Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<





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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.

Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Find Federal Officials
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or Search by State

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Contact The Media
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Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)

Quasar
Hyperbole
Amenable
Taciturn
Ennui
Prophetic
Tawdry
Hubris
Ethereal
Syzygy
Umbrageous
Twerp
Sluice
Omnipotent
Sanctuary
Malevolent
Maelstrom
Luddite
Subterfuge
Akimbo
Hoosegow
Dodecahedron
Visceral
Soupçon
Truculent
Vitriol
Mercurial
Kerfuffle
Sangfroid




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue

Slanglish

It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"


















 
Mail Trillian here





Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.



Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.





Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"







Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.


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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains





























Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero

 
Wednesday, November 12, 2008  
I have boobs. Two of ‘em. I have the sort of boobs which are described in polite company (e.g.: Playtex commercials, mom’s “foundations” catalogs, church potlucks) with words like ample, full, well endowed and buxom. Pendulous is sometimes used in an effort to remain polite, too. In less polite company words like bazongas, knockers, hooters, ta tas, jugs, melons, magumbos, and rack come up a lot. I’ve heard ‘em all. I could write a pages long list of the terms I’ve heard applied to boobs. My boobs.

No.

I’m not bragging.

Note the long list of derogatory slang for breasts compared to the relatively short list of “polite” slang for breasts. Having derogatory sexual slang applied to you on a regular basis is not cause for bragging.

When I was young I vowed that breasts would always be called breasts and nothing else. Especially my breasts. Anything else would be childish, rude and offensive.

Ahhh, youth. At some point in my college years I gave up the fight for anatomically correct and mature reference to that part of the female anatomy. It’s no coincidence that my breasts came into their (pardon the pun) full development when I was in college. I was a late bloomer. And boy did I bloom. My body made up for lost time over the course of a semester of college. People find it difficult to believe that until I was 18 I was flat as a board, and it wasn’t until I was 19/20 that they started taking on proportions which gave them a life of their own. It’s also no coincidence that also was when I began my journey through anorexia.

As my breasts became ever fuller, I suddenly started getting a lot of attention from boys. Unwanted attention. Negative attention. Sexually objectified attention. Boys who never noticed me when I was flat as a board, and even the boys who used to mock me suddenly began making sexual comments or “jokes” about me. Or more specifically: about my breasts. More difficult than those taunts, though, was the reaction from the boys who were once my friends. Boys who hadn't wanted to date me prior to the advent of my breasts, but liked me as a friend, for my personality, suddenly became crude, salivating testosterone driven jerks who stared at my breasts instead of talking about new bands and sharing laughs and ideas for homework assignments.

It seemed like it happened overnight. One day I was the quiet, unpopular nerdy girl and the next day I was the subject of jokes and sexual taunts regarding my breasts. Boys were crude and girls were catty. Girls thought I got breast implants. Girls I didn’t even know made eye contact then poignantly dropped their gaze to my breasts, then rolled their eyes at me. Some were more vocal, accusing me of selling out to the male stereotypes of women.

At the time I was in art school. One evening I returned home after a long day of classes, dumped out my tote bag, and along with tubes of paint, pens and pencils were two kneaded erasers formed into the shape of breasts. On a weekly basis there were drawings of me, or, well, mainly my breasts, circulated around classes. If “caught,” the illustrators would say, “Geesh, can’t you take a joke?” The blame for their disrespectful antics was placed on me. One of my teachers, a person I deeply admired and respected, lost all respect and credibility with one statement to me, “Well, Trillian, they are enormous. What do you expect?”

I expect respect. I expect to attend college without being openly harassed.

The message I heard was: You have large breasts so you deserve (and should expect) a lot of sexual attention and jokes. No one called them breasts. I eventually came to the realization that the “kindest” term I heard about them, the term that was said with the least crudity, was boobs. So. Boobs they were. I hate boobies. But made peace with the term boobs. I liked it because boob is the term for an idiot. And people seemed to assume that I was an idiot because I had large boobs. It was appropriately ironic. I grew breasts and suddenly the perception of my IQ dropped several points. But the biggest reason I made peace with the term boobs is that my breasts turned men into ignorant boobs. It was my joke on the entire male population.
Since then the term boob and has come and gone and come and gone in and out of favor with me, but generally I’m okay with it. They’re boobs. Once I made peace with them (which took a long, long time) I made peace with the term boobs. I’m even okay with rack. Probably because those terms don’t specifically imply size or sexuality. Most women have boobs or a rack. Some boobs/racks are small, some are medium, some are large, but we all have boobs/racks. Any adjective can be placed in front of the words boobs or rack to fit the appropriate description of the boobs or rack up for discussion.

Back then I hated my breasts. Absolutely hated them. I did everything I could to minimize them and camouflage them. I wore two and sometimes three jogging bras in an attempt to flatten them into my lungs. I wore the baggiest sweatshirts I could find. Consequently I spent years walking around looking like the Michelin Man’s daughter. I did every possible form of chest/pectoral exercise and weight lifting. They didn’t get smaller, but for a while they were the firmest DDs on the planet. I was one of the few women with DDs who didn’t “need” to wear a bra.

I talked to a doctor about reduction surgery. She empathized but said until I developed physical problems due to my breasts (back and neck problems) insurance wouldn’t pay for any portion of the surgery. Back and neck problems??? At that age I hadn't considered that possibility. I was athletic and fit. Strong and healthy. The physics of the added weight in front pulling on my back and neck hadn't occurred to me. The doctor attempted to console me by telling me that since I was tall, broad shouldered, strong and fit I probably didn't need to worry about back and neck problems. "This is the way nature intended - you can carry them, you have the stature and strength for them." Oh lucky me. I begged my parents to help me pay for breast reduction surgery. It was extremely expensive. I didn’t have the surgery.

I thought by losing weight I’d lose some breast. At the time I was already 10 pounds underweight. That was not a huge deal – I was very active and riding a lot of bike marathons at the time, and all those chest/pec exercises were giving me well toned arms, so there was no cause for alarm. I looked healthy. I was healthy. So when I dropped another 10 pounds no one noticed – the baggy sweatshirts I’d taken to wearing to hide my boobs helped conceal some of the weight loss. (I later learned this is an anorexia “trick” girls use around parents to hide their weight loss.) But even though I was then 20 pounds underweight, my breasts remained swollen mounds of flesh on my otherwise lean (and getting scrawny) body. I stopped eating everything except a small portion of oatmeal, some tofu and an apple a day. I was taking in about 400 – 500 calories a day and burning many more calories than that in bike training. Before anorexia hit I could build muscle quite easily, particularly on my legs and arms. Thanks to a lot of bike riding I had thighs and calves of steel. But. Anorexia robs you of fat and muscle. I used to clock great times in marathons. Within a few months I’d lost so much weight and muscle that my times dropped to shockingly long levels. Within a year I dropped out of competitive riding altogether. I craved the bike riding and exercise but didn’t have the muscle or energy to power the bike at a time that wasn’t ridiculously embarrassing. I’m not a competitive person, and I don’t “mind” coming in last, someone has to lose. But. When I was coming in not only last, but long after everyone had left, it was time to call it quits. I made a painful conscious choice: I wanted to be thin with smaller breasts more than I wanted to continue doing an activity I loved.

Do I blame my breasts for this? Not entirely. But they were a factor in my becoming anorexic. I remember the triumphant day that I fit comfortably into a bra which was a cup size smaller. Many anorexic girls mark their “triumphs” with smaller jeans or a number on the scale. For me it was cup size. When I got down to a C cup I felt that I was almost normal. I started to wear clothes other than baggy sweatshirts.

The boys who’d teased me were now replaced by men who tried to seduce me, or rather, my breasts. I didn’t completely comprehend this at first. They didn’t tease or crudely comment on my breasts. Instead they’d cloak their desire to see my breasts as interest in me. It took some horrible heartbreak to learn these men were not interested in me, they were interested in my breasts. They did not find me attractive, they didn't care about me or my personality, they just liked my boobs. I felt stupid, ashamed and indignant that a) men could be as shallow, hurtful and stupid and b) that I was naive and stupid enough to not see through them from the get-go.

I started wearing loose shirts again and lost another 17 pounds. At this point I was fasting three days/week. I ate every other day. And still the boobs were filling C cups to the rims. At the worst point I was 53 pounds underweight.

Eventually I got so malnourished that I was sick. Really sick. If I used my asthma inhaler I’d get dry heaves – there was nothing to throw up – and that would make me dizzy and I’d pass out. I knew I was sick, that it was more than a bout of asthma but I didn’t want to see a doctor. A doctor would make me eat.

Eventually I collapsed and was hospitalized with double pneumonia. The attending physician sized me up and knew I had anorexia. He treated the pneumonia and wouldn’t let me leave hospital until I gained 15 pounds. He spent a lot of time talking to me about health and fitness and how fragile the balance is – and how ridiculous and unattainable the modern image of the ideal woman is and how sad it is that intelligent women fall prey to media images. He told me he’d bring me anything I wanted to eat - non-hospital food. It had been so long since I’d eaten “real” food. I’d been forcing away cravings for so long that I didn’t even know what I liked to eat.

Every day he brought in something different and would make me try it. When I was well enough to talk without coughing up what appeared to be vital organs I confided my plight to him. All of it, including the breast issues. He’d been treating my lungs, listening to them, he’d seen my breasts. I figured he knew better than just about anyone what I was dealing with in that area.

We talked a lot about the negative attention my boobs garnered. We talked about what purpose boobs serve. We talked about how stupid men can be. We talked about how competitive women can be. We talked about how insecure both genders are. We talked about what I wanted to do with my life. My goals, my dreams, my hopes, my interests, my likes and dislikes. None of my aspirations or likes involved anything remotely to do with men who covet large breasts or women who criticize other women. Nothing I enjoyed or wanted to try required smaller breasts. Anyone who was petty and superficial enough to use, hurt, insult or judge me by my breasts was not worthy of a second of my time or consideration. When we talked, when he pointed out those obvious facts, I felt reassured and relieved. I knew all of that all along, but no one else had ever confirmed any of it.

My breasts were either a source of negative attention or were simply not discussed in polite company. Finally someone, a man, no less, spoke the realistic and sane perspective on breasts. My breasts. This guy was probably 15 years older than me, intelligent, funny, kind, educated and respectful. I trusted him and I trusted his opinion. I thought, “Okay, this guy respects me. He’s an intelligent, kind man. The sort of guy I’d want to date. If he feels this way surely there are others like him.” I started eating. He saved my life and I’m grateful for his intervention and help.

I went back to work and grad school. I gained a few pounds and within a few weeks was right back up to a D cup. I focused on being healthy. Eating healthy. Exercising healthy. Gaining muscle and energy. Feeling healthy. For the first time since they “grew in” I thought of my breasts in terms of their function. One day those boobs would nourish a baby or two. I thought of them as useful, purposeful and for the first time ever: I still didn’t see the need for such large ones, but I was proud of what they would one day do for my babies. I wanted to be healthy so they would be healthy so my eventual babies would be healthy. (Cue The Circle of Life.)

A few months later, as if on cue, I met a guy who wasn’t a “boob guy.” He liked my personality. It was the first sane, rational, healthy, respectful dating relationship I’d ever had with a man. He liked me. When he talked to me he looked at me, my eyes, not my boobs. When I talked he listened to what I was saying, and gave thoughtful responses. When he touched me he touched my hand, my arm, my face, my neck, my waist – and never “slipped” and “accidentally” touched my breasts. He encouraged me to gain weight. We cooked meals together and I learned to enjoy food again. We had a lot of fun and a lot of laughs.

And then we broke up. For a lot of reasons.

Then I moved. And moved on.

Many years later via a friend of a friend, he contacted me. And we talked. I found out one of the reasons on his “list” of reasons why we didn’t make it as a couple was that his friends made a lot of sexual jokes and remarks about my breasts. It bothered him that his friends were fixated on his girlfriend’s breasts. It bothered him that when we went out together other men stared at my breasts. It bothered him that women thought he was a stupid superficial man because he was dating a woman with breast implants.

Yes. My breasts embarrassed him.

When we were dating he never mentioned any of this to me. But, there he was, years later, “coming clean” about it. He said at the time he didn’t know how to approach the topic without hurting my feelings. So instead we broke up. Which hurt my feelings.

So there’s the back-story on my boobs.

I’m older and a lot more jaded and don’t care what anyone thinks about my body. Sure, I’d rather not be objectified. I'd rather not have men stare at my boobs. But I’ve learned that’s unrealistic. I do the best I can to minimize them, keep them covered and draped so as to deflect attention away from them. But if I feel like wearing a t-shirt, I wear a t-shirt. Negative attention be damned.

After HWNMNBS dumped me I was devastated. Emotionally dead. The fact that he dumped me because I’m ugly left very deep wounds. I vowed I wouldn’t let them be permanent wounds. But. As time has passed and repeatedly men tell me they’re not attracted to me (in varying tones of disgust and bluntness) I’ve learned that it wasn’t just HWNMNBS. One guy said, “Nice rack, shame about the rest of you.” It was at a concert and he was drunk so it’s not as if coming from him I was insulted. But. Remarks like that chink away and take their toll. I understand. I’ve heard it all. I know. Many, many men do not find me attractive. Okay. Whatever. I’m going to spend my life alone and loveless. I’m learning to accept that. I was dealt this set of DNA. It is what it is. And it is apparently not attractive to men. And I’m not getting any younger and whatever positive physical aspects I might have had are waning.

But. Har har. Gotta laugh at this. If I wear a t-shirt or top that isn’t loose/baggy/draped men look at my boobs. Then they look up at my face and quickly turn away and continue on their way. But. The boobs snare them for a few seconds.

Yes. It has occurred to me to put them out there more, to use them to attract men. I’ve tried it. And yes, it attracts a few men. Men who stare at women’s breasts. Men who are interested in breasts and nothing else. Men who think conversation is a necessary nuisance to get past so the real fun can begin with the boobs. I prefer to remain alone and loveless, thanks.

Complicating the boob issue is my height. At 5’11” I’m taller than a lot of men. If I wear even a 1” heel I’m 6’ tall. Very often men have to look up to me to make eye contact. My boobs are more in their line of vision than my eyes. Shorter men can’t help but “notice” my boobs. It can be awkward and embarrassing for everyone involved. If the guy is polite and bothers to try to pay attention to me and not my boobs, the resulting awkwardness pretty much kills all hope for getting to know each other. One shorter man I met via an online dating site finally just came out and said, “I didn’t think this height difference through as well as I should have, I don’t think this is going to work out…” he nodded toward my chest calling my attention to the fact that his chin was exactly at cleavage level.

Apart from dating issues I don’t mind, now, that I have them. I still wish they were smaller. I wish instead of noticing my breasts people would notice my brain, my creativity, my eyes or my smile. I wish I didn't have to compensate or make adjustments to some of the things smaller breasted women don't even have to consider.

They’re a pain at the gym – even a mild clip on the treadmill requires wearing two jogging bras. Buying blouses is difficult – I have to buy tops to fit my boobs, which means going up a couple sizes larger than the rest of me. And forget trying to find a dress that fits without a ton of tailoring. Bathing suit shopping is universally dreaded, but adding a long torso and disproportionate boobs to the equation makes for comedy worthy of the good seasons on Saturday Night Live.

The pretty, dainty bras sold at popular shops aren’t made in my size. Or, rather, the few pretty dainty ones which are made in my size don’t do anything a bra is supposed to do. One of the popular “intimates” stores has a special drawer in the back of the store for women my size. Yes. They hide the bra, singular, they have one style of bra for us, in a drawer in the back of the store. It’s not a pretty bra. It’s not dainty or sexy or lacy or see-through. It’s not quite as bad as a ‘50s Sears catalog bra, but it’s close. And even that bra at that store doesn’t really “work.” It’s better than the ridiculous lack of support and accentuation the other bras they try to pass off as my size offer, but, that’s not saying much. So instead I buy utilitarian bras which are packaged in boxes (as opposed to pretty dainty little hangers) and conjure images of Communist regime work camps and “mature” women named Helga.

My breast exams are always a treat, I do them in the shower while conditioning my hair. I get a really deep condition treatment on breast exam days. I often wonder and worry if I've missed a spot. When a doctor does it it takes so long it gets kind of awkward laying there for a prolonged period of time while she works away at my breasts. But I’m used to it, now. I don’t really mind anymore. The compensations I make and the negative attention they attract is just part of my life. I’m used to it. They are bigger than average. I should expect it. So far my back and neck are pain-free. Apparently I can carry them, I am built to handle them.

It's becoming obvious I won't be a mother. I won't have babies and my breasts will not perform the function they're intended to perform. The reason, their reason, which gave me perspective and solace, won't be actualized. The sting and sorrow of not having children is amplified twice as much. Not only am I trying to accept and come to some sort of peace with not having children, I have to find other forms of solace in "dealing" with my breasts. There they are, ready and waiting...and waiting...and waiting...the biology which I found so much comfort and pride in is losing its purpose and hence its calming influence on me. They're no longer sources of life and nourishment for my babies. They're just boobs.

Why all this boob talk? Why not? Why the fascination with boobs? Why not demystify them?

Plus, I forgot to post this in October for breast cancer month. ooops. I'm such a boob sometimes.

3:25 PM

 
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