Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
On the road again...yeah, well, this isn't Willie's country. This is Delta-Dawn's country and there's very little to be happy about being back on the road again. Tired, stressed, and smelling really bad Working on the road and hanging by a thread Dreaming of a hot shower and a warm bed, But no trace of toothepaste, no sleep to be had.
Shampoo, conditioner, lip balm, mousse and a shower cap, Body lotion, a sewing kit, condoms, and a shoe shine sponge But I’m alone at midnight on a dark street corner with a map Trying to find toothpaste to brush away airplane grunge.
TSA says “No way!” to liquids, gels and pastes, too, Aerosols, snow globes, gel shoe insoles are criminal McGyver can make a bomb with even less arsenal So don’t even try to carry on anything looking like goo.
Shampoo, conditioner, lip balm, mousse and a shower cap, Body lotion, a sewing kit, condoms, and a shoe shine sponge But I’m alone at midnight on a dark street corner with a map Trying to find toothpaste to brush away airplane grunge.
Airports are full of humanity and humanity’s waste, Check-in, security, restrooms, and the lounge People from all over the world hang around At the end of the journey you need serious toothpaste.
Shampoo, conditioner, lip balm, mousse and a shower cap, Body lotion, a sewing kit, condoms, and a shoe shine sponge But I’m alone at midnight on a dark street corner with a map Trying to find toothpaste to brush away airplane grunge.
Flight delay, lost luggage, such a glamorous job Few people know the reality of business travel, Few people realize how quickly life can unravel. But those who know just say, “Aw, the poor slob.”
Shampoo, conditioner, lip balm, mousse and a shower cap, Body lotion, a sewing kit, condoms, and a shoe shine sponge But I’m alone at midnight on a dark street corner with a map Trying to find toothpaste to brush away airplane grunge.
Oh sure, sometimes you stay at nice business hotels Though you’re there only to sleep a few hours before a meeting, The enjoyment of the luxury of the room’s price tag is fleeting. Five stars cannot compensate for business on-the-road Hell.
Shampoo, conditioner, lip balm, mousse and a shower cap, Body lotion, a sewing kit, condoms, and a shoe shine sponge But I’m alone at midnight on a dark street corner with a map Trying to find toothpaste to brush away airplane grunge.
The bell hop escorts you to your room with a smile and open palm Pointing out the mini-bar, television, bathroom and then splits Before pointing out the sewing, manicure and “intimacy” kits You try to keep your composure, your wit, your aplomb.
Shampoo, conditioner, lip balm, mousse and a shower cap, Body lotion, a sewing kit, condoms, and a shoe shine sponge But I’m alone at midnight on a dark street corner with a map Trying to find toothpaste to brush away airplane grunge.
Amenities and accoutrement for all bodily hygiene Except the thing first on your mind after soap You unpack your toothbrush clinging to hope, But there’s no toothpaste, which is just downright mean.
Shampoo, conditioner, lip balm, mousse and a shower cap, Body lotion, a sewing kit, condoms, and a shoe shine sponge But I’m alone at midnight on a dark street corner with a map Trying to find toothpaste to brush away airplane grunge.
The hotel gift shop is dark, closed, not a peep. The desk clerk gives you vague directions and a map To a 7-11 where you can buy toothpaste ASAP Just so you can brush your teeth before going to sleep.
Shampoo, conditioner, lip balm, mousse and a shower cap, Body lotion, a sewing kit, condoms, and a shoe shine sponge But I’m alone at midnight on a dark street corner with a map Trying to find toothpaste to brush away airplane grunge.
Why? Why no toothpaste among the vast array Of chic in-room bath products there for the taking? Does no one brush their teeth when holiday making? Is it asking too much for something to prevent tooth decay?
Shampoo, conditioner, lip balm, mousse and a shower cap, Body lotion, a sewing kit, condoms, and a shoe shine sponge But I’m alone at midnight on a dark street corner with a map Trying to find toothpaste to brush away airplane grunge.
Every type of product except those for the teeth You have to wonder if it’s a conspiracy of hate Between hoteliers and the makers of toothpaste Forcing weary travelers out onto the streets.
Shampoo, conditioner, lip balm, mousse and a shower cap, Body lotion, a sewing kit, condoms, and a shoe shine sponge But I’m alone at midnight on a dark street corner with a map Trying to find toothpaste to brush away airplane grunge.
8:53 PM
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
We’re all friends here, right? We can talk openly and maturely about adult topics, right? The conventional taboos don’t apply to us, right? We can speak openly and freely without fear of retribution or judgment, right?
I was talking with a friend the other night, you know, just chatting, when she said something which concerned me. It was just an offhand remark, not aimed at me, just a comment in passing sort of thing. I thought she and I were, you know, pretty similar in most ways, fairly evenly matched in adult experiences. I’m sure she assumed the same about me. So when the subject of “numbers” came up I didn’t feel, you know, ashamed or worried. I kind of thought her number was probably higher than mine. But then she scoffed at people who have really high “numbers” and she started throwing out what she deemed as high “numbers” for people our age, implying some sort of failing on the part of those with high “numbers” and what it says about their lives and inadequacies and that they should do something about it rather than let it to continue to increase to what she deemed staggering numbers.
What concerned me was the numbers she was throwing around as high were in the range, mostly lower, than my number.
I honestly didn’t think I was, you know, well, you know.
I always thought that I’m on the low end, I mean, there’ve been some pretty long, lean years without much activity.
But of course the number is debatable depending on what you consider “real” activity. There are gray areas. In some instances you don’t really have to do much of anything to accumulate points. Heck, one really good, long holiday weekend can add a lot of digits to the tally if you count everything from flirting seductively over cocktails to nights in hotel rooms.
I used to be embarrassed because I thought my number was low to the point of significance compared to other people my age. Suddenly I’m now embarrassed to admit my number because it’s apparently quite high for someone my age. What’s normal? What’s acceptable? Is there a point, a limit, where you just stop because of the social implications? If you give it away, you know, for “charity” does that count?
I timidly approached the subject with a different friend, one with whom I’ve discussed more intimate issue. She was surprised at my number. “Wow, Trill. Wow. I mean, I kind of figured you had a lot, but not that many. That’s up there with my husband’s number. Before we were married he used to go to Thailand a lot for work.”
“Great. So I’m up there with your husband.”
“You’ve always been like one of the guys, Trill. (har har) There’s nothing to be ashamed of but you’re not getting any younger…”
I thought the sexual revolution was years ago, I thought the differences and double standards were a thing of the past. But on the rare occasions I go to our special club, I’m always surprised to see very few women. Surely I’m not the only woman with elite status. Surely the Boys’ Club mentality is joke from a bygone era.
I have a ton of frequent flyer miles. A ton. Apparently a staggeringly high number. Apparently most people don’t let them accumulate to this point without cashing them in and taking a vacation. (which I believe is the point of frequent flyer programs)
And it’s not just on one airline. Yes.
I’ve been indiscriminant. I’m so experienced with so many different airlines that it’s reached the point that I’m embarrassed to admit my number.
Gotta say, I didn’t see that one coming. Seems like just yesterday I was just flying on whatever flight I could get or afford, not paying attention to the miles I was putting on the old Trill odometer.
Ah, youth.
Then I started traveling a lot for work. We had two preferred airlines so I was always on one airline or the other. After a couple of long distance trips schlepping all over the country it just made sense to “get something” in return. My company let me “keep” “my” air miles so I thought, you know, why not?
Yadda yadda yadda, one thing led to another credit card with mile rewards and then a long term, transAtlantic long distance relationship and then a grocery store seduced me with miles bonuses on my purchases… and now I’ve got a bazillion air miles on two major and two minor airlines.
This isn’t exactly a problem, right? Right. And wrong. I’m on the verge of bankruptcy, living week to week in limbo about whether or not I have a job, and here I sit with a bazillion air miles.
Metaphorically all dressed up with nowhere to go.
Don’t get me wrong – I’ve got a five page list of places I’d like to visit. And I have the air miles to take me to almost all of those places.
But.
Then. I’d get there and then what? I’m guessing it’s kind of difficult to buy dinner with air miles in Katmandu.
So I’m thinking about donating them for charity. Or just letting them accumulate to an ever higher number. But then there’s the embarrassment of having a bazillion unused air miles. What’s the shame in that, you ask?
My friend’s right: People accumulate air miles for a reason. To use them to travel, to go on vacations, to fund some fun. There’s a point where a high mileage total is just kind of weird and a huge indication of a very sad life full of promise but apparently no hope. It’s like having a ton of money in the bank and never doing anything fun, just letting the balance increase and never enjoying it or even sharing it. What’s the point of that? I don’t want to be that sad, pathetic uncharitable person.
Funny, it’s not something I ever gave much thought until my dad had a heart attack. Stupid American Airlines tried to rape me by charging me 50K miles + $150 for a 30 minute flight. I didn’t really care about the miles, “whatever, I have plenty to spare” was my thought at the time, but the principle of them taking advantage of me in a time of personal crisis bothered me. Apparently that’s why they call their frequent flyer program American Advantage. I paid for the ticket. And earned more air miles.
There’s an irony in this. My dad used to travel a lot for work. His company did not allow him to “keep” his air miles. His “number” would have been ridiculously high, too. His number was high just from personal travel. He and my mother both had elite status on a few airlines. For a while there they were in this funny range where they’d use miles for a trip, then turn around and go somewhere and have another earned ticket so they’d go somewhere on their air miles, then go somewhere else, then have another earned ticket. See? That’s how you’re supposed to do it. That’s the point. That’s making the program work for you.
I’m sure my parents have no idea what my number is. And I don’t want them to know. It would embarrass them. It would make them feel sad for me. They’d worry about their parenting skills. Where did they go wrong? What did they do to me that made me end up with such a staggeringly high number? Surely no daughter of theirs’ would end up like this. They’d implore me to do something about it, take control and stop the insanity.
I’m still really angry at the way American treated me when my dad was in a major health crisis. (Did I ever tell you that we had to make a decision about letting him go peacefully or using heroic measures? Yeah. That was a rough, rough couple of days.) So I’m thinking about donating all my American air miles to a charity. Sure, it absolves them of giving me flights, but it puts pressure on them to pony up and do my bidding. Because of me they’ll have to help someone else. I don’t like to force altruism, but since American doesn’t give a rat’s whisker about compassion and customer service forcing altruism on them seems like an apt lesson. Score one for universal karma wheel.
4:02 PM
Sunday, May 18, 2008
So, my affair with LOST is on the rocks.
Oh, it was nothing it did or said. It's not LOST, it's me. I'm just not in a place in my life where I can give LOST what it needs.
It needs two more years of viewership and I no longer feel like I can commit.
It's been needy and trying my patience lately. I've been understanding and sympathetic. I've cut a lot of slack. I thought we were working toward an end goal, that all this work and effort would be worth it. I was there for LOST, really there, you know? But I'm starting to feel kind of used. At what point do my needs get some air time in this relationship? I give and give and give and what do I get in return? A lot of promises that it will all be worth it in the end. Well, those promises are starting to feel empty and meaningless.
And I'm not sure I have the stamina or compassion to deal with all this drama and volatility. I mean, the mood swings alone, geeze, take some Midol or Prozac, would ya?
Oh sure, LOST still looks great. I mean, really great. It's been working out, eating healthy, doing yoga to get limber. Hooo boy, you should have seen it the other night. Sweet mother of GQ, Sawyer fueled enough fantasies to keep me sated well beyond 2010. Thank you, Universe, for giving us Josh Holloway's DNA. The primordial ooze, the Neanderthal period...it was all worth it, all evolving to this one organism, a specimen of cells so artfully arranged that even a devout Darwinian screams out "Sweet blessed Jesus son of Mary, thank you God for what we are about to receive" when he's on screen.
But I mean, c'mon, if our relationship is reduced to just a physical thing, I mean, what kind of chance do we have? It's always been so much more than that, you know? Oh sure, there's always been a physical attraction, but what really mattered to me, what really turned me on, was that we had a deep cerebral connection. And now that that's waning I feel kind of, I dunno, cheap? bad? shallow? guilty? to stick around just for the sex. Sure, it's good sex, but without the cerebral connection it's starting to leave me feeling unfulfilled. I haven't strayed outside the relationship yet, but I got an Amazon gift card for my birthday and there are a lot of books on my wish list. The temptation to stray outside the relationship to fulfill some of my needs is there and I'm being seduced by a very alluring suitor.
I thought it was just the natural course of a relationship. The excitement and passion of a new relationship always wanes and you settle into a comfortable routine. I understand that. I'm cool with that. I need stability and prefer reliability over sporadic bursts of crazy excitement. But lately all I hear is a lot of whining and me, me, me and psychobabble. That's become what's reliable - the whining and complaining. I don't mean to be insensitive but sometimes I don't care about feelings or why, I just want to get off the island. Heck, we're all messed up. We all feel isolated and persecuted. We're all scared. We're all scarred. That's life, baby. And we're all yearning for an escape, a way out. We all need and yearn for some acceptance and validation that we matter. (And a pizza and a comfortable pair of jeans that make our ass look good also top the list of things longed for, and I gotta believe after all this time on the island people other than Hurley are longing for pizza and a comfortable pair of jeans.)
I've been in relationships like this in the past. Maybe that's the problem. I try really hard to learn and move on, take experiences, good and bad, as life lessons and apply them rather than keep repeating the same mistakes. I thought I was prepared for this relationship, thought I knew how to deal with it.
You may as well know the truth. My first relationship was with H.R. Pufnstuf. Week after week I plotted and hoped along with Jimmy. I wanted him and Freddy to get off that wacky, horrific mushroom laden island and home to his parents. I felt so sorry for him, this kid trapped on an island of weirdness and mean creatures with nothing but a magic flute and memories of home to call his own. The end came, but nothing was really resolved. Deep in my soul I carry a sadness and concern for little Jimmy still trying to escape Living Island.* Aren't we all trapped on Living Island? Jimmy is me and I am Jimmy and you are me and we are altogether. Ook koo ka choo.**
While I have good memories of that relationship, and I really grew, you know, as a person, from what I learned from that relationship, there was a lot of negativity and drama complicating things. It was my first experience, we were all so young... I finally put a lid on it and moved on with my life.
Then came re-runs of The Prisoner. Oh boy. Now that was a relationship that took me by surprise. I was young but more experienced thanks to Pufnstuf. Some time had passed, I thought I was ready to take on a more mature and deep relationship. And I was. But I was looking for something fun, carefree, too. I wanted something more mature, but I didn't want anything heavy or serious, you know, just a little fling...get back in the game...see where it leads. But I have this thing about intellectual, creative, slightly weird quirky types. I'm drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Always to my own detriment. I do resist, fluttering around, trying to fit in, smiling like I mean it with the normal, easy to understand, less broody types, trying to ignore the light. But in the end it beckons and I can't resist the seduction.
The Prisoner was demanding. Really demanding. At one point I recognized the themes of isolation, persecution, injustice and fear, saw the warning signs...I knew I was on familiar but unhealthy Pufnstuf ground. But at that point it was too late, I was already too far gone, too committed, and consequently too weak to leave the relationship. Even though deep down I knew it was Jimmy all over again.
I held out to the end and was "rewarded" with the break-up line: "We thought you would feel happier as yourself." What the...???? That's it??? I gave you everything, forsook all others, faced chastisement from my friends for being faithful to your weirdness, I turned over my mind, my soul and let you have your way with me, change me, forever alter my perspective on, well, everything and then you leave me with nothing but, "We thought you would feel happier as yourself????"
And now LOST is starting to behave a bit like that demanding Prisoner. It hit me the other night. I was just enjoying the physical moment, you know, enjoying "the show," (wink wink) when, for a moment, my brain kicked in. A lot of repressed memories swept over me and I realized: Sawyer is just a modern version of Number 6. He's bad but he's good. He wants to escape but there's this girl... crimony.
I've been had.
I was hit with a difficult realization, something that may take me a while to sort and get past. At least this time around I know when the end will arrive. 2010. I mean, I have grown, at least now I enter into relationships with set boundaries, finite time spans. I know what to expect, or at least when to expect the end.
Unlike Pufnstuf who left Jimmy, and me, (and apparently J.J. Abrams) hanging in limbo and needing closure, unlike the Prisoner who left me and Number 6 with more questions than answers, the promise on LOST is that it will make sense in the end and, more importantly, that there is an end.
The question I'm facing is whether to get out now, before resentment creeps into the relationship, or stick around for the sex.
*I want someone to fund me, give me a huge grant, to research and report on the affects of H.R. Pufnstuf on the kids who watched it. I've done a little preliminary research. Sure enough, J.J. Abrams (LOST) falls smack in the Pufnstuf zone. I suspected Wayne Coyne (Flaming Lips), Stephen Hillenburg (Spongebob Squarepants), and Kurt Cobain (Nirvana) were all influenced, rightly or wrongly, by H.R. Pufnstuf. Thanks to the internet (thanks to Al Gore) I learned that all three were of the impressionable age to be influenced, subliminally or overtly, by H.R. Pufnstuf. Coyne and Hillenburg seem obvious, but why Cobain? Isn't the longing, yearning, and ultimate disillusionment obviously rooted in the fact that he was left hanging with Jimmy and Freddy on Living Island? I mean, we all do it for Jimmy, in our own ways, but in Kurt's sensitive case, how can you go out there and be happy making great music when you know Jimmy is still stuck on that island being terrorized? Eventually it eats you up inside and you either get therapy, take mood enhancing drugs or form an awesome band and then kill yourself. Maybe someday I'll find peace with Kurt's final decision, but I can't help but wonder if Pufnstuf is somehow part of the equation that lead to the end. (As for a young Frank Black, well, the influences of one Sigmund Seamonster are obvious.)
** Oh. And. Speaking of innocent children sacrificed to drug induced weirdness of the ‘60s and ‘70s, you know the blog rules. I hate the Beatles and there’s to be no argument about it. It doesn’t make me a bad person, it doesn’t make me “wrong,” and there’s no point in firing off angry missives at me when I dare speak of the Beatles in less than reverent tones. I don’t hate people who like the Beatles, hey, whatever gets you through the night. It’s not a personal attack on Beatles fans or even against the Beatles. It’s most of their songs I hate, not them personally. As for their kids, whatever, okay? Whatever. I have nothing but sympathy for them unless/until they move to exploit or profit from their parents’ name. And yes, I actually like a lot of Lennon’s solo stuff, though I firmly believe Imagine has been overused and exploited to the point that it’s lost its power. It’s become a trite cliché, which is a shame because it was a good, powerful song until it was rammed down the world’s throat one too many times. It’s sad – Lennon gave us that one great song and it’s been reduced to an annoying, tired cliché and the guy’s not even around to defend himself or his song. (yes, me defending a Beatle and his song, shock, horror, the end of days must be nigh.)
As a result of a comment I made about my irritation with the Beatles, I was sent a link to a “news” article about a recent court fight over some home video footage of John Lennon, Yoko and their kids back in the ‘60s. (did you know Yoko had a kid other than whatshisname? Did we care?) That home movie must contain some kind of crazy ‘60s kookiness because big sums of money, court injunctions and an apparent united fight from the Lennon and Ono camps is raging. My mind does wander to what could possibly be so shocking, horrific, disturbing or salacious that 40 years later everyone involved is fighting mad over its release rather than just dismissively laughing it off with, “Eh, it was the ‘60s” - like everyone else who has some ‘60s skeletons in their closets and scrapbooks. If it is disturbing, well, the true tragedy is that there were children involved. And that really sucks. The ‘60s and ‘70s were really sucky times to be a kid. Just. Freakin’. Weird. Confusing and weird. (See above, H.R. Pufnstuf, magic flutes, et al) Add the Beatle/Ono component to these spawn of the '60s kids’ lives and I have nothing but pity and sadness for them.
What strikes me as particularly and especially sad and disturbing about this, and why I'm mentioning it, is that the film came to light when a teacher wanted to present it to a class of kids as a way to teach them about the ’60s.
Um.
Huh?
Lessee. The ‘60s. We had a presidential assassination, a civil rights movement and assassination, a manned space trip to the moon, an horrific war in Viet Nam, a cold war raging with a détente with the Soviet Union, birth control, psychotropic drugs, and there’s a teacher who felt a great way to teach youngsters about the ‘60s was a home movie of John and Yoko? Seriously, people, seriously? Pardon my incredulity, but things other than the Beatles happened in the ‘60s, and perspectives other than the Beatles might actually contain some historic validity.
You wonder why I hate the Beatles? Okay, okay, you’re right. It’s not just the irritating songs. It’s because people like this teacher feel everything can be explained by, for, or because of the Beatles. Unless what’s so important and sacred about that home video is that Lennon is single handedly ratifying a peace treaty for Viet Nam and soothing tensions with the Soviet Union while the kids launch themselves on a space mission to the Moon and Yoko single handedly brings about a plan for women’s rights to birth control and equal pay for equal work and the potential negative aspects including fatal overdoses of LSD, I fail to see the significance of this home movie in a classroom as a way to “understand” the ‘60s.
Face it: No one really understands the ‘60s. Some Lennon/Ono home movie is not going to explain it any more than a home movie of my dad and uncles, cocktails in hand, attempting to surf in the backyard swimming pool, while their wives, two of them very pregnant, sit puffing away on cigarettes and drinking cocktails or Tab in their mod Summer outfits and big, flippy hair and false eyelashes. (Though. Actually. That does kind of explain a lot about the ’60 in the suburbs and explains even more about two of my cousins who’ve never been, um, “quite right.”)
What got to me about this "news" article is the way it was written. Reverent and all important sounding, as if it was a legal battle over the Zapruder film, complete with footage of a grassy knoll which will explain everything about the '60s.
Once again, as always, it’s the children who suffer. The kids in that classroom who were almost “taught” about the ‘60s via a Lennon home movie, and the Lennon/Ono kids innocently involved. My hope for them is that whatever’s in this home video stays private.
Yes. Twice in one day I not only defended a Beatle, but the spawn of a Beatle. The end of days must truly be nigh.
Back to my typical cynical stance, the article sent to me had links to other "Lennon News." (News? This is news? Really?) One of the links was too rife with comedic potential to not check it out. Apparently John Lennon is sending signs to people from beyond the grave. I would leave this alone, these sorts of things are very personal and I'm not going to judge something that personal to his friends and family. We all yearn for signs or hope (see above, LOST) particularly after losing a loved one. I have a friend who is sane, sound, logical and very anti-mystic who had an extremely strange experience after her father died. She knows it can't have really happened, yet it was very real to her. So, you know, once again, we don't know what we don't know and gray matter is a very, very complex and complicated substance.
BUT.
Apparently along with son Julian as well as McCartney/Harrison/Starr during their reunion, Lennon's been in contact with Liam Gallagher. In Gallagher's bed.
Okay. See. That's just funny. Sorry Beatle's people, but really, that's just ridiculously funny and I sooooo want SNL to do a skit about it.
Let's just say for the sake of discussion we suspend our disbelief in all things mystic for a second or two. Lennon (senior) has somehow been given the power to reach out from death to contact people.
Liam effing Gallagher? Seriously? Lennon's been given the power to reach out to people from beyond the grave and he's bothering to show up in Liam Gallagher's bed??? I dunno, I realize I'm the last person who should speculate on this, but it seems to me John Lennon's got bigger fish to fry in the way of haunting and sending signs, and if he's going to drop in on someone in bed I kinda doubt it would be Liam Gallagher. Kids: Just say no. Drugs are bad.
Monday, May 12, 2008 This one's for the ladies. Really, it’s not that I expected much – I wasn’t looking for presents, cake, cards and such But adding insult to the injury of another year Just makes me want to cry and start drinking beer.
Another year older, another trip around the sun, More signs of aging, more hard lessons hard won Don’t need anything to mark the day, not even a lava lamp, I normally wouldn’t care about presents or being on my own, But all I got for my birthday was cramps
A few calls, some email, and ecards are great For friends on the go and running late I understand, no big deal, everyone’s busy Drink a cheap bottle of champagne ‘til I’m dizzy
Another year older, another trip around the sun, More signs of aging, more hard lessons hard won Don’t need anything to mark the day, not even a lava lamp, I normally wouldn’t care about presents or being on my own, But all I got for my birthday was cramps
Later this month there’ll be a party, the whole nine yards Family, friends, cake, presents and Snoopy cards But today I spent my birthday waiting in line at Walgreen’s Holding tampons, Midol and two quarts of ice cream
Another year older, another trip around the sun, More signs of aging, more hard lessons hard won Don’t need anything to mark the day, not even a lava lamp, Normally I wouldn’t care about presents or being on my own, But all I got for my birthday was cramps
The only visitor yelling surprise on my birthday Is the one who arrives every twenty-eight days A day early this month, stress, or maybe the leap year That caused this unexpected present to appear
Another year older, another trip around the sun, More signs of aging, more hard lessons hard won Don’t need anything to mark the day, not even a lava lamp, I normally wouldn’t care about presents or being on my own, But all I got for my birthday was cramps
What I really wanted was a new denim purse But instead of accessories I got the curse It’s not about the lack of birthday cacophony It’s that just once I could do without the irony
Another year older, another trip around the sun, More signs of aging, more hard lessons hard won Don’t need anything to mark the day, not even a lava lamp, I normally wouldn’t care about presents or being on my own, But all I got for my birthday was cramps
I should be happy, because hey, I’m not pregnant But somehow that’s not making me jubilant Because sitting here feeling every second of isolation Passing the rabbit test is small consolation
Another year older, another trip around the sun, More signs of aging, more hard lessons hard won Don’t need anything to mark the day, not even a lava lamp, I normally wouldn’t care about presents or being on my own, But all I got for my birthday was cramps
It’s just another day, no worse than most Pour a drink and raise my glass in a toast Happy birthday, happy birthday to me! May the year be good, may I always stay free!
Another year older, another trip around the sun, More signs of aging, more hard lessons hard won Don’t need anything to mark the day, not even a lava lamp, I normally wouldn’t care about presents or being on my own, But all I got for my birthday was cramps
No balloons or flowers or telegram in song I had no expectations, don’t get me wrong It’s not about jealousy or greed or self pity It’s that cramps on my birthday is ironic absurdity
Another year older, another trip around the sun, More signs of aging, more hard lessons hard won Don’t need anything to mark the day, not even a lava lamp, I normally wouldn’t care about presents or being on my own, But all I got for my birthday was cramps
They say true happiness comes from within So it’s me hosting me at dinner in the kitchen And single rose for a single girl adorned On a tiny sugar free birthday cake for one
Another year older, another trip around the sun, More signs of aging, more hard lessons hard won Don’t need anything to mark the day, not even a lava lamp, I don’t care about presents or being on my own, But all I got for my birthday was cramps
I'm okay, not complaining, don't mean to be rude There's a lot to be said for moments of solitude I got that all sewn up and put in the bag But is it asking too much to not be on the rag?
Another year older, another trip around the sun, More signs of aging, more hard lessons hard won Don’t need anything to mark the day, not even a lava lamp, I don’t care about presents or being on my own, But all I got for my birthday was cramps
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
I'm sure there are weirder situations, weirder lives than mine. I'm not saying I'm unique or special or different because I can't seem to live a normal, worry free life. I am not alone.
One of my friends going through a lot of weirdness getting used to a new personal trainer. It's very stressful for her. The workout routines are all different, the schedule is different, and she's worried she's going to get too much muscle definition. She wants to be fit and toned but not too muscle-y. And her new personal trainer is pushing her to do more than her last trainer and now she's worried. It's a strange problem to have - striking that delicate balance between toned and fit and ripped muscles - and she's too embarrassed to talk about it with anyone at the gym and she doesn't want her husband to know she has doubts about the new trainer because she had to convince him the new trainer's fee was necessary. Oh yes, she's carrying around her workout fear problem secret because she got herself into this situation and now she has to live with it.
Another friend has been having a rough time this year because her son's teacher doesn't recognize how brilliant the kid is. This is very upsetting to her, naturally, but there are farther reaching problems: This year is pivotal. If the teacher doesn't give the green light to the gifted program next year, her son will be placed in a (gasp) *regular* second grade. Every day she takes him to school she frets and worries. There is a life in the balance. If he doesn't get into the gifted program in second grade, well, he can kiss the Ivy League good-bye.
Speaking of getting kids into college, I have another friend who has two daughters under age three. She's atheist, agnostic on her most spiritual day. But she recently joined, and had her daughters baptized in, a Catholic church because it has a good preschool which paves the way to the "good" grammar school, which paves the way to the good prep school which paves the way to the good universities. Talk about stress! That kind of hypocrisy and deception and conflict of conscience really eats away at a person. She might even have to get married because the priest is old fashioned and frowns upon unwed parents openly flaunting their sin on his altar. So for now she's taking the priest's suggestion and doubling the recommended financial contribution to the church. Which makes her feel even more hypocritical and guilty. Yes. She's becoming the good little hypocritical, guilt ridden Catholic her parents always hoped she'd be. Which upsets and stresses her even more. But her daughters' education is worth it. And lucky for her the girls' father is open to the idea of marriage and has a good job. She figures the worst thing that will happen is that they'll get married. The own a home together and have been living together for about four years. But for her it's the principle of her principles and it's stressing her out that she might have to get married simply because she wants her kids to go to a good pre-school.
Another couple is losing sleep because their house has been on the market for 2 months and they've only had one offer, which was below their asking price. If they don't get their asking price in the next two months they won't be able to break ground on the new house they want to build two miles from where they currently live. They only have one spare bedroom and the kitchen is so small! When they have dinner parties they can only comfortably invite four couples because more than ten adults around their dining room table is a tight squeeze. So embarrassing to have to pick and choose the guest list because of a dinky dining room.
Another friend is having trouble with his new iPhone. It's really messing up his life. He might even go back to using a regular cell phone and an iPod! I mean, c'mon, who uses a cell phone and an iPod?
My sister is torn between two lovers. She's breakin' all the rules. She knows she's going to have to choose and sometimes that makes her confused and sad. I haven't met either one. All I know about them is that one is rich and the other one is handsome. Ahhh, yes, that age old dilemma. Money or looks? It's a rough situation, so difficult to choose.
One of my coworkers is getting married in October. She doesn't want to be like our coworker who spends all day fighting about wedding plans or groping with her boyfriend. So she quit. She's "taking the Summer off" to focus on the wedding. She and her fiance also want to do some traveling. You know, get away to alleviate the stress of planning a wedding and, get this, really get to know each other so they start their marriage on solid ground. Huh. I mean, I guess if you have to quit your job and take a lot of vacations to get to know each other before you get married you probably have some pretty weird issues. Certainly nothing compared to what I've got on my plate.
Me? Ha! My life is a breeze! No wedding to plan, no children's education to worry about, no boyfriends to choose, no iPhone, I mean, I'm livin' on easy street. I think I even have a job for another four weeks. Because my coworker quit and we've got a huge deal going on at the end of the month and suddenly my boss realized if she let me go now she would have to actually work a couple weekends. Can't have that. Easier to keep me on the payroll a few more weeks. Oh, and, the wedding/groping/arguing chick? She made it clear that she works in the Central time zone, and her body is scheduled to that time zone and therefore she will not, and cannot be expected to, work an hour ahead of her body's schedule. So even though our events and meetings begin at 9 AM Eastern time, she will not show up until 10 AM. And get this: She actually got HR to back her on this and came armed with a note, yes, a note from HR saying it was medically impossible for her to alter her Central time zone sleep schedule. I kid you not. This woman has "worked" here less than a year and HR is giving her a pass to come late to major events and meetings. I've worked a heckuva lot longer than a year, have risen before dawn in several time zones and worked long into the night in several time zones, my dad was barely alive and I was working in the intensive care waiting room because of a deadline for a client on the East coast... and yet I can't get HR to tell me whether or not I'm going to be fired. Erm, "terminated." They did tell me I'm not being fired, if I don't have a job it will be because I was "terminated." I thought in HR and employment circles that meant the same thing. Whatever. The point is no one's writing me notes to excuse me from work because of ridiculous "interruption of body sleep cycles" excuses, or even legit excuses like my dad clinging to life support. In fact, I had to produce a note, on valid letterhead with valid signatures, proving my dad is in intensive care and that it's a bona fide family emergency. And no, I'm not using family leave. I'm using my hard earned vacation days. And yet, since my employment is "under review" I had to produce valid paperwork about my dad's illness. I'm not sure why it would matter what I was doing on my vacation days, but hey, I played the game and did as I was instructed. As always.
HR tells me I can't compare my situation to anyone else's. We're all unique and we're all treated fairly based on our unique situation. Oh. Right. Okay. That's a nice little feel good disclaimer, isn't it? Makes me feel so special. I was told that I need to turn a blind eye to the injustices around me, even the injustices on my "team." I'm accountable for myself and that's where my focus and energies should go. I was told this as if I was five years old and it was the first time I was learning a lesson about minding my own business. The issue this nice little bit of pith doesn't address, however, is that we have it drilled nonstop into us that we're a "team" here, and when someone doesn't do their job, the rest of the team suffers. That community, team oriented, spirit is in direct opposition to the whole "just mind your own business" theory. When my coworker brings a note excusing her from showing up to an event on time, it means I have to do double duty to cover for her. Her business, or lack thereof, directly effects me and the other people on our "team." Anyone else beating their head against a wall at the ridiculousness of this HR nonsense? Or is it just me and Doug? In times of crisis and struggle, turn thine eyes to scripture and thou shall be comforted. There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.There is another theory which states that this has already happened. So sayeth the prophet.
I made up a few new job descriptions and applied for a job in another department. So. Ya never know. Maybe I'll even have a job longer than four weeks. Unless I go into work one day and I can't log into the network and a security guard shows up with a couple of boxes. Yep, that's how it's done. And HR told me there are never certainties when a manager and senior manager have to trim their working budget.
Pride, you ask? Well, yeah. But c'mon, don't we all know I swallowed that years ago? Being dumped by your fiance because you're ugly pretty much eliminates any shred of pride a person may have had. Dealing with one indignity after another at work and always coming in second or third at job interviews for other jobs also makes pride a non-issue. Filing single/zero year after year is the government's way of stripping away pride.
So no? Okay? No. I have no pride or self respect in regard to staying at a job where I've been told I'm not wanted, a dinosaur, a drain on the budget and a lower priority than coworkers who have children. It's a couple more paychecks. Period. Yes. I've been bought. Or, well, I sold out four weeks of my life and dignity to a Twinkie eating nincompoop who takes credit for every good thing I do and assigns me the blame for all her shortcomings. When things are good we're a team, when things are bad it's every one for themselves and you better be sure you see the knives in your back and have an ally to pull them out for you.
Why would I want to stay in a situation like that? I wouldn't. I haven't wanted to be there for years. But. I need a paycheck. And so far apparently my work or my interview skills are not as good as other peoples' because even though I get first and second and even third interviews, I'm never quite good enough (or whatever) and the other final candidate gets the job instead of me.
I talked to a recruiter about this. She told me if I'm consistently in the final rounds of interviews that it's probably nothing I'm doing wrong, I just haven't clicked with the hiring managers. Yeah, okay, I'll buy that. I guess. But one would hope by now I'd click with at least one hiring manager. So I talked to a career coach (speaking of swallowing pride...what a crock that was). I had to do all these stupid mock interviews with the coach and his fellow coaches. Two of them assessed my problem thusly: "She's good. That's a problem. She's being perceived as a threat by hiring managers. She needs to dumb herself down in interviews." Another one told said I should act more nervous. I told you it was a crock. Fortunately I didn't pay for this wonderful advice, it was a "gift," a friend of a friend arranged it for me in trade for a logo.
Oh, that reminds me! I think I'm getting closer to Delta Dawn's logo.
Yeah, I know. Thanks. I kinda dig it, too. I want to massage out the Dawn, but I'm digging the goth spin on country. My niece's boyfriend gave me Ghostrider to watch while my dad was having more lengthy tests. Clearly I was under that influence but I think it might work. Marketing baby, marketing.
I've been spending a lot of time waiting in hospitals and doctors' offices lately so when I'm not working on work (for the job which allegedly terminated on May 1) or watching Ghostrider I try to be one with the Delta (Dawn) Force. Kind of a shame I can't sing in tune or compose melodies. But hey, that's never stopped anyone from making it big in the recording industry!
You know what's weird? Teaching my newly dyslexic dad (who can't talk) how to read. Now I know what he went through when he was trying to teach me math. Turns out it's true: Payback is Hell. But hey, he's alive. And as difficult and trying as it is for me it's a bazillion times worse for him. I mean, who wants to end up not only having to learn how to read again, but have to deal with a learning disability and have their kid teach them? Not me.
What's weird about all of this is that it's not weird. At least not to me. My friend, the one worried about not getting to build a new house, told me, "Trillian, you've lived in this state of perpetual weirdness for so long you wouldn't be able to handle even keeled, stress free normalcy. It would seem weird to you."
She's right, it would. But I'd really love to deal with that kind of weirdness.
8:49 PM
Monday, May 05, 2008 Delta-Dawn Coldspurs is at it again. Like the logo? Huh? Do ya? Huh? Nah, me either. Still working on it. But I do love how a chunky Western font makes everything, well, kinda funny.
To wit:
He walks with a swish and a flourish and a wiggle, He talks with an affected lisp and a giggle, Not that there's anything wrong with that, Unless he's online pretending to be straight.
Dude, you're gay have some pride, Don't fight it, come out of the closet Be yourself, there's no need to hide Dating women will only cause upset, Even lonely women don't want to live that lie.
Online he's charming and clever and witty Quick with sympathy for women who feel shitty About sitting home alone on Saturday night He shares his stories of a similar plight.
Dude, you're gay have some pride, Don't fight it, come out of the closet Be yourself, there's no need to hide Dating women will only cause upset, Even lonely women don't want to live that lie.
Women think they've met the real thing This guy's different, not just a fling, He's kind and sets their hearts aglow Not like other guys, he really listens, you know?
Dude, you're gay have some pride, Don't fight it, come out of the closet Be yourself, there's no need to hide Dating women will only cause upset, Even lonely women don't want to live that lie.
He plays the game, chivalrous, gallant. But casual and sincere, nonchalant. Eventually he'll propose a date Who could resist, it's got to be fate.
Dude, you're gay have some pride, Don't fight it, come out of the closet Be yourself, there's no need to hide Dating women will only cause upset, Even lonely women don't want to live that lie.
He's always on time and dressed perfectly Right down to his shoes styled correctly Maybe too nice, too trendy, a little too stylish Especially with a laugh that's kind of schoolgirlish
Dude, you're gay have some pride, Don't fight it, come out of the closet Be yourself, there's no need to hide Dating women will only cause upset, Even lonely women don't want to live that lie.
He pours on the wit, the charm and the flattery And talks enthusiastically of the barn of pottery He orders martinis, of course made with gin Proposes a toast, much to her chagrin.
Dude, you're gay have some pride, Don't fight it, come out of the closet Be yourself, there's no need to hide Dating women will only cause upset, Even lonely women don't want to live that lie.
It's blazingly clear to her the guy is flaming, But why the date, the flirting, the gaming? Could he not know his affectations are obvious? His intentions have got to be nothing but dubious.
Dude, you're gay have some pride, Don't fight it, come out of the closet Be yourself, there's no need to hide Dating women will only cause upset, Even lonely women don't want to live that lie.
He's smart, he's funny, he's kind and clean He's mature, and single and that probably means He's dating women but really wants a man's attention He's conflicted and torn between desire and convention.
Dude, you're gay have some pride, Don't fight it, come out of the closet Be yourself, there's no need to hide Dating women will only cause upset, Even lonely women don't want to live that lie.
As the night wears on and the gin is imbibed It becomes clear his devious plan was contrived He hedges and confesses he "might" be bi "Ya don't say," she says, sarcastic and wry.
Dude, you're gay have some pride, Don't fight it, come out of the closet Be yourself, there's no need to hide Dating women will only cause upset, Even lonely women don't want to live that lie.
Turns out he wants a woman to act as a cover To end the pressure he gets from his mother. It would be funny if it weren't so sad, This is the best date in years she's had.
Dude, you're gay have some pride, Don't fight it, come out of the closet Be yourself, there's no need to hide Dating women will only cause upset, Even lonely women don't want to live that lie.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Because I'm sick of my life(?) I'm going to go into denial and think about something else for a few minutes.
Men. Online dating. Facial Hair.
Bleccch.
This horror must be stopped. Guys, if you're trying online dating, lose the facial hair. Don’t have any. I know, I know, I know. Your face, your right to adorn it. Some chicks really dig it. Trust me. I’ve heard every reason, excuse, and overly-defensive proclamation of self expression.
But. If you’re not getting any responses to your online profile, take a look in the mirror and ask yourself if the reason/excuse/defensive proclamation is really worth risking sacrificing potential attention from women or even dates.
I’m not picky about looks. Let the record state: I have gone out with short, fat bald men. Several of them. But I am picky about hygiene and grooming. Showers at least a few times a week, clean clothes, you know, that sort of thing. More often than not, facial hair is stubble. Less self expression and painstaking grooming, more wishy-washy, “I was hungover and didn’t have time to shave this morning maybe I can pull this off as a cool artsy look.” Unless you are truly, in the farthest depths of your soul, 100% okay with a woman having that exact attitude about her legs and arm pits, you might want to re-evaluate your attitude about that stubble on your face. And stubble looks dirty. And even with full grown “mature” facial hair, no matter how artfully trimmed/edged/clipped, there’s an element of “um, ahem, um, you’ve got a biscotti crumb…” Is this a big deal? No. Of course not.
But, it’s a factor.
I’m very forgiving, easy going about that sort of thing. I have overlooked all of that and gone out with men who have stubble/facial hair. I’ve even kissed a few. I didn’t enjoy it. A mouth full of hair or stubble just isn’t my thing. And the chaffed, sore upper lip and chin for the next week ruled out any further kissing action. I endured it with one guy because I really liked him. But he was killing me, wreaking havoc on my skin, every time we kissed. My face would be red, chaffed and gross looking for up to four days after a date with him. People at work thought I had a weird lower face strain of Rosacea or for some unexplained reason I was getting dermabrasion treatments. And it’s not like we were face mashing for hours on end. I’m talking just “normal,” somewhat abbreviated good-night make-outs.
The soul patch and ‘stache might seem artsy and cool, but ask yourself this question: Would you want to kiss someone with facial hair or stubble? No? Okay, so then why on earth do you think any woman would want to kiss a man with facial hair?
And ya know what? I’m gonna go there. Yep. I am. I’m gonna break a blog rule and share a little very personal insight. I lived in abject fear that soul patch and ‘stache guy would want to go down there. If his facial hair caused so much painful chaffing and skin irritation on my face, I could only imagine the horror that would result down there. And let me say, I like a little tongue action down there as much as (and by conversations I’ve had with close female friends, maybe even a little more than) any other gal. So for me to dread the possibility of the act is a pretty huge deal. Nothing ever developed beyond kissing so it was a non-issue, but, much as I liked the guy, one good thing about him dumping me was the overwhelming sense of relief I felt over not having to deal with that (literally) sensitive issue and not having to slather on skin irritation ointments after seeing him.
And let me reiterate, I liked this guy. A lot. Which is why I put up with the painful skin irritation. The women who see your profile photo online don’t know you and have no reason to be forgiving about your facial hair.
Soul patch and ‘stache guy left such a painful impression on me that ever since then when I see facial hair on a guy I might at some point kiss, I find myself flinching and feeling itchy around the mouth. It’s my Viet Nam War Syndrome. And I am not alone. Many women have endured for the sake of a good guy only to be left with painful gag reflex reactions to potential dates with facial haired men.
And now a word about baldness. Man’s hair starts to thin and recede. Man freaks out every time he washes his hair and clogs the drain. Man becomes frantic and tries every baldness remedy on the market. Man eventually realizes he’s fighting a losing battle. Man begins to rationalize to protect his ego. Man decides to shave what remains of his head hair and grow artistic facial hair. Man thinks he’s pulled a fast one on the world by adopting a new look. Women see said man. Women have an instant assessment of the baldness/compensation issue. Women ignore man because they don’t want to be with man who has that kind of self esteem issue. Women exclaim in exasperation to their girl friends, “why the compensation with facial hair? Baldness is what it is, deal with it gracefully. No combovers, no long stringy ponytails, no facial hair! You’re not fooling anyone! And the facial hair compensation issue is just completely ridiculous. Apples and oranges. Flat chested women don’t try to gain weight in their stomachs or butts to compensate for their lack of boobs! So why the facial hair compensation ruse?!” If you’re having trouble coping with hair loss, I’m sorry. Really. I’m sympathetic. I can imagine that it’s distressing. I can imagine that you assign a lot of negativity to it. And I’m sorry, really. But guess what?! I’m a nice person who is not superficial and if you don’t do something stupid like try to compensate with facial hair, I’d love to get to know you! And I know a lot of other women who feel the same way. But the second the whole facial hair compensation thing comes into play we start wondering about your personality and why you can’t accept genetics and why you think we’re so stupid that we’d fall for your compensation facial hair ruse. And in many cases, like me, the facial hair triggers an uncomfortable memory response and we move along to the next guy.
And now a word about "bad" skin. Okay. I know, I know. I hear this reason a lot. Men with "bad" skin often grow beards to hide their skin thinking the beard to be the lesser of two strikes against them. And shaving irritates their skin condition and makes it worse. Okay, okay. I understand. I have issues with my legs and ingrown hairs. (hey! that's another way too personal confession!) I know. Okay? I know. I'm sorry. Really I am. And you know what? Most women are sympathetic about skin issues. Once a month most of us have to deal with all kinds of weirdness with our skin. We could tell you some hormonal skin horror stories. Unless you're a guy who really, truly cannot shave because of a skin condition, make peace with whatever damage was done in the past and shave.
And now a word about chubby faces. A lot of men, a lot of men, seem to feel that facial hair makes their faces look less chubby. Goatees, chin/neck beards seem to be the trend for men who are trying to camouflage a chubby face or double chin. Guys, you're not fooling anyone. And in the case of soul patches and goatees, you're calling even more attention to double chins and chubby cheeks. So. Just. Don't. Do. It. I think Burl Ives was married. Maybe you're looking for the kind of woman who likes a Burl Ives kind of guy. If you're hoping that woman is under the age of 85, good luck with that.
Here's the biggest deal with facial hair. If you take my advice and post a photo on your profile featuring your warm, sincere smile and sparkly eyes and no facial hair, for the love of Gillette do not show up on the first date with facial hair. 1) she won’t recognize you and 2) she will not be impressed. Maybe she’ll be okay with it, politely not mention it, but trust me, believe me when I say, she will make a mental note of it and will never, ever forget that you “lied” on your online profile and/or were too lazy to shave for the first date. Why risk that kind of ill will? Just shave for crying out loud.
I suppose there are women who love facial hair on a man. Certainly enough men out there have beards and other hairy accoutrement who have women in their lives, so women must date them. But I don’t know any who would. But I’m sure they must exist. Tough skinned women who like a rugged, “virile” looking kind of guy. My friend’s sister’s sister-in-law is married to a guy with “artistic” facial hair. She doesn’t like it but is pretty sure it’s just a phase. She's staying quiet about it hoping it will just go away and is dealing with it until then. By dealing with it I mean spending $120/week on spa facials to minimize the pain and redness on her face from kissing her husband's new hirsute face. Now that I think of it, it being bearded men, I think Barry Gibb is married, so there’s at least one woman who’s okay with facial hair. But I'm guessing it's not an even ratio. I doubt there's a hairy face loving woman for every man who wants a hairy face. You can hold out for that one special facial hair loving woman to come along, or, you can shave and post a clean shaven photo on your profile.
If you’re sitting there thinking, “Wow, I didn’t think Trillian was shallow like that. I didn’t think she’d be the type to judge anyone on looks, especially something as insignificant as facial hair. What a bitch.” Okay, fair enough. For one as ugly as me, one who has been ridiculed, teased and hurt over and over again because of my lack of pleasing visage to have even one moment of judgment about any physical characteristic is completely out of line. But. Remember, I’ve endured kissing men with facial hair. I’m forgiving and willing to try.
Most other women are not. You are not dating me. Therefore think long and hard about what sort of first impression you’re making on women with your facial hair.
2:34 PM
