it, okay? Men like long hair.

Hair I can handle. It’s the one part of me that might qualify as “pretty.” It’s thick and it’s generally manageable and I can style it just about any way I want and it complies. When I grow it long it’s healthy and shiny. (albeit prone to bouts of frizz on very humid days, but even then I can easily control that) When I cut it shorter it falls into whatever place I put it. Yes. When it comes to hair I’m “lucky.”

Well. Lotta good that hair luck did me. I’ve got a fabulous head of hair and still: I’m single. Over and over and over again I hear and read that men love long hair. So I kept it long. I dealt with the extra maintenance and expense and kept my tresses long, touchable, swingy and highlighted. I followed men’s “hair rules” to the T.

And still: Nothing. Nadda. Zip. No boyfriend, no dates.

After I injured my foot I eliminated as much walking and as many trips as possible from my life. Work was necessary. Beyond that all activities were optional. Going for hair cuts and highlights fell way, way down on the list of priorities. So when I did limp in there, in the heat of an early Summer evening, I said, “I surrender. Give me the Chrissie.” My stylist was surprised but somehow managed to control her excitement.

“Are you sure? You’ve been so, um, so into this long sleek hair thing.”

“I’m sure. Just do it. This hair isn’t doing anything for me, it’s not a man magnet, I’ve got too many other issues so why spend the time and energy on my hair?”

Snip, chop, razor. Done. This is my haircut. It works. It can be as low or high maintenance as I want. And I think it suits me. And I can let it go more than six weeks without a haircut and it still looks like I don’t need a haircut. It’s always been my fall-back style. When things go weird or wrong in my life I can trot into a salon, ask for the Chrissie shag and voila, at least something in my life is right.

The problem is that even though it’s not a crop-job of a hair cut, it’s still considered short by many men’s standards. Few women other than Chrissie Hynde have such enigmatic allure and coolness that the shaggy shorter tresses turn on men. Let’s face it, Chrissie could do anything with her hair and she would still turn men to piles of adoring, weak-in-the-knees mush. Oh sure, there are men who like short haired chicks. Of course. But they’re few and far between. Like the men who like flat chested women. They exist, but they’re rare and elusive. (I know, I know, given that logic when my hair was long combined with the 36DD girls I should have been the hottest dating ticket in town. I wasn't, so obviously I don't believe that "logic" or popular opinions about what men want. Long hair and big boobs do not guarantee dates or even a date or even positive attention from men. You have to have long hair, big boobs and be pretty.)


Since I’m firmly up on the shelf why should I care about my hair? When it comes to men, my hair is the least of my issues.

And my foot hurt. And each doctor visit pointed me toward surgery. My hair was not only the least of my issues where men were concerned, it was now among the least of my concerns period.

I got a good, short shaggy cut two days before surgery. My stylist and I planned it so that I could get through at least a few months without a trip to the salon. That plan worked great. Ironically, I had what I consider to be some really good hair days during my “you’re lucky it’s been washed this week” phase post-surgery when I could barely take a shower. Say what you want about the dated style, for some of us it works, it’s a great cut when we can’t (or won’t) spend time styling our hair.

Well, last month the time came to go back to the salon. I was ready, my hair was ready. I’d stretched that pre-surgery haircut as long as I could. Even with my “I couldn’t care less about my hair” attitude, it was starting to bug me.

So I went to the salon, told my stylist, “A little longer than last time.” Meaning, same haircut, just not as short as the pre-surgery haircut.

She said, “Okay, just a trim?”

I said, “yep, gimme the Chrissie.”

She started snipping, we started talking, she got out the blow dryer, turned me toward the mirror and: I had a mullet.

Oh, she kept it longer, all right, but only in the back. Meanwhile, the top and sides are cropped up short – shaggy, fortunately, but short. So the overall effect is: Mullet.

It was nearing closing time and I didn’t want to make a fuss and make her stay to “fix” it. The longer part could be lopped off so there’s not so much mullet effect, but, well, that would leave me with a really, really, really short haircut. I could go back and have her try to “fix” it but I’ve decided to live with it for a month or so, let the super short top and sides grow a little and then get it back on track. I mean, what do I care? It’s hair. It grows. I already gave up trying to attract and/or please men with my hair, so who cares if I have a mullet?

At best it’s a kind of Suzi Quatro/Leather Tuscadero look. At worst it’s a kind of Ric Ocasek meets Cher spiky mullet. I’m being generous to myself. Those descriptions give it a rock and roll attitude. And I suppose, if I could still pull it off, yes, it could be a sort of defiant rock and roll statement. But generally it just looks like a mullet. Especially since my hair is naturally wavy-curly. If I leave the back (long area) alone after washing it takes on a quasi Robert Plant effect. One day, a "good" day, it resembled circa 1983 Bono. (Yes, Bono, I remember when you had a mullet.) If I straighten it and if I really worked the hair spray I could have a Joe Dirt mullet. Yep. Hockey Hair. A ShoLo. Business in the front, party in the back.

Whatever.

It’s hair. It’ll grow.

It’s Winter. I wear hats.

No big deal, right? Right.

Or. Well. Maybe it is a big deal. Maybe I underrated the power of my hair.

Because since I’ve been mulletized I’ve received more negative attention from men, and from people in general.



In the past couple years I’ve adopted the technique of keeping my head down and trying to blend in wherever I go. I haven’t started wearing beige, but that’s next. I’m striving to be just another anonymous, ubiquitous lump of DNA commuting to work, doing my job and commuting home. Invisible for all intents and purposes. I slouch my shoulders and curl my torso so I’m a couple inches shorter and hide my boobs, a more anonymous, unnoticeable height and chest. This Winter I’ve bundled up in layers and hide under them. My only distinguishing feature is the cane I use to help me walk and I’m trying to wean off that.

This comes easy for me. It’s kind of interesting from a psychological standpoint. I’ve spent a lifetime battling shyness. When I was young there were times it was psychologically crippling, “clinical” the school counselor called it before I had any concept of what “clinical” meant. I was one of those kids who clung to her mother's leg and would only steal a cautious peek around the leg to see what was going on in the room. When I started school I learned early how to hide myself within myself. I was the tallest kid in class so I learned how to "shrink" my body. Slouching, curled torso, bent knees...I perfected the technique by the second week of school. My mother would put my hair in pigtails or braids. I'd pull them out so I could hide under my hair. It wasn't just about being like the other kids. It was about blending in so no one would notice me. If no one noticed me I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. Yes. That logic was flawed but I was 5 at the time so cut me a little slack.

At the tender age of seven I was sent to assertiveness training. Or, well, that’s the pretty phraseology the school counselor and my parents put on it. I was made to understand that it wasn’t my fault I was shy, it was just part of who I was, like my height and green eyes, shyness was just part of my DNA. But unlike my height and green eyes, shyness was not an acceptable trait and if I wanted to make it in this world I had to work very, very hard to overcome shyness. My parents and counselors never used the term handicap, but one of my teachers did.

Good ol’ Miss Prickly as the other kids called her. I never liked her but I never called her names. I found out a few years ago my parents didn’t like her, either. She used to talk about students in front of other teachers and adults as if we weren’t standing right there. One time four of us kids had an extra assignment to write and produce a class play. We were standing in the hallway with Miss Prickly and the principal. She was talking about the play we’d written as if we weren’t standing right there. She reviewed it as if it were an important work of theatre that was falling short of it’s potential. I swear she compared to Waiting for Godot. And then she said, “If it weren’t for Trillian’s handicap of shyness we’d put her in the lead, but she can’t be counted on to pull it off in front of a crowd.”

Yeah. Careful what you say around kids. You never know what they’ll carry with them throughout their life. I was ashamed and upset that I was letting down the team. Never mind I was the one who’d developed the plot and written most of the dialog and came up with set design. All I heard was that I was a failure, and I was a failure because I was shy, and shyness was a handicap. Psychosis rooted in childhood for $500 please, Alex. From that day forward I worked extra hard at following everything I learned in "assertiveness training." I kept my hair tightly woven in braids, I stopped arguing about getting hair trims when it started falling in my eyes, I raised my hand in class and even initiated conversations with kids I didn't know. I know, I know! Go me. I started fighting my natural instinct of shyness and have waged the war ever since. It’s not easy fighting every natural inclination you have in every situation. If you’re shy you understand. If you’re not, you can’t possibly understand how difficult it can be for those of us who are shy. I vowed it would never, ever hold me down and for the most part it hasn’t. Due to my valiant efforts, thank you very much.

But the past few years I haven’t been fighting as much. I mean, why? Why go against my nature? Why spend so much effort and anxiety trying to be something I’m not? Well, yes, in the case of shyness it can lead to a very unfulfilling life, that’s why. But still, I haven’t been compensating as much as I have in the past. Lazy? Maybe. I dunno. More like tired, I think. So this whole shrinking and trying to go unnoticed is natural and easy for me. Like breathing.

And then I got a mullet.

There’s no way to blend in when you have a mullet. A mullet makes a statement. And not a particularly positive one. Here in Chicago people look at me with disdain and contempt. I think they think I’m from Indiana. Mullets are still popular in Indiana. I know this because I get a lot of responses to my online dating profiles from men in Indiana. And most of them have mullets.

The day after the mulletizing I was on the bus on the way to work. It was, as ever, cram packed with commuters. And hot. I pulled off my hat and loosened my scarf. The mullet was new and I forgot I had it. A guy, 30 ish, crammed and jostled his way onto the bus even though there wasn’t room for him. He stepped on my foot. It hurt. A lot. I pulled my boot out from under his foot. He turned his head to look at me, as if he were going to apologize (which he should have), looked at me again, waited a few seconds, snarled his lips and told me to get out of his way. Okay, just a rude guy, right? Yeah. But as he pushed by me he muttered “ugly old cow” at me. Okay. I hate commuting, we all do, and it does bring out the worst in all of us. But. He stepped on my foot. I was huddled up as far as I could, standing with a cane, not seated in a handicap seat, as crammed in as everyone else and very wobbley with one post-surgery foot and ankle. The situation sucked for everyone and it certainly was not my fault. So why the “ugly old cow” remark? Oh yeah. The mullet. I mean, just a theory. I’ve had a lot of bad experiences commuting on public transportation but no one’s ever called me an ugly old cow. A guy once accused me of knocking his backpack off the seat (I didn’t) and threw his Coughuppalottabucks out the bus window at me when I exited the bus, but even he didn’t call me an ugly old cow.

That weekend I was in the grocery selecting apples. The produce department was empty except for me and young guy. He rolled his cart around the apple display and said, “Just pick your damn apples and get out of the way.”

Ermmm. Um. Excuse me? Yes, I was looking over the apples because I don’t want bruised apples, but it’s not as if I was laboring over the selection, and it’s certainly not as if I was in anyone’s way. The produce department is set up with islands of fruit and vegetables. We were the only two people in the entire department. I dunno. I really don’t know what the issue was. Other than perhaps the mullet bringing out the worst in him.

I went to physical therapy a few days later, a week into the mullet. A cleaning woman was vacuuming the rugs in front of the building’s elevators. I’ve seen her there during previous visits to physical therapy. I pressed the up button and an elevator door opened. The cleaning woman ran, yes, ran with the vacuum to the elevator and proceeded to vacuum the elevator. Okay, cool, whatever, she’s got a job to do. So I waited for another elevator or for her to finish, whichever came first. She then came out of the elevator, held the door for me and I limped over to it. As I entered the elevator she said, “Ha! I hope I made you late!” and let the door crash on me. I dunno. Really. I have no idea. Maybe the mullet.

The next day I met MAF for a drink after work. He said, “Wow. You weren’t kidding. That’s a mullet.” Then he tried to put a positive spin on it. “I mean, you have great hair. It’s not that bad. Maybe with a diagonal part…”

“MAF, it’s a mullet. There’s no disguising it.”

"Yeah. You're right. Sorry. It'll grow. It'll be beautiful again. But hey, butch lesbians are going to find you very attractive. If you're ever going to try switching teams this would be the perfect time. Just stop wearing makeup and talk baseball and you'll be very popular."

"You're buying because of that remark and I'm drinking heavily tonight."

Two men were sitting several bar stools down from us. One of the men piped up and said, “Can I have the name of the person who cuts your hair? It’ll come in handy next Halloween.” Okay. Yes. The guys were very clearly very drunk. And I do not engage very drunk people. But c’mon. Just because MAF and I bemoaned and berated my haircut doesn’t mean there’s an open invitation to the rest of the bar. MAF tried to put a positive spin on this, too. “Straight guys flirt weird. He probably thinks you’re cute. Your eyes look stunning tonight. I've got some new lip tint in the car that will have the same effect on your lips. If I were straight I'd be sucked into the vortex of your eyes right now. That violet liner is amazing on you. He just thinks you're beguiling.” Yeah. That’s probably it. He's sucked into the vortex of my eyes and beguiled senseless. Straight guys do flirt weird. Especially when they’re drunk.


It’s growing. Maybe a couple more weeks, a month tops, it’ll be ready to cut and reshape into a non-mullet cut. Do I really care? No. It’s hair. It grows. Hair doesn’t define me. But apparently I’m alone in that opinion. Based on my experience mullets bring out the worst in people. It could be a fluke coincidence, but you have to admit it’s a little odd that all this negative behavior started right after the mullet appeared. Especially since I’m tying so hard to blend in and go unnoticed.

Which is what's bugging me. I don't care that I have a bad haircut, or that the bad haircut is a socially negative icon. But my hair has never been something I have to "worry" about. It's generally accepted. I've even had some compliments on it over the years. One guy, a long time ago, even liked it and was attracted to me because of it. And apart from that, it's very thick and provides me with a sort of hat, a shelter from the world, and lately, prior to the mullet anyway, a curtain to pull around my face and hide from the world. A mullet is a lot of things, but one thing you can't deny about a mullet: It puts the face front and center. There's no hiding under a mullet. The top and sides are too short. My shaggy cut can be shaken and pulled over my face. Pieces can flop over my eyes. Strands fall haphazardly around my face. It's a portable refuge. Not so, the mullet.

Which is why it takes a certain personality type to go for the mullet. You have to be confident and eager to put yourself out there and face the world. You have to be ready and willing to go out and look the world in the eye and say, "Yeah, I've got a mullet. So? You wanna make something of it?" (It helps if you have White Snake blaring from your 1980 Trans Am. I don't have a car and I listen to an iPod. And despite a lot of unexplainable songs on my iPod, White Snake is not among them.) I'm in no way made for that kind of attitude. Sure, the defiance is there. I've got defiance in me. But not mullet kind of defiance. Mullet defiance is a special kind of defiance. A breed of defiance apart from all other forms of defiance. I don't have it. And I don't want it. Mullet defiance is best left to professional mullet heads. I'm just a mullet poseur. Well. Not poseur so much as accidental tourist. I'm a stranger in a strange land and I don't speak the language or have any local currency.

Lesson shared with the world: If you're shy, if you're trying to blend in and go unnoticed, do not, I repeate, do not get a mullet.

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11:39 AM

Tuesday, March 18, 2008  
I’m going to put this out there in the Universe because it seems like the right time. I’m not the first, nor will I be the last and that’s what bothers me. Someone, perhaps even me, should have figured this out before now.

Is it better to slog though life alone and unloved trying to make the best of things, “ennobling the void” as the existentialists say, or is there really any benefit to that? Is it better to just cut your losses and quit before it gets worse? Because, you know, it can always be worse and for some people worse happens.

I know, I know. Always look on the bright side of life, have faith, make the best of what you’ve got, don’t dwell on what you don’t have, talking about suicide makes people uncomfortable and it’s not polite to make people feel uncomfortable and all that.

But hey, guess what? I am human and I need to be loved, just like everyone else does. And hey, guess what else? I’m one of the humans who doesn’t get to be loved. Statistically there’s no way every woman gets to have a man. In every age bracket women far outnumber men. Factor in the homosexual and incarceration stats, and the odds show us heterosexual females need to start a clawing, fighting campaign for male affection early in our lives. Yep. Successful marriages begin with a courtship of 10 – 18 months and a 6 – 9 month engagement. (successful = no divorce and both partners rating a “satisfaction value” at or above 7 out of 10) So basically a couple years dating and planning a life together. And that was always my mindset. I never wanted to rush into marriage and I stifle a cringe when I hear about someone getting married after only a few months of dating. I’m sure it can work, but statistics, odds and common sense are stacked against them. Hey. Just because I don’t get to have a good relationship and marriage doesn’t mean I don’t want other people to have that. I’m lonely, not bitter.

Right. Anyway. I didn’t start clawing, fighting and wooing my way in front of the other girls early enough and I lost.

I accept that now. There aren’t enough men to go around and I’m not what men want, ergo no man for me.

I was “seeing” this guy right before and after my foot surgery. He seemed, you know, okay. I liked him. But I was also in a lot of pain and then a bit incapacitated and on serious narcotic medication from the day I met him to the day he sent me an “it’s not me, it’s you” email. I didn’t see it coming but then I was also heavily medicated. And I’m not sure we were technically dating. I’m not sure what he wanted from me. Whatever. Dating wasn’t exactly a priority for me. Getting around on one leg and trying to keep things together at work while in seriously nightmarish pain pretty much consumed my energy. He wasn’t a great communicator and even though we had some good laughs and seemed to share core values, I had no clue what he wanted from me or women in general, or life in general, for that matter. Which I found odd because he is very dedicated to his career and seemed to be very focused, yet, there was a general indecisiveness and lack of direction in his life. One of those people who just wanders along day by day with no aspirations or goals or even any real desires or hopes. That may have been my perception due to the serious narcotics I was taking at the time. They made me not care about the pain in my foot and ankle and if I’d ever walk again so they probably skewed a lot of other perspectives, too. To say my judgment was a little clouded is a huge understatement. Which was kind of good because I didn’t really care if he called or not, or if he liked me or not and all that stuff. If he called and wanted to talk or come over with a movie, cool, if he didn’t that was cool, too. Drugs. Drugs are good. I like pain medication. I now understand how people become addicted to pain medication. Especially people who are in a lot of pain. Something hurts, really badly, the doctor gives you this pill and 30 minutes later the pain is still there but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything except laying in bed and marveling at the beautiful pattern of shadows and light on the ceiling. You hear yourself singing la la la. Which I now know is why they call it la la land. La la la. Did I mention how much I really liked being on pain medication?

Unfortunately they don’t let you take the good stuff indefinitely. My doctor started weaning me off it and now I’m on over-the-counter Motrin. I was cool with that. I was conscious enough to know I was loopy and not myself and in all honesty I didn’t like feeling so out of it all the time. I knew without the medication that 58 stitch incision in my foot and ankle, and what lied beneath it, would hurt intolerably. I knew that because I tried to put an extra hour or two gap in the prescribed four hour interval. I went six hours and 9 minutes a week after surgery and was in so much agony I gave real thought gnawing off my foot above the ankle. I’m tough, I can tolerate a lot, but, I’m not stupid. Henceforth I took my medication religiously every four hours but wanted to stop taking it as soon as I could possible tolerate the pain.

I know. I’m meandering seemingly randomly without a point. I know. We’ll get there eventually.

This entire foot, ankle, surgery, recovery pain ordeal has been really, really rough for me. Extremely painful and physically debilitating. I still walk with a cane and still have a lot of pain. In the midst of all of it my dad was diagnosed with cancer, had a bunch of surgeries and a heart attack. A bunch of stuff happened at work.

So dating wasn’t exactly a priority.

So maybe it was all totally my fault. I didn’t put in enough effort, fawn over him enough, stroke his ego or his penis and hence the “it’s not me, it’s you” email. I’m not taking it hard because I never thought he was taking “it” seriously and much as I would welcome the opportunity for even a date, the timing was horrible and this guy, well, I just never got the hang of him. I never understood what he wanted, or didn’t want. Even when I straight up asked him he was inarticulate and vague. Not like he was avoiding the topic, but like he truly didn’t know. And if he didn’t know what he wanted in terms of dating and a relationship I certainly couldn’t figure it out. So I wasn’t exactly upset with the “it’s not me, it’s you” email. And I was a bit in over my head with a lot of other stuff and on pain meds and, well, it just didn’t bother me that much. I liked him, but apart from the fact that he kept calling me I had no indication that he liked me.

Men. Pfft.

I accepted that I lost out on the man, love, marriage aspects of life so “losing” this guy wasn’t a big deal.

At least not to me.

But boy oh boy, it was apparently a big deal to my friends.

Word apparently got out that I had a gentleman caller. You have to understand that among my friends the fact that I saw the same man more than once is tantamount to seeing Big Foot. You know it’s not really possible, and yet you can’t completely rule out the possibility that there are rare animals which have not been classified. A bear or ape or something could exist. They couldn’t care less about anything else in my life, I can’t even entice them to go to a concert with me, but whoooo boy, I go out with the same man more than once and the email and phone lines are abuzz with speculation about me. Yes. My dating life has become a freak sideshow to my friends.

I accept that. I like to think it’s because deep down they care about me and want me to be happy. But I know it makes for good gossip. It’s been years since most of them had a “new guy.” It’s been years since most of them were dating. The fact that I didn’t keep up with my peers and worse, that I’m not living la vida loco single woman, is a rich source of speculation in their increasingly predictable lives.

Apparently word spread that I received the “it’s not me, it’s you” email.

Did I get so much as an “aw, gee Trill, I’m sorry. That sucks. He’s a loser, you’re too good for him anyway.”?

No. I did not. The one friend I told just sighed a little exasperatingly, said, “another one bites the dust” with a very pronounced emphasis on another, as in, roll of eyes, “here we go again, what’d you do this time?” and launched into plans for her son’s birthday party.

I realize the inevitable break-up with anyone I meet has become tedious but “another one bites the dust” is all I get?

Turns out it’s not all I get.

My friends decided that since I can now walk with the aid of a cane they’d come into the city and have lunch with me. So I met them for lunch. There were photos of the kids, vacations to exotic places and new cars. (They showed, I looked) There was talk of new diets, new clothes and new personal trainers. (They talked, I listened.) And then, just after dessert was served, they dropped a bomb on me.

This wasn’t lunch with friends.

This was a planned, calculated intervention.

“Look, Trill, we think it’s time you faced reality,” my friend said as she laid her hand on mine in an attempt to seem compassionate.

All I could think was, “Where’s that serious pain medication when you really need it?"

“It’s great that you don’t give up, that you keep trying to meet new men…”

Seriously, waitress, can I get a darvocet with a couple shots of vodka?

“…but we can’t stand to see you getting hurt. You put a brave face on it, but all this effort and all this rejection, Trill, it’s got to be taking a toll on you. You might not see it but we do.”

My other friend chimed in as if on cue, reinforcing the positive behaviors, “I never could have kept trying as long as you have. I would have given up years ago. You’ve given it your all, no one can ever say you haven’t tried or put in real effort.”

“That’s so true!” the other one enthusiastically agreed. “You have done everything all the books and articles and experts say you should do. You’ve been really good about taking advice and trying things out of your comfort level, you know, really putting yourself out there. You even tried not trying, and look what happened! Just like they say, the minute you stop trying you meet a man, and that's what happened to you! But he broke up with you, too.” Thanks for reminding me.

“And you always pick yourself up and dust yourself off and try again. Every time you get rejected you don’t let it keep you down, you get right back out there,” hand comforting friend added, looking not at me but at my friend as she said this, as if they were working on a science experiment and confirming the hypothesis. “By George, Watson, you’re right! She does get back out there!”

“It’s just, well, you know there’s a lot of valor and dignity in accepting defeat, Trillian,” my friend said, this time looking me squarely in the eyes and taking an abrupt tone of sternness.

What do you say when someone says that to you? Especially someone who was at one time a very good and trusted friend? I came up with nothing and just sat there trying to get my gray matter around what was happening.

Hand cupping friend said, as if she were explaining death to a four-year-old, “At some point you have to accept that some of us don’t get married and you’re one of them. If it hasn’t happened yet it’s probably not going to happen.”

My other friend took this opportunity to blurt out, “Single men our age want much younger women. It’s not right, they’re stupid, but that’s why they’re single. They’re never going to settle down or they’re newly divorced. In either case you’re not what they want. They're stupid, it's their loss, but you can't change that, you can't change their behaviors.”

Hand cupping friend got all misty-eyed. “Trill, we’re sorry, but it’s true and we can’t sit by and let you get hurt over and over again. Just forget about men. Stop trying. And this time when you stop trying and some guy magically appears, don't go out with him. Something about you and dating and men just doesn’t work. They don’t see what we see. They’re stupid, Trill, really, they’re stupid. But, you’re kind of stupid for not accepting that. I mean, not stupid, you’re not stupid. You’re really smart. That’s part of the problem. You’re too smart.” (yes, it was now acknowledged that I have a problem, or apparently a lot of problems because my alleged intelligence is only part of the problem)

“Oh, absolutely, you’re very smart. And very clever. And very wise…”

“Oh yes, very wise. Perceptive, yes, that’s it, perceptive. Insightful. You really make people think. And men hate that.”

“Oh totally. Men absolutely hate that. Single men our age don’t want insight or perception, they want young, easy girls. When it comes to dating and women the brain is not the organ they want stimulated.” (Okay, give her points on that one, if I hadn’t been so stunned like a deer in the headlights at the realization that this was an intervention I would have laughed at that remark.)

“I got married late. You know, I just about gave up, I was just starting to reconcile that I might have to learn to accept a life on my own when I met Jeff. And that was five years ago, Trill. I mean, I was considered old when we got married. So, you know, I mean, the odds for you are not great, Trill.” (never mind that she’s two years older than me, apparently we’re all the same age, now)

Long, long, long awkward silence. The entire restaurant was silent. Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to say something profound or get up and run screaming out of the restaurant like Carrie at the prom.


“And you’re tall, too,” my friend said, as if that explained everything else that hadn’t been said, the final chapter wherein all is revealed. At least it wasn't the you're too nice cliche which I hate more than any cliche ever uttered by a human.

“Yeah. A lot of men find tall women intimidating,” hand cupping friend concurred. "Have you noticed how short men are lately? It's like women are getting taller and men are getting shorter."

“Men are so stupid and fickle. They ogle super models and fantasize about tall women, but when they come face to belly button with one their egos are all wounded and suddenly tall women are freaks. Gawd I hate men. I’m so glad I’m not dating anymore,” my friend said, I guess as a form of kindred sisterhood. Trying to put a "we're all in this together" man bashing frame around the difficult subject matter of my single/zero-ness.

“Trill, it’s not the end of the world. A lot of people never get married. A lot of people don’t have anyone special. A lot of people don’t date. It’s not a stigma. It’s a lot more dignified to make the most of your life on your own than to keep beating a dead dating horse. You just come off looking pathetic and desperate and pretty soon you’ll feel desperate and pathetic and the next thing you know you will be desperate and pathetic. We don’t want that for you because you’re not the desperate and pathetic type,” hand cupping friend said, soothing her hand over my wrist and punctuating her statement with a jocular slap on my wrist.

Gee thanks. I never saw myself as the desperate or pathetic type, either, and the confirmation of that really makes me feel a lot better about this weird and awkward conversation.

“Don’t hate us, Trill. We just care about you and want what’s right for you. And since you can’t find a man who’s right for you we want you to have a great life anyway and you can’t have that life if you keep wasting time and hope on finding a man when your hopes and efforts could be put to more appropriate use. We think maybe you just needed a little kick in the pants to realize that. We think you need to hear someone else tell you to give up and move on with your life. Forget about dating and men and marriage and kids and relationships. Just forget about it and focus on other things. Try to be one of those happy single women who don't want a man.”

Apparently my friends forgot that I have a demanding job, some time and effort consuming volunteer projects and two very ill parents, oh, and, three sessions of physical therapy a week just so I can, at best, regain 85% use of my ankle and foot. Focus on other things. Right. Okay.

Waitress! Vicodin and a bottle Jagermeister please! Give me the Anna Nicole special.

You might think this weird and difficult conversation would be enough for one day.

But wait! There’s more!

Keep in mind that I had not uttered one word throughout all of this. Not one word.

Hand cupping friend said, “We have this great idea!”

Even better than holding a dating intervention on your pathetic desperate single friend?!

“Since it’s obvious you’re not getting married and you have that cute new little condo, it would be fun to have an unbridled shower! Get it? Un- bridal- ed?! We’ll take you to register for gifts and everything!”

Oh. My. Swutting. Deity.

These women, my friends, are worried about me looking and feeling desperate and pathetic and they want to throw me an un- bridal- ed shower? Anyone else see the hypocrisy and counter intuitive logic in that plan or is it just me and my skewed sense of dating reality?

“It’s so unfair that you don’t get to get presents just because you didn’t get married,” my friend said with an exaggerated pouty lip face, firmly cementing me and marriage in the past tense.

Well. She does have a point there. But nothing’s stopping her from giving me a housewarming present. Which she has not done and I’ve been in my “cute little condo” 11 months. I’m not saying she needs to give me a housewarming present, but, if she’s so eager to give me presents that she’ll throw me an un- bridal- ed shower, it seems like she would have coughed up some dish towels or a plant by now.

I was probably just overwhelmed with embarrassment and confusion, but I swear everyone in the restaurant was staring at me waiting to hear how I was going to respond to all of this.

So I very quietly said, “Erm thanks, I think, that’s great advice. And a cute idea, but it’s not really for me and I’m not going to register for gifs. I mean, thanks and everything, but no thanks.”

“Trillian, there’s a lot of significance to doing this. It makes it clear in your mind that you are single and not waiting for a man. And it tells the world that you are just as deserving of nice presents as those of us who get married.”

Uh, remember what you said about not feeling desperate and pathetic? Wellllll, I wasn’t feeling either but the more you talk the more I’m feeling like a societal pariah.

I thought I just thought that.

But apparently I thought it out loud.

My friends looked stunned and took a collective deep breath. They shored themselves up like they were going to implement a preplanned tactic. “If she resists, we’ll do this…”

“Trill, you’re not pathetic or desperate or any kind of pariah. And we don’t want you to become that way. We just want you to have a chance to be special for a day. Like a bride but not a bride – better than a bride, really, because you get all the attention and presents but you don’t have to plan a wedding or share the spotlight with anyone.”

“I don’t mind sharing the spotlight and if you recall I have actually planned a wedding,” Ouch. Yep. I said that. I didn’t mean for it to sound like a scorned bitch calling attention to their insensitivities and short memories, but I think that’s how it came out.

Silence. Long, long, long difficult silence.


We paid the check and left shortly thereafter.


I haven’t heard from either one since. So I’m living in fear of a surprise un- bridal- ed shower.

Is that the worst thing that could happen to me? No. I could use some new household stuff. But.

Aaack. The whole point of a wedding and the spotlight is that you’re two people sharing your lives together. I failed (past tense, see? I accept it.) to find a husband, so I don’t deserve presents. Period. That’s the rule. It’s been the rule for centuries. Get married, get gifts. No man, no marriage, no gifts.

And more to the point, I don’t need a shower to “celebrate” my single/zero status and solidify in my brain that I’m single/zero and always will be. I have days that I accept that no man wants me. I understand it, always, and have understood it for a long time. Accepting it has been more of a struggle. Well, not accepting the fact as much as accepting the ramifications: The loneliness, the lack of intimate relations, the isolation, the fear of growing old alone. The unfulfilled desire to be with someone. Those are difficult to accept. If your dating life were so bad that your friends held an intervention to make you stop trying and accept that you will never find anyone to love you, that you need to accept that you will always be alone and will probably never even have sex again, would you bother to, well, bother with anything?

In spite of the surgery and pain and my dad, I have been remarkably “okay.” Not terribly depressed or despondent. Yes, I’ve had bad days. But not suicidal bad days.

Now I’m wondering why. Maybe I should have swallowed the entire bottled of vicodin with a vodka chaser when I had the chance.

My friends have a point. The constant rejection should tell me something. I’ve tried meeting (and tried not trying to meet) all different types of men and the result is the same: They’re not interested. “Hey, it only takes one!” I would say and get back out there and keep trying (or stop trying). But, as my friends pointed out, that takes a toll on a person. I have tried everything and every type of man. I have given it honest and sincere effort. And I have tried the not trying approach. And I failed.

I can’t even get a guy to use me for sex. Yes. I stooped that low, I tried that. And failed.

That’s pretty bad. Pretty low.

So. Here are the options: The rest of my life single and lonely, or, get out now spare myself the emptiness of long lonely nights and unfulfilled desire. I’m officially past my prime, my friends are right on that score, I’m tall, they’re right about that, too, and now I have a huge horrific scar from my ankle to my toe and I will probably always have pain and a limp and medical expenses. I'm a liability. The herd needs constant thinning and maybe it’s time to accept that I’m a liability to the herd.

Except where would the herd be without those premium single/zero tax dollars?! And that alone is enough reason to dive into a bottle of narcotics and booze. So, I dunno. I don’t have to decide right now, but, as time marches on it becomes more obvious I’m on my own. And no, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m certainly capable. And I applaud people who love being single and don't want to be in a relationship. But. I'm not one of them. I want to be in a relationship. For me the loneliness and lack of intimacy are too daunting to reconcile. I am human and I do need to be loved, just like everybody else does. And that need has gone unmet for far too long. My friends are right, I do need to face it and accept it. Where we differ is in our plan of coping. They think a party and some presents will make it all okay. I think that will only make it a lot, lot worse.

What I find interesting, sad and weird in all of this is that in all the time civilization has been traipsing this planet, no one's figured out a solution to loneliness and an unfulfilled love life. Sure, there are antidepressants and escort services but they don't solve the problem, they only mask it or delay it. Sure, it's Darwinism at work, the herd does need thinning, but, on the other hand, why is the herd too big in the first place?

1:05 AM

Thursday, March 13, 2008  
Isn't This How Hitler Started?
Okay, so, I’ve been super busy. Work is insane and when I’m not working or at physical therapy, I’m helping rid the world of animal cruelty. Yeah, I’m a regular St. Francis of Assisi. St. Trillian of Chicago.

I don’t like to use the blog as a soap box for my favorite charities very often. Therefore when I do post something it’s because there are issues which need serious attention.

Well, this is one of those times.

Remember Michael Vick and his money making/canine murder operation?

Well, Mayor Vance Trively of Randolph, Iowa, has found a way to make Michael Vick look like a good little boy who just got into some silly hijinks.

Mayor, yes, mayor, an elected official, Trively decided the best way to take care of animal control in Randolph is to offer a $5/cat/dog bounty.

Animals are to be trapped and brought to the mayor. If he can't identify the animal "by its collar," a $5/feline/canine head bounty will be given to the bounty hunter and the trapped animals will (allegedly) be taken to a vet to be euthanized.

Yes. The mayor himself is going to identify (or not) the trapped animals. Ummm. Huh? I realize there's probably not a lot of official business which requires mayoral tending in Randolph, Iowa, but this guy actually has the time, inclination and ability to identify (or not) animals trapped and brought to him?

There are so many flaws and unconscionable issues in that plan I can’t even articulate them. The words swirl too fast and too many in my head. And I feel safe in assuming you are having the same problem getting a grip on your disbelief and anger over this. I get alternating images of The Godfather and Deliverance with a touch of Mayor Daley thrown in for payola.

I have never been to Randolph, Iowa. I’m not going to cast aspersions about the people who voted this mass animal-ocide advocate into office. Nor am I going to make assumptions about the mentality of an entire town of people based on their “kill ‘em and win” strategy for managing animal population. I would never want anyone to judge me based on my city's "elected" officials. So I have a lot of sympathy for any of the decent, humane people of Randolph, Iowa who are embarrassed to be represented by Trively. I'm not talking about those people in Randolph, Iowa. For the record.

Feral cat colonies and wild dog packs start a number of ways. But at the root of most of the colonies is a cat or dog who was a) not properly cared for and b) abandoned by a careless human. The human didn’t get the female animal spayed, and surprise, surprise, that one animal turned into a cat or dog and 6 kittens or puppies. The human doesn’t want, or can’t afford, the six kittens or puppies, so they’re dumped on the side of a road. The irony is that the cost of spaying a healthy cat or dog is minimal, often free or the price of whatever donation the new pet owner can afford. The cost of feeding and caring for a lot of kittens or puppies far outweighs the cost of spaying the mother cat or dog.

Okay, there’s the basic rundown. It’s not rocket science or even an AP biology course. Most of us, I assume all you reading the blog, understand the health and safety issues for your pets and understand the need for spaying/neutering them as well as stray/feral cats and dogs. Yay us. We’re smart and humane and take good care of our pets and care about animals. We rock.

But then there are the others. The people who don’t read this blog and apparently are not capable of connecting the dots of basic reproduction processes and economic responsibility. Heck, $5 for a trapped cat or dog?! Shoot, can't beat those odds, better than the lottery or the toy crane machine down at the Wal-Mart.

I suppose if the people of Randolph, Iowa are so poor they need the $5 they’ll get for trapping and turning in an animal to the mayor to be killed, $30 - $75 to spay or neuter their pets in the first place is probably too much money for them to comprehend spending on “just a cat/dog.” And heck, with the Easter Egg Hunt just around the corner, why not make a festival of it? Bring a trapped animal with you to the Easter Egg Hunt and you can have your choice of the $5 bounty or a chocolate bunny! Or better still, instead of hunting Easter Eggs, why not have the kids hunt for cats and dogs! Heck, they stand to make more money catching a few cats and dogs than they do for a mouth full of baby teeth left for the Tooth Fairy.

Seriously, you gotta read this. Were it not for the horrific nature of the animal issue his press release would be a riot.

So far it's cats who are suffering under Mayor Trively's trap and kill plan. Hmmmmm. I smell a cat h8ing rat. Three caught and turned in to the mayor, one of those allegedly killed. Way to put Randolph, Iowa in the world spotlight, there mayor. It's no secret a lot of people hate cats. A lot of people have abject fear of cats. A lot of people really love dogs and think because they love dogs they are by default cat haters. I dunno. I've never understood hating an entire species, but, hey, whatever, I don 't want to judge. But the fact is a lot of people carry around a lot of serious negative feelings about cats. Obviously Mayor Trively has issues with cats. Should someone with that bias be in a position to decide the fate of any animal, especially cats?

And the bounty hunters...three people have turned in cats to be killed in trade for a $5 bounty. Obviously, they, too, are not fond of cats. Or are really hard up for $5. Or both. Sooooooo, let's say someone in Randolph has a neighbor they don't like, or, maybe they can tolerate the neighbor but hate their neighbor's cat. They lure the cat into a trap with some tuna and cream, bang the trap's door closed, snip off the collar, and turn the cat in for a $5 bounty. Wham, bam, thank you mayor, the neighbor's cat will never be seen again.

I have a neighbor down the hall whose dog barks a lot. It doesn't bother me that much. I like the dog. But let's say I wasn't me. All I'd have to do is volunteer to walk the dog when the neighbor goes away for the weekend. I take off his collar and head out on a road trip to Randolph. No more barking dog down the hall and $5 in my pocket.

"But what about microchips, Trill, I mean, duh, they just scan the animal for a microchip."

Heh heh heh. Not in Randolph, Iowa they don't. None of that fancy big city new technology for them. Uh-uh, no way. No collar, no life. Mayor Trively is the final judge of which animals live and which go free. So far, of the three turned in to the mayor under the new bounty plan none have walked free.

"Well, that sucks, and I know you really dig animals and cats, Trill, but people are dying in Iraq, we're in a recession, people are losing their homes and one of the worst flu epidemics in years is raging through schools and offices. Three cats, most likely feral, I mean, sorry Trill, but it's just three cats."

Okay, yeah, I get your point. Well. I mean. Not really. But. I understand not everyone cares as much about animal rights as I do. I understand there are a lot of serious and heinous crimes and problems in this world and three cats in TheMiddleofNowhere, Iowa pale in comparison to a car bombing and more soldiers coming home in body bags.

But. On the other hand. Mayor Trively is a case of absolute power corrupting absolutely. He's refused outside help and reasonable solutions. He's doing what he wants to do. Period. And he wants to kill animals. We're in a "war on terrorism" right? Dictatorial regimes are bad, right? Mass genocide is a bad thing, right? Ummmm, well, from the cats' perspective (and mine), Mayor Trively is a mass genocide dictator abusing his authority and position of power to wage terrorist acts on animals. What happens in Randolph doesn't stay in Randolph. This is making world news feeds. Mayor Trively is making every American look really, really bad, evil, stupid, narrow-minded and unreasonable.

Oh, right. Nothing new there.

See my point? Mayor Trively is just proving to the world that even in quaint rural small town America Americans are unreasonable bullies who refuse to listen to another point of view and can't wait to kill, kill, kill.

And what about this alleged vet who's going to euthanize the animals? I'm no stranger to animal health care costs. And sadly, I had to euthanize a pet. I know what it costs. The math is adding up and pointing to a vet who's in cahoots with Mayor Trively. If there really is a vet, that is.

If only there was someone, a qualified organization, who specializes in cat (and yes, dog) overpopulation problems.

Oh wait a minute, hang on, why, there is such an organization. By golly, yes, there are people who help with this exact issue. And you know what?! Their solution doesn’t involve death! Wow!

Mayor Trively should call them!

Heh heh. Way ahead of you.

Alley Cat Allies has contacted Mayor Trively. They offered to help. But Mayor Trively thinks his $5 bounty/ cat/dog is a good plan. It rids the community of unwanted animals and puts money in the pockets of the citizens. It’s his answer to Bush’s economic stimulus tax rebate.

What? You think Bush’s plan is a really stupid idea? Well. If A = Bush’s tax rebate, and B = Mayor Trively’s animal bounty, and C = really stupid idea which won’t get us out of a really, really big problem, the math goes like this: A = C, A = B, therefore, B = C.

“Okay, Trill, I get it. You had me at $5 bounty. But I don’t live in Iowa, I didn’t vote for this animal hating low life, what can I do?”

Glad you asked.

You, yes you, can do a lot!

You can write Mayor Trively!

No, you can’t send him an email or a fax. The good mayor doesn’t have email or a fax (or, based on the press release, a computer and printer). Isn’t that a funny coincidence? I wonder how the citizens of Randolph contact their elected officials? It’s a small town, maybe they just yell over the fence or bend his ear at coffee hour in the fellowship hall at church on Sunday. (And no, I’m not ridiculing small towns, I’m from a very, very small town. And even the small town where my parents live the mayor and every other elected official has an email address posted on the town’s website, as well as phone and fax numbers. I’m just sayin’…if my hometown can do it, surely Randolph, Iowa can.)

Here’s his address:
Mayor Vance Trively, Cat Killer
PO Box 88
107 S Main
Randolph, IA 51649-0013

Yep, a good ol’ fashioned letter writing campaign. Yes. It will cost you a stamp. I’m sorry about that. Write me and I’ll send you 50 cents if you need reimbursing for the stamp and mailing expenses.

You’re a reader, not a writer? No problem!

Here’s a letter written for you. You can cut and paste, then add your own words or just print and mail.


Mayor Vance Trively

Please rethink your decision to encourage residents to trap outdoor cats for a $5 bounty and contact Alley Cat Allies for help. Not only is this operation inhumane, it is a danger to local pets because companion cats could be mistakenly killed.

The most important way to help community cats is to spay or neuter and vaccinate them. Trap-Neuter-Return accomplishes that. The cats are painlessly trapped and taken to a veterinarian to be spayed or neutered and vaccinated. Kittens and stray cats (friendly to humans) are put up for adoption. Healthy, adult feral cats (cats fearful of human contact) are returned to their home to be cared for by compassionate neighbors.

Again, I urge you to immediately discontinue your current trap-and-kill program and contact Alley Cat Allies for help. They can work with you to humanely manage the outdoor cats in Randolph, Iowa.

Sincerely

(your name here)



****UPDATE*****
There is some positive progress in the Randolph, Iowa trap-and-kill atrocity. Today (Friday, March 14) thanks to many thousands of letters, Alley Cat Allies and the Iowa State Vet, Randolph's City Council grew a spine and overrode Mayor Trively's committment to trap and kill animals for a $5 bounty. Read the press release here. Mayor Trively presumably held steadfast to his trap-pay bounty-kill plan because the City Council had to override his authority. So continue to mail those letters to Mayor Trively. I mean cripes, even Michael Vick had the intelligence to at least act remorseful when he was caught and at least bothered to pretend to learn lessons at his animal cruelty awareness sessions. Not so Mayor Trively - he's not backing down on this one. He's either true to his beliefs to spite himself or he is, as we all presume, stupid and a bully. Send those letters.

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4:10 PM

Tuesday, March 04, 2008  
We're Not Gonna Take It
One thing most Trillian readers have in common is: Animals. Most of you have or like dogs, cats, hamsters, ostriches... So that's why I'm stumping for pledges here. Take the pledge. You're probably already doing it anyway so why not make it official? The goal is 1,000,000 people pledging to not turn a blind eye to animal abuse. You don't have to join the ASPCA. You like animals. You want official legislation to protect animals against abuse. You hate Michael Vick and people like him who have no regard for animals. It takes 5 seconds. No salesperson will call, no spam will fill your in box. This is a no brainer. Your pets would do it if they could. This is your chance to tell the world and animal abusers we're not gonna take it. Just do it.

Pledge to Fight Animal Cruelty

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12:01 PM

 
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