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
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Father’s Day.
Ugh.
I’ve been dreading this.
The conventional wisdom is that all the firsts are the hardest. “They” say it gets easier after the first year.
Oh. Okay.
Great. Grief is like drinking shots of Jagermeister. And prostitution. And serial killing. The newsbites always show a dead-eyed, remorseless perp – an alcoholic out of control, a prostitute, a serial killer – confessing and saying: “After the first one it was easy.”
It gets easier after the first one.
I knew Father’s Day would be the rough one for me. I mean, it’s all rough, but Father’s Day, well, that’s different.
The holidays sucked. My mother and I were numb. Like lost children we hesitantly took one step at a time through the holiday season and we made it. We did it. I won’t say we were unscathed, it sucked, but, we did it. My siblings have children. They said they could put aside their grief and celebrate for the sake of their children. That’s admirable. They said that’s what Dad would do. That’s how Dad would want it. I agree. But I guess my lack of children prevents me from understanding how you just “don’t think about it” when the holidays were our dad’s favorite time of year and everything, everything holiday related is conspicuous with his absence.
Even though I anticipated Father’s Day angst and woe, I never could have predicted the complete meltdown I had at Target a few weeks ago. I mean, Mother’s Day was barely over, I thought I had at least a week, or two, before the Father’s Day merchandising affront would power up.
So that fateful day in May when I innocently, even glibly, walked into Target for toilet paper and laundry detergent and got hit with CELEBRATE DAD!!! banners festooned from the ceilings and aisle displays showcasing GREAT GIFTS FOR DADS!!!! was rough for me. Really rough.
I soldiered on past the entrance thinking, “Just stick to the household goods aisles, get your toilet paper and laundry detergent and get out of here. Keep your gaze down. Don’t look up. You can do this. It’ll be over in a few minutes.”
It wasn’t. It was awful. They had Father’s Day stuff everywhere. Everywhere. Even in the household goods aisles. I’m sure it must be my heightened sensitivity to it this year, but I don’t remember this much hype and merchandising for Father’s Day in the past. I recall Father’s Day being lumped in with graduations, weddings and Summer barbecue season. “Dads and Grads” sales, “Barbecues and Dads” specials, that kind of thing. But this year everywhere I go it’s “Celebrate DAD!” “Father’s DAY!!” “Don’t forget Dad!”
It was a “Don’t Forget Dad!” display that brought me to my knees on that fateful day in Target. “Don’t forget Dad. Don’t forget Dad?! How dare you, how dare you even suggest that I would, or could, forget Dad?!!!”
After that my memory is a little fuzzy. I remember my heartbeat getting really loud and feeling like it was going to beat out of my chest and I remember feeling disoriented and then I don’t remember anything until I realized a woman in a red shirt was talking at me in broken English. And I was crouched down on the floor of the aisle. And I was crying. Okay. Sobbing. Okay. Doing that choked breathing, snot spurting body jerking in wracks kind of sobbing. The woman had her hand on my shoulder. Some kid at the end of the aisle, a young tyke, was saying, “But Mommy, why is she crying?”
That kid made me snap-to. Pulled me into awareness. The awareness that I was crouched down on the floor in a Target, sobbing, with a woman in a red shirt talking at me in broken English. I fumbled in my purse for a tissue, wiped my eyes and finally looked up at the red-shirted woman. She was a Target employee. She was being nice but firm. “Djew better now? Djew canna stay here. Security will come.” She pointed to a round globe in the ceiling. Security cameras.
Oh swut. Security?! Seriously, security? Has it come to this? In spite of my incredulousness, the innate fear of authority kicked in and I stood up, trembling, fumbling for my purse and shopping basket. I was acutely aware, then, of the security camera which of course made me more prone to odd looking behavior. I had difficulty steadying myself on my feet – which I have trouble with under the best of conditions thanks to my injury/surgery – and the harder I tried to stop the tears, the more they came. I did want to get out of there, ASAP, pronto!, but I couldn’t make my body respond as quickly as my brain wanted it to respond.
I heard the bleep of the red shirted woman’s walkie talkie. And then a pubescent boy’s voice. “Khhhschk, Esmerelda, come in. bleep” The red shirted woman pulled the walkie talkie from it’s holster. “Si? bleeep”
“Khhhschk. Have you started recovery? bleep”
“Si.”
In my disoriented (and somewhat paranoid) state I thought recovery was code for “removing the sobbing woman from the store.” That set a fire under me. I said, “I’m going, I’m going, I’m okay, I’m all right.” Then, “My dad died.”
I’ve only said that a few times since my dad, well, died. Stating that fact, that obvious truth, is difficult for me. I hate the euphemisms “passed away” “lost”…I hate those stupid euphemisms, always have. And I don’t use them. I like the absolute certainty, the finality, the undisputable factuality of the verb died. Die, dies, died. Dead. Deceased. See? I can think it, type it. But. Even though in my head I say it, use that term, come to terms with that verb, saying it, hearing the words from my mouth, is hard. Understandable, right? Yes, of course it is. But. It’s something I’ve been trying to deal with, manage, a conclusion I’ve been trying to reach. Saying it. “My dad died.” I mean, it’s just three words. A statement of fact. My dad did die. I was there. I saw them lower the casket in the ground. I’ve seen the gravestone. He is dead. See? I can think about all of that, type it, and while it’s not “easy” I can do it. But saying, “My dad died” is supremely difficult for me. My mother and I went to grief counseling. There I learned that I’m not in denial, I’m not repressing anything (or, well, anything more than normal during the grief process). And yet, I don’t make the words go from my head to my tongue.
And yet again, there, in Target, under pressure and threat of security removal, out came the words: My dad died.
After I got out of there I realized that I didn’t blurt it out as an excuse in hopes of calming the store clerk and regaining some credibility as a “normal” person. I blurted it out for me. I needed to hear it. I needed to validate my hurt and sadness and resentment over the intrusion of merchandising on my bereaved sensitivities. “Don’t Forget Dad!” hit a nerve. Believe me, I will not forget dad. How dare you insinuate that I would? Saying, out loud, “My dad died” wasn’t an excuse uttered to hopefully recoup my sanity in the eyes of store security. It was my “SHUT UP!! LEAVE ME ALONE!” to Father’s Day merchandising displays everywhere.
I high-tailed it out of there. I feel bad. I left my laundry detergent on the floor. Esmerelda probably had to put it back on the shelf during recovery. The merchandising displays in the store weren’t her fault. My grief isn’t her responsibility. It’s mine, I have to manage it. If I can’t then I shouldn’t put myself in situations I can’t handle.
Since then I’ve run the merchandising gauntlet a few times. It doesn’t get easier. But. At least I expect it. I know what I’m facing and if I’m not feeling emotionally strong enough for it I avoid it. I haven’t been out much in the past month. And in just a few days it will be over and it will be safe for me to venture out to buy toilet paper and laundry detergent and whatever else I need again.
I told my grief counselor about the Meltdown in Target. (MIT, as we call it) She doesn’t believe in the terms normal or okay, because there’s no such thing as normal, or okay behavior when it comes to grief. I’m down with that. But she calmed me by saying it happens to people more than I realize. Triggers are everywhere and at any given time, any given place, something will touch a deep, raw grief nerve and set off a meltdown.
Here’s what I’ve learned. We’re all teetering on the brink of emotional distress, a meltdown. If you’re sitting there thinking, “Nope, not me, I’m not emotionally volatile. I keep it in check. I’m cool under pressure. I know how to manage my emotions, there’s a time and a place and do my breaking down in private or I go to the gym” oh boy, do I pity you. I thought that, too.
And then my dad died.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not wishing this on anyone. And I know there’s nothing I can say that will make you understand what “it” is really like. You have to experience it for yourself. Because it’s very personal. But. I will say this: If you think you can handle it, if you think “it’s part of life, it happens, I’m prepared for it” please consider a revision. For the sake of your own sanity I strongly suggest that you at least consider the possibility that you are not prepared for it and that it will hit you in different ways than you anticipate. It will kick you so hard in the ass, when you least expect it, that you’ll be stymied to figure out what “it” even is.
It’s weird. Sometimes I can write or talk about my dad without a single pang of sadness or despair. Other times I can’t even think of the concept of fatherhood without welling up in tears. Grief.
After the MIT my grief counselor gave me an assignment. It’s the same assignment she’s been giving me for several months. I keep neglecting it. She’s been “okay” with my undone homework assignment. When I meekly admit I haven't done it she says, “When you’re ready." I’ve done other assignments, but not this one.
The concept is to examine, embrace or come to terms with what you got from the deceased. Literally, figuratively, whatever. It’s a big heady topic for me. What did I get from my dad? Sheesh, you name it. And that’s the problem. It’s too overwhelming – I mean, what a question! While it can be a literal gift, I don’t think “He gave me a pen from the Henry Ford Museum.” is really getting to the point of the assignment.
One time we had to take two photos to our session. One was supposed to be a favorite photo, the other was supposed to be a good likeness of him. Surprisingly, those are typically two very different photographs for most people. I could see the counselor looking at the photos of my dad for similarities, some likeness, some genetic indication he’s my father. The evidence is not immediately seen in the blond, blue eyed man staring out of those photos. She looked at the photos. And then at me. And then at my mother. And then at the photos. And then at me. My mother finally chimed in, rolling her eyes for the bazillionth time at the unspoken insinuation.
“No, she’s not adopted. Trillian, smile.”
I dutifully did what my mother told me to do.
“Ahhh, yes, yes, oh my yes, the resemblance is obvious when you smile,” the counselor gushed. She seemed a little too relieved. I think maybe she thought she opened Pandora’s Box with this whole photo assignment, that there was another issue she’d have to tackle along with “just” the death of a father. “Whew, she’s not adopted” was the palpable sentiment in her response.
My mother said, “And when she doesn’t style her hair you can see her curls. And she didn’t get those broad shoulders and strong bones and muscles from my family.”
So we’d already covered the genetic ground.
Rogue curls in my hair. Strong, sturdy bones and muscles. A tendency to put on belly weight. Long fingers. Long feet. Broad shoulders. The ability to curl my tongue. A full, pouty, downward turned lower lip that morphs into a wide smile. Prominent skyscraper high cheekbones. A hearty laugh. A high tolerance for physical pain.
Curiosity. Ethics. Love of language and words. Loyalty. Family above all else. Compassion. Music. Humor. Responsibility. Professionalism. A sense of adventure. Commitment. A stubborn determined streak. Respect for nature. Duty to animals, the environment, the community and those less fortunate.
He gave me a warm, safe stable home in good school districts, food, clothing, health care, orthodontia, college degrees, big Christmases, birthday parties, road trips, vacations, summer camp, toys, books, music, rock tumblers…I mean, what more could a kid want?
He taught me how to swim, ride a bike, sail a boat and drive a car. All before I was 13. And he taught me how to tread water, hold my breath longer under water, fix a flat tire, repair a spoke, tighten a bike chain, wear a life jacket, tie an Anchor Hitch and a Sheet Bend (and when to use them), wear a seat belt, put gas and oil in a car, open a stuck choke, change a tire, keep $20 stashed in the seat spring and where the local cops set speed traps. All before I was 13.
Thanks to my dad I can start a fire without lighter fluid or propane, but also thanks to him I know it’s a lot more fun, and easy, to do it with lighter fluid. And I know to have some sand and/or water handy when open flames are present.
I know that Scotch doesn’t taste like it smells and that beer tastes worse than it smells, and both aren’t worth drinking if they’re cheap. I know how to make a martini and sip wine. And I know when to say when. Thanks, Dad.
He taught me that education is a life long process and stimulating your brain is what separates humans from animals. And that learning is not only good for you, it’s fun. Though, in spite of his valiant efforts to try, oh how he tried, to teach me math we learned that education is not always fun. In that process we both learned a lot. He learned that he sired a child with no cranial capacity for numbers and that he would have to teach me how to rely on words, cunning and wit because I would never be able to rely on math skills. I learned that my dad was the smartest man on the planet because he knew multiplication tables all the way up to his nineteens. In what became a test of wills, an epic struggle for understanding, we spent agonizingly tense evenings learning a lot about patience and humility and how very, very different we are. And how the mere mention of the term “multiplication tables” makes my head hurt so badly I have spasms like those kids in Japan who had seizures watching cartoons. And that in end, no matter how stupid I am, no matter how much temper he lost trying to get it through my thick skull that math is fun, dammit, in the end, in spite of my numeric inabilities, he still loved me. He eventually learned to accept my lack of numeric acuity but didn’t cut me slack on my homework and grades. “You’re going to have to work harder than the other kids.” We came up with creative work-arounds, ways to get the most out of math classes in spite of my numeric handicap. He taught me that acceptance is good, but giving up is not acceptable. (See above, stubborn determined.)
I learned some really, really good naughty words from my dad. The good ones. The ones they’re talking about when they say, “make a sailor blush.” And I learned that it’s usually not okay to use those words because there are much better, much more intelligent, much more powerful words. But should I ever find myself in the company of longshoremen I’ll be able communicate like a native. (Thanks, Dad.)
He gave me the gift of navigating the world of leading men. James Bond, Steve McQueen, Paul Newman and Indiana Jones are the go-to men of action and cool. Peter Sellers and Bugs Bunny are the supreme comedic geniuses. Cary Grant and Gregory Peck are what every man should aspire to be and what every woman should expect in a man.* He and my mother introduced me to Alfred Hitchcock and Stanley Kubrick and protected me from Old Yeller and Bambi.**
What is the point of this assignment? He gave me so much, I mean, where do I start and where do I end?
Ahhhhh.
There it is. This is what I got from my dad.
On long car trips when I was a kid I would inevitably ask, “When are we gonna get get there?” or “How much farther?” or “Are we there yet?” My dad had a couple answers at the ready. A) He’d toss a map into the back seat at me and tell me where we were and then, “You figure out how much farther. And let your mother and I know. We were wondering the same thing.” or B) “There? And then what? There’s always a new there. As long as the sun comes up tomorrow there will always be a new there. We’ll never actually be there because there is not a fixed constant. It’s a dynamic abstract variable.” or C) “Yes, Trillian, we are there.” “Then why are we still in the car?” “There is wherever we are. No matter where you go, there you are. This is there, make the best of it.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. My dad threw out dime store philosophy to us kids with a “Wrap your feeble little minds around this for a while. That oughta shut you up for a couple hundred miles” attitude.
But the thing is, even though my dad really liked to make good time, put a lot of road behind us, mess with our young minds, he always stopped along the way. You know the beginning post card sequence of the original Family Vacation? I laughed so hard I nearly wet my pants when I saw it the first time. Why? Because I’ve been to many of those places. He also was a back road kind of guy. Oh sure, he took the highways when he really wanted to make some good distance, but he liked the back roads. Liked to really see and experience what’s out there. Sometimes travel plans would change because something else was more appealing. Yes. At times we were wayward vagabonds. Eventually I figured out the whole “it’s about the journey, not the destination” aspect. I stopped asking “Are we there yet?” and grew to appreciate travel, the actual experience, as much as the destination. I’d gather my own maps prior to a trip and mark all the things I thought looked or sounded interesting and kept an eye out for them along the trip. He taught me how to enjoy the ride, the journey, to just roll with it.
And just like that I realized why I have difficulty saying, “My dad died.”
He reached a final destination. He arrived. There. There are no more journeys, no more back roads, no more dime-store philosophy on here and there, no more marked up maps with routes traveled and routes changed. No more wayward vagabonding. This is incongruous to him, his personality. This is a guy who never asked, “How much farther?” or “Are we there, yet?” This is the guy who said, “Let’s go!” and “Wow, look at that!” And the same guy who would get just as excited about returning home.
It bothers me, a lot, that my dad died while we were planning a vacation. We were making big plans for a big trip. We had maps with points of interest circled and highlighted. We were going to be wayward vagabonds, good little Vikings true to our heritage minus the raping and pillaging. Knowing we’d be content with whatever else we found along the way. Lately I console myself that there’s an aptness to him leaving mid-trip-planning. No matter when my dad died he would have been in the middle of planning a trip or actually on a trip. He didn’t know he was going to die. I mean, right then. He knew eventually, some day, he would die but he didn’t know he was there yet. He assumed there was a lot farther to go. He was thinking about the next adventure, the next journey, the thrill of discovery. And the contentment of returning home. (Please spare me the religious metaphor of “going home.”) It’s appropriate and it’s good and it’s a gift I am much more aware of these days.
*For years, and I mean, years I thought my dad actually knew Gregory Peck because he referred to him as Greg even though I only ever heard him called Gregory. The way my dad called him Greg, just like that, no big deal, Greg, implied that he was on close terms with Mr. Peck. I dunno. It’s kind of weird but funny now that I think about it. My dad wasn’t one of those guys who customarily got overly familiar with complete strangers, and he didn’t do it with other actors, Laurence Olivier was never Larry, for instance. Although… Robert DeNiro was Bob. Robert, Bob, if you’re out there, did you know my dad?
**One day, when he apparently deemed me “old enough” he asked me if I wanted to see Bambi. You might not understand the significance of this, but it’s akin to a father asking his son if he wants to go to go have a beer behind the garage. “Don’t say anything to your mother. But if you want to see it I’ll take you.” I knew about Bambi. I heard kids talk about it. My brother and sister told me the plot summary. I knew why my parents decided to prohibit me from seeing it. I was okay with that. But when my dad clandestinely asked if I wanted to see it, all stealth-like, I couldn't resist the temptation. Even though I was several years older than the other kids who would be in the audience I was scared of it. But I decided to do it, to grow up and deal with, grit my teeth and take my rite of passage.
My dad told my mother we were going to see Clash of the Titans (speaking of Laurence Olivier) and we then drove to a theatre 40 miles away so that we wouldn’t run into anyone we knew. It would be typical for my dad to sneak me out somewhere only to run into 10 of my mother's closest friends.
And, oh yeah, my parents were perfectly okay with me seeing Clash of the Titans but Bambi was off limits. I’m not saying my parents were logical people or conventional people. But my dad was a good dad.
He knew the movie so the plan was that just before things were going to turn fatal for Bambi’s parents he’d give me The Signal and I’d go get Milk Duds. He gave me money for the Milk Duds and everything. I was to look at my watch as I left the auditorium and make sure I stayed in the lobby 5 minutes before returning.
The anticipation of the signal was greater than the anticipation of the movie. I didn’t care as much about what I wanted see as I did about what I didn’t want to see. Ahhh, there’s a loaded life lesson.
But here’s the thing. I saw my dad starting to squirm and fidget. It was an old theatre, the seats were uncomfortable. But the next thing I knew my dad was grabbing my elbow and saying, “C’mon, c’mon, hurry up! Get out of here!”
So much for our plan and The Signal. My dad nearly broke a local track record up the aisle of the theatre, going so fast I struggled to keep up with him. He was practically dragging me. When we got to the lobby my dad did one of those big fake stretches and said “expletive seats, uncomfortable.” Then he blinked and rubbed his eyes, “Boy, it sure is bright out here after being in the dark theatre.”
Silence.
“I forgot to look at my watch,” I finally said.
“[expletive] me, too.”
“Should I still buy Milk Duds?”
“Yeah, let’s have Milk Duds.”
When he figured it was safe to return we sat in seats close to the back. The next NC-Trillian scene approached and this time my dad gave me the signal.
And followed me out “to make sure I was okay.” [Expletive] seats. Bright lobby. Twizzlers.
The ride home was completely silent. All 40 miles. Not a word was uttered. No radio. Nothing. My dad drove about 25 MPH with the brights on the entire 40 miles. He sat much more upright and alert than he normally did when driving, darting his unblinking peer from the road ahead to the shoulders of the road all the way home. I knew he was watching for deer. So was I. Not a word. Complete silence the entire ride home. At 25 MPH. With the brights on. Watching for deer.
As we got out of the car in the garage all he said was, “Clash of the Titans. Medusa. Perseus. Andromeda. Big scary monsters. You know the story.”
Yeah, Dad, I know the story.
I never have seen Clash of the Titans. Nor have I seen The Scenes in Bambi. And yes, yes, I’m sure they’re on YouTube and no, no, I don’t need help locating them.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Okay. So. Yes. I’m a spinster. (I’m hoping the more I use that word the less offensive it sounds) Yes, I am up on the shelf. Yes, my youth is fading. Yes, I am fighting that. Yes, I am aware it is futile to resist molecular decomposition. Yes, aging gracefully is the preferred goal. No, I am not trying to pass myself off as a 20-year-old. But. Every now and then I catch myself looking at something (or someone) and I have to remind myself: “Age inappropriate, Trillian, age inappropriate.” It’s a weird place to be in life. Sometimes I feel really, really old. Other times I feel young. But rarely do I feel the way I think I’m supposed to feel at my age. I’ve been that way for a long, time, though, this is not a new phenomenon. I’ve never been able to get my mentality in sync with my physical age.
Which brings up another issue I find odd: No one’s ever accused me of being immature. And I don’t think I’m immature. Even when I was a kid people used to tell my parents I was mature for my age. And yet…I was one of the goofiest kids I knew. Sure, some people link intelligence with maturity and because I did my homework and got good grades that could account for some of the “mature for her age” comments. But not all of them.
Since I’ve never been able to figure it out, age - how it correlates to me and my attitude - has always been an abstract concept to me. Since aging is a fundamental fact of life I guess I just accept it and don’t dwell on it. Just go along being me. Damn the consequences or appearances.
Except lately when that little voice says, “Back off, Trillian, age inappropriate, age inappropriate. Step away from the skirt/look away from the hot young guy before you wear or say something that will make you look really, really stupid.”
Then I think about age. Then I wonder how many times I have not heard that little voice and looked really stupid. And then I remember that I don’t give a toss what anyone else thinks of me. Especially now that I’m a spinster up on the shelf. Or, I guess it’s The Shelf.
That’s a good thing about being sincere and genuine, unable to play a role or put up a front. You have to be you because you don’t know how to act any differently.
But it’s a bad thing, too. I’ve never tried to pretend to be someone I’m not – younger, older, whatever – so I’ve never tried another persona or attitude on for size.
Well, I mean, when I was young, in school trying to fit in, I made a few disastrous attempts. And quickly discovered how horrible I am at pretending to be someone else and learned the best thing for me to do was accept myself and never, ever try to be something or someone I’m not.
I have friends and family to “blame” my spinsterhood on this trait. I don’t try to be someone, another type of woman, in order to impress and ensnare a man. I cannot even fathom why someone would do that, much less how they do it, because you end up living a lie or reaching a day of reckoning. Either way it’s way too disturbing for me to contemplate.
But. Apparently people do it. A lot. So much so that my friends “blame” my inability to find someone to date me on my inability to “fake it.” Yet when I ask them who or how I should be, what I should be faking, how I should behave or what I should do, or wear, or say…they have no advice to offer.
A few weeks ago I had brunch with a friend who had a rare day of no husband or kids. After conversation about their vacation plans, the new house they’re hoping to build and the kids (the kids, the kids, the kids) she actually asked me how things are with me. Specifically: Men. Or, well, whatever this question means: “What are you going to do about a man, Trillian?”
“Well, let's see. I'm fantasizing about tall men. Exclusively. That's new. What do you mean 'What am I doing about a man?' I’m not ‘doing’ anything. I gave up, remember? I sent an email memo. I’m through trying to meet a man, I’m through dating. I did have one abysmal 'date' a few weeks ago, but it was a fluke, I only went because I was trying to be nice to my neighbors.”
Weird look from my friend.
“Don’t ask. You don’t want to know. Just assume the worst.”
“It can’t help that all your friends are married, and even going on second marriages, and having kids. (as if this is just now occurring to her) If that doesn’t make you feel lonely you’re made of Teflon.”
“Yeah, well, yeah, it hurts sometimes.” It’s weird, I’ve been longing for some sort of acknowledgement from my friends, some sign that they at least realize that I’m left out, that I’m not “this way” by choice. And now there it was, she was giving me that acknowledgement and I didn’t now how to handle it. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say.
“You need a man. Really. I know what you’re thinking, but really, Trill, you need to be in a relationship. Life is too hard to go through it on your own. I hate how this sounds, but maybe it’s time to just settle for someone. Mr. Right isn’t going to come along so just find Mr. He’s Not Awful.”
“Ha! In case you hadn’t noticed I don’t exactly have high standards. I’d be content with Mr. I Don’t Drown Puppies.”
She didn’t miss a beat and launched into an attempt at dating intervention: “Look, Trillian, I love that you’re honest. Genuine. That’s why you’re my friend, there’s no bull shit with you, you’re real. That’s cool and I’m cool with that. I love that about you. But I’m not insecure. I’m comfortable being around someone who’s genuine. Other people, insecure, shallow, stupid people…and men…you know, they don’t always like to be around genuine people. It makes them uncomfortable. They think you can see through their façade (and, yes, usually I can spot a phony at 20 paces, or more) and it makes them nervous. And what’s worse is that you’re so nice. For someone trying to put up a front you’re one-two knock-out punch. You’re genuine and nice, it’s real with you. Then you’ve got that whole smart thing, it’s not like you’re some naïve little nice thing ripe for the picking. That’s a powerful combination. That’s really intimidating and scary for a lot of people. Especially guys. Have you ever thought about, well, being more mean? I mean, right up front, right from the start, unleash that sarcastic smart ass tongue of yours right from the start? Some men love a challenge or like the abuse.”
“Um. Okaaay. So. Is this your way of telling me you bought me a ticket to a ‘How to Fake It: Personality Chameleoning for Singles’ seminar?”
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea. You should market that. I bet you’d make a lot of money. And you might meet a guy, too. You know, actually. It is kind of like sex. Sometimes you fake it for the sake of his ego. ‘Oh baby, you’re the man, my biiig man, oh yeah, do it, big boy, yes, yes, oh sweet baby Jesus yes!’ just because you don’t want him to feel emasculated. And go to sleep. It’s dishonest but the ends justify the means. He feels like a stud and you get to go to sleep. Win-win. It’s the same thing with your personality. Just don’t be quite so genuine, quite so you.”
“Wait. You scream ‘sweet baby Jesus’?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
“Seriously? Even when you’re not faking it?”
“Yeah, I started it years ago because ‘oh God’ seemed so cliché.”
“And you found a man willing to marry you anyway?”
“I know. I’m very lucky. But you are not as lucky and we need to do something about that.”
“I don’t think ‘sweet baby Jesus, yes’ is going to roll off my tongue very naturally.”
“Trill, really, just try it. Just put a little effort into being less genuine, less real. Play games, be coy, be mean, be what men expect women to be. Men play games and pretend to be other people and they expect women to be the same way. Then you come along, all genuine and real and nice and they freak out.”
“So this isn’t about me and my inability to be someone I’m not. It’s about other people who are phony and not making them feel more insecure than they already are?”
“Well, yes.”
Trying to wrap my brain around this concept, exploring it, trying to glean some helpful advice, I said, “Let me get this straight. I should pretend to be someone I’m not in order to help people who are pretending to be someone they’re not feel less insecure?”
My friend sighed into her mimosa, “I know, Trillian, I know. Okay? I know. I get your point. It’s just that you’ve tried everything else, why not just, I don’t know, just try to be a little more, or a little less, something.”
“Something?”
“Yeah, just try to pretend to be a little less you and a little more someone else.”
“Who? Because I don’t think I can be the woman who screams ‘sweet baby Jesus’? Who else ya got?”
“I don’t know. Who do you want to be?”
“You mean literally or metaphorically?”
“Either. Both. It’s a literal metaphor.”
“Huh? There’s no such thing. It’s literal or it’s metaphoric.”
“See?!! See?!!! This is exactly what I’m talking about!!”
“What? I’m just trying to answer the question. A question I don’t fully understand because it’s oxymoronic. It does not compute.”
“Again. This is what I’m talking about. Let’s go with literal first.”
“Uhhh, literally? I want to be me. I don’t want to be anyone else, you know, literally. I just want to be a more together version of me. Me with a different job, me with money in the bank or at least without debt, me without a bum foot and ankle, me in a good relationship, me traveling, me unfettered by life.”
“Uh, Trillian? That’s you 10 years ago.”
“Yeah. So? What’s your point? I was pretty happy with me 10 years ago.”
“We all get older Trillian. Even you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just because you’re not doing the things the rest of us are doing, living the life the rest of us are living, doesn’t mean you’re immune to aging.”
“Let me not-so-gently remind you that I’m two years younger than you.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Not only do I keep it real, I keep you real, too.”
“Thank you. Let’s get unreal. You’ve been granted the super power of being someone else – literally - someone else. Here’s the metaphoric part: for a week. You can choose anyone. You’ll literally be them, living their life, seeing it through their eyes with their body, their job, their home, their everything except you’ll get to have your personality and theirs at the same time and you’ll get to remember the experience when your trial week is over.”
“Hmmm, I dunno. I never really thought about stepping into someone else’s being. Okay, well, let’s see…the Holy Trinity, of course, Chrissie Hynde, Kim Deal and Shirley Manson. If I could experience everything…that opens a lot of possibilities…someone with an awesome job like a Blue Angels stunt fighter pilot, that would be cool. Or a marine biologist who gets to roam around undersea in one of those mini-submarines. Or an astronaut. Yeah, an astronaut on a deep space mission. And I suppose for the sake of understanding I should choose someone who really enjoys taking drugs, I mean, that’s something I’d never do so this would be a good opportunity to find out what all the fuss is about. And I’d like to be a woman who men like and see how it feels to be the object of desire, to have to shoo away men and to get to be as choosey and as slutty as I want. See what it’s like to be a normal girl just to see what it’s like to be desired, to have men want me, maybe try out the ‘sweet baby Jesus’ line. And for the same reason I’d want to be a guy. On a date. With me. I could see and feel what he sees and feels on a date with me, and I’d get to see me, and then I’d have a lot of insight. Probably scary insight, but, worth it. But how would that work? Because I’d have to be two places, and two people, at once, together, but separate. That’s a lot of quantum physics to calculate.”
“Stop! Stop right there. You’re getting all Trillian. Just stop. Let me get this straight. You want to be a hot slutty rock chick who travels under water and in space and does drugs. Or a guy on a date with you?”
“When you say it like that it sounds a lot more lame that it looked in my head. Crap. I’m lame. I knew it. Even on my own Fantasy Island I’m lame.Everyone wonders what serious narcotic drug trips are really like, and everyone wants to be a rock star or an astronaut or a sea explorer or the hot chick. Then again…not everyone wants to go on a date with me, so, you know, any points for originality?”
“Just be that person. Pretend to be a hot slutty rock chick who travels under water and in space.” Ah finally, eureka. My friend unlocked the door to my new dating universe.
“You make it sound so simple. Basically I just pretend to be Ziggy Stardust. And drugs? How do I fake that? And do guys honestly like women who do drugs? I mean, guys I’d actually want to date, that is. And would these guys be into Ziggy Stardust?”
“Did Ziggy go in a submarine?” my friend inquired, as if to qualify men’s desire for women who do drugs and are into dating Ziggy Stardust.
“Not that I recall. But given the opportunity I’m sure Ziggy would go in a submarine. (pause as we both mulled the plausibility of a submariner Ziggy Stardust) Ziggy played guitar.” The mimosas kicked in and we cracked up.
“Awww, Trill. I just don’t get it. I'd date you. You're exactly what guys say they want. I mean, okay, sure, you’re not most typical beauty, but lots of women are way uglier than you.”
“Aww, gee, thanks, buddy, you always know how to make me feel better.”
“You know what I mean, some really ugly chicks have men fighting over them. Seriously, watch Jerry Springer sometime. You’ll feel so much better about yourself and your life you won’t believe it.”
“Sweet baby Jesus you watch Jerry Springer?”
“Every now and then. It’s an ego boost.”
“You’re getting off on schadenfreude, now?! Maybe you need to consider making a few changes. Life in the suburbs is obviously taking a toll on you. An unnatural, unhealthy toll.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. Because working your ass off, selling every ounce of your talent to a company who couldn’t possibly care less about you, struggling to pay bills and never dating is sooooo much more admirable than getting an ego boost from Jerry Springer.”
“Touché. You are right about one thing, though. I am having a weird phase in terms of age. I know there are things, clothes and men mostly, who are off limits to me now, and generally I’m not that interested anyway, but, yet, the stuff for our peer group, the things, and men, I should be attracted to, just don’t, well, attract me. I’m not hung up on age, but maybe I should be.”
“You need a Jerry Springer. If not Jerry, something else, something to make you feel good about yourself. Something to make you feel smugly superior for a few minutes.”
Yadda yadda yadda I went to an Aerosmith concert.
And yes, I feel smugly superior.
And yes, I am, in fact, not ashamed to admit that I feel smugly superior.
I’ll start by stating for the record that I am not a fan of Aerosmith. Toys in the Attic has its moments. Especially compared to its peer group, the crap-strewn musical year it was released, 1975. But. Apart from a bi-annual itch for Sweet Emotion Aerosmith is not a band I enjoy, much less like enough to see live.
But the tickets were free. And my friend’s words were echoing in my head. I think she has a couple reasonable points to consider. If I could pretend better, play games, be disingenuous, it might be beneficial to me to do that more often or at least try it. And I dunno, maybe one day I’ll try it. I figured stepping out of my version of normal would be a good exercise in attempting to be someone other than me. And hey, why not? (I don't think I'll ever learn...)
But the schadenfreude thing. I mean, that’s just mean. And so not me. I’m too compassionate, to empathetic to derive real pleasure from other people’s misfortunes. It’s mainly why I hate the Three Stooges. I just sit there thinking, “ouch, watch it! Ow! Oh, ouch, poor guy! Stop picking on him!”
And then again…maybe I’m not as compassionate and empathetic as I think I am.
Aerosmith fans are, um, well, ya know, I mean, see, just trying to articulate this makes me feel uncomfortable. But I’ll just spit it out: What a sorry bunch of people.
Not exclusively. But. Ask yourself this question: What sort of person pays for Aerosmith tickets in the year 2009? BIG, die hard fans, that’s who. And who are big die hard Aerosmith fans? Skanky men who were 17 in 1975 and skanky girls who were 16 in 1989.
Interestingly, it appears that in spite of the 16 year age difference a lot of those men and women have found each other and formed relationships. Relationships built on their love of guitars, Jack Daniels, spandex, mullets and scarves. Or maybe the guys aren’t as old as they appear, maybe they’ve done a lot of drugs and hard livin’ and they’re the same age as the women.
I mock but it’s tinged with jealously. Not of looking old and haggard, but of the fact that in spite of their best efforts to repulse the opposite sex, these people have found someone to date and marry. And breed. They brought their young children to an Aeorsmith concert. Have I used up all my WTF passes for this year?
But. On the other hand. Do I want to date/marry/take our children to Aerosmith concerts with one of those guys? Well….I mean, see, here’s the thing, I’m not saying I’m too good or better. I’m just different than them. I have a different set of priorities. Mesh tank tops, snake print spandex leggings and bullet-case studded belts are not a high priority for me. I mean, you know, hey, if that’s your thing rock on. But at 51+ years old you might want to consider modifying the look. You know, tweak it a bit to accommodate the march of time and ravages of drugs and beer on your body. Then again, they’re the ones with the girlfriends, they’re doing something right. And I am very single, so maybe I need to learn from them.
Still.
If these people are so happy why are they such heavy drinkers? And drug users? Seriously, I’ve been to a lot of concerts. I’ve been in some really dingy bars. I’ve known some hard livin’ people. I saw Sid and Nancy. But sweet baby Jesus these people, en masse, were by far the most drunk and stoned group of people I’ve ever shared a concert venue with.
The term “strung out on drugs” usually makes me giggle. It sounds so Dragnet. Or something my dad would say. I dunno, it’s just one of those terms that strikes me funny because of the people who usually use it and their earnestness and depth of gravity.
Well. Apparently I am old. Apparently I’m turning into my father. Because all I could think about for most of the evening was, “Sheesh, this is just sad. I’ve never seen so many people strung out on drugs in one place.” And worse, I think they thought I was an undercover narc because they all kept their distance from me. I realize I must have looked slightly out of place, what with my lack of mesh, spandex and bullets casings, but I did rock up my hair a little, I did wear black and cool boots even though my foot was killing me in them. And I have black eye liner and I know how to use it. I wasn’t a fish totally out of the water. I was flapping around a lot trying to breathe but I wasn’t totally out of water. Nonetheless, in spite of my black eye liner, I clearly do not have the aura of an Aerosmith chick. Whatever I’m lacking, I apparently repel Aerosmith fans.
Which is fine with me. It would be more difficult for me to feel superior if they were nice to me. No, they weren’t mean, but they weren’t exactly buddying up to me, either. A few disdainful looks were shot at me when I dared to make eye contact. Some women in the bathroom steered their 6 - 7 year old daughters away from me as if I was oozing puss. Yes, women who took their young daughters to an Aerosmith show gave me snide looks. I kid you not.
Usually at concerts a few people will buddy up to me, share the experience, if only for a song or two. But nope, not at this show, not Aerosmith fans. Nope. I repelled them like a 9-to-5 job.
I’m proud to say I survived the experience with a renewed sense of dignity. Not because in comparison I’m sooooo much better or younger than them. (Although...)
My dignity got a shove up because they reminded me that I’m okay with being me, being genuine. I have been to rock and punk shows where Aerosmith-esque fans show up and get a full set into the gig before they realize the band on stage isn’t actually Aerosmith. Funnily enough, in that situation the Aerosmith-esque guys make a bee-line for me. Not so repelled by me in that situation, they seek me out like a safe harbor. And usually I’m nice to them in spite of our differences in age and music preferences. I acknowledge them and buddy up for a song or two, just as if they weren’t sticking out like a sore thumb and strung out on drugs.
But there I was, in their natural habitat, and they shot me looks of disdain and kept their distance. I suppose some of them assumed since I'm younger than they are I'm a fan of the "new" Aerosmith, the '80s-'90s era Aerosmith. (Really, Aerosmith snobs???!!) But the vibe I got was that since I looked younger and wasn't wearing spandex, mesh and bullet casings I wasn't real, I wasn't good enough. Or, just unworthy of anything other than a smirk or look of disdain.
I don’t do that to them when they’re not among their kind. I don’t change my attitude about people depending on who else is around. I’m not fickle.
Thank you, Aerosmith fans, for giving my dignity and self esteem a nice boost. And don’t worry, the next time you mistakenly show up on the wrong night at a punk show I’ll still be nice to you. Just don't bring your 6-year-old daughters.
3:47 PM
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Life lesson learned way too late in life:
When a bottle of blue cheese dressing, like, say, Wish Bone brand, is almost, but not quite, empty, do not invert the capped bottle for a few minutes to allow the remaining dressing to drain to the capped (now inverted) end of the bottle. And then open it.
Unless your goal is to create a small explosion of creamy blue cheese dressing. An explosion sending a surprisingly large quantity of globby splatters all over the kitchen. And your new dark green silk top your friend gave you for your birthday.
If that is your goal I can vouch for the stoichiometric properties of Wish Bone® blue cheese dressing.
How could I not know about the Inversion Blue Cheese Dressing Bottle Expansion and Explosion Theory? Why didn't I use this for a science fair project?
I've had small poofs of air and glob spurt out of an inverted ketchup bottle, but nothing like the Blue Cheese Incident of 2009.
Crimony.
And ya know these things never, ever happen when I'm just home alone hanging out in an old t-shirt with nothing better to do than clean globs and splatters of blue cheese dressing in my kitchen.
Or when a good friend or family member is visiting.
Nope.
For maximum effect the Inversion Blue Cheese Dressing Bottle Expansion and Explosion occurs when a client and her mother are visiting while looking at condos in the neighborhood.
This is what I get for being helpful. This is what I get for opening my home to business acquaintances. This is what I get for making a stereoscopic microscope for my science fair project.
Still. I'm guessing there are a number of people who don't know about the expansion and exploding properties of an inverted bottle of blue cheese dressing. They put a warning on cigarette packages. In case someone hasn't heard that smoking is unhealthy and causes cancer. But they don't put a "When inverted contents may expand and explode" warning on a bottle of blue cheese dressing.
So in the interest of public safety I'm warning you: Use caution when opening an inverted bottle of blue cheese dressing.
6:59 PM
Monday, June 08, 2009
You know how I gave up on dating, romance, love and all that? You know how conventional wisdom is that's when you meet someone? You know how conventional wisdom doesn't apply to me. So no guy, no romance, no love. Status quo.
I guess it's good, better to not even try. Securely up on the shelf collecting dust. It beats rejection. It beats trying and trying and "getting out there" and coming up empty and alone. It hurts but it's "just" the loneliness as opposed to loneliness and rejection. So, you know, I guess it's better.
Okay, so, I have these neighbors. They're nice people. Even if they had my name totally wrong. (We've cleared up that weirdness but that's another blog.) She told me about this friend of theirs, a bachelor. She spoke highly of the bachelor friend. The bachelor friend drives them to doctor appointments, visits once a week...a good guy. I had a feeling she (the neighbor) was giving me a sales job on this guy, casually bringing him up in every other conversation, always mentioning what a great guy he is. Sometimes it seemed like she was itching for me to take the bait, other times it just seemed like general conversation. I wasn't hungry (see above, on shelf) so I didn't take the bait.
My response was always, "Yep, yep, you're lucky to have such a good friend."
I knew she was waiting for some sign, some chink in my armor of spinsterdom, to suggest that the bachelor and I get to know each other.
Then one day it happened. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was heading to the grocery. Waiting (and waiting) for the elevator in our shared hallway, right outside my neighbor's door. The elevator door finally slid open and a man rushed out without looking and nearly smacked into me. In fairness to him it's rare that anyone is hanging around our hallway. As we did the "excuse me" "sorry" "oops excuse me" "no, excuse me" dance my neighbor opened her door.
Her look of glee and excitement was not well hidden. You know Barbara Streisand's over-acted, affected, pantomimed winks and smirks at the camera in Hello Dolly? My neighbor affected the same winking nudge smirk to an unseen camera when she saw that the bachelor and I had run into each other (literally). She was positively giddy while introducing us. She gushed. She enthused. She effused. She invited me to join them for pizza and beer.
I declined and went on my way.
Okay. I realize that I am in no position to judge. I am a spinster collecting dust on a shelf. I know this. I am aware of who and how I am. I am fully aware of the humility and humbleness a woman in my position has to affect by default. I was unsuccessful in dating and mating and therefore I am not allowed an opinion about men. Or, well, I can have any opinion I want but no one would ever take me seriously because, har har, what would I know about men? I can't even get a date let alone get a man to hang around long enough for a relationship much less, har har, marry me.
Right. I'm in no position to judge anyone. Nor would I want to judge anyone. But judging by this guy's lack of eye contact and urgency to get away from me I was pretty darned sure I was judging his lack of interest correctly. Oh sure, he was polite and made nice for his friends' sake, but the "I am soooooo not interested" signals were like blaring foghorns. Which was fine because I was sooooo not interested. I know, I know, she who sits collecting dust on a shelf of spinsterdom is in no position to be choosy.
Yadda yadda yadda I went out with my neighbors' bachelor friend. He didn't seem at all interested in me during our hallway encounter. And I certainly didn't give off any signals to entice him.
But my neighbor was persuasive. "Hey, it's a night out, he's single, you're single, you're about the same age, you work, he works, he's nice, you're nice...no one's saying you have to get married, just get out and meet someone new!" Okay, can't argue with her logic in the general sense. But. Well.
I don't want you to have to hear about it on Dateline so I'll tell you the rest of the story before NBC gets the scoop and starts interviewing my family and friends.
Ya know, I've met some strange men. Some cruel men. Some rude men. And a few creepy men. You know that Dos Equis "Most Interesting Man in the World" guy? I have now gone out with "The Most Insolent Man in the World."
The “date” was originally supposed to be my neighbors, their bachelor friend and me meeting for drinks at a local bar. When my neighbor had a reaction to a new medication they apologetically cancelled at the last minute. I said, “No problem, take good care, we’ll just do it another time.”
At this point my neighbor pulled what I consider a breech of etiquette. Not intentional, I’m sure she didn’t think it through and I’m not ‘blaming' her. But… She sent both the bachelor and me an email, with our email addresses shown. (bcc, people, bcc) She suggested another time and date for drinks.
The bachelor friend piped in via email saying the new date and time would be fine but he was still up for drinks with Trillian since he was on his way out the door anyway.
Trillian was actually relieved to get the news that the “double date” was cancelled.
But, Trillian is too polite for her own good sometimes and Trillian thought, “What the heck. I’m just sitting up on a shelf collecting dust. Why not?”
Since the dawn of time, in every era, in every culture, there are two questions which propel humans to heights of historical and intellectual greatness or plummet them to depths of stupidity and failure. The keys to the Universe, the mysteries of life, have been, and will be learned and revealed by these two questions. “What if…?” and “Why not?”
I’ve asked those questions all my life. The “What if…?”s serve me well. I can’t say I’ve soared to heights of intellectual and historical greatness, but, I’ve been a lot of places, done a lot, learned a lot (albeit sometimes via a lot of trial and error), seen a lot, and I will certainly leave this mortal coil wiser than I arrived due in large part to wondering, "What if...?" So, generally, success.
The “Why not?”s on the other hand…yeah. Those tend to lead me further down the spiral of failure and despair. And unfortunately my apparent limited intelligence prohibits me from learning to fully address the answers to the question, “Why not?”
Time and time again “Why not?” gets me into situations which, from the get-go, are fraught with plenty of solid reason to, well, “not.” The better question is simply, “Why?” But for some reason (my lack of cranial capacity, perhaps) the question I ask myself is more often, “Why not?” The question I should ask is, “Why?” Or ask myself, "What if I said why not?"
It’s the whole optimist/pessimist thing. Half full or half empty.
A pessimist will have the knee jerk response of, “Why?” and then come up with many reasons why not to support their “Why?” stance.
An optimist will ask “Why not?” and then proceed to intellectualize every reason to “not,” hash out contingency plans and then forge ahead thinking they’ve troubleshot all the possible issues by initially asking “Why not?” Optimists are, actually, quite cautious. They (albeit often foolishly, or, naively) believe they’ve weighed the pros and cons, have back-up plans and are braced for whatever happens. And then merrily go full steam ahead with a nothing ventured, nothing gained attitude. “Better to try and fail than to never try!”
History is paved with the graves of people who failed.
Oh sure, history is also paved with the graves of people who succeeded, but one need look no further than the Darwin Awards to see the ratio of deaths due to failure:deaths due to success is heavily skewed to the failure side of the formula.
Which is why I steadfastly believe that optimism is a character flaw.
Sure, it’s crucial to survival of the species. How many children are conceived due to the question, “Why not?” Optimism kicks in and common sense and intelligence fly straight out the window. Nine months later an unplanned child is born. Score one for procreation, the species will live to see another generation.
But that in itself is not evolution. Evolution is progressing, growing, learning, building a smarter, faster, better species with each generation. Take a look around. Are we evolving? I’ll let that question hang.
My theory is that if optimism were bred out of humans we would already be flying around with jet-packs and taking vacations on planets in galaxies which haven’t yet been discovered. And human suffering would have ended a long time ago. Legions of dumb/evil/corrupt/greedy people never would have been born.
Why? (She asks, because she’s pessimistic about the state of her species.) Because if optimism were bred out of us the answers to the “Why not?” questions would be heeded.
“Why not?” set out in a boat with no rudder? 1. We can’t steer it. Done. Stay home until you figure out how to turn the boat and get back home.
But no. The Vikings didn’t heed the answer, the one really good answer, to “Why not?” and they set sail in boats they couldn’t steer. Yes. Optimism, or, as we call it today, stupidity, is what propelled the Vikings all over the world. I think that’s what made them so nomadic and violent. They just wanted to go home and became increasingly frustrated the farther abroad they sailed. Every time they landed on a new shore and realized they still weren’t home they went into an angry rage. If they just would have listened to the one, the lone good reason to the question, “Why not?” they may have gone down in history as one of the most stationary, peaceful, home loving people in history. But no. “Why not set off on stormy seas in a boat that can be steered only by the wind?” Yadda yadda yadda Viking ruins found all over the world.
Yes, I mock my ancestors. But it’s a good case in point. They weren’t brilliant, they weren’t innovative. They were stubborn and stupid. And became angry and violent. It’s merely survival of the fittest, a robust DNA strain, hardy sex drives, anger, and bullying that kept them alive with new generations born and reaching maturity.
Okay, sure, if optimism were long ago bred out of us legions of smart/creative/innovative people wouldn’t have been born, either. If Mrs. Dickens asked, “Why not?” prior to conceiving Charles or any of his subsequent siblings, and really thought it through, logic and concern about another mouth to feed and her husband’s lack of financial acuity would have prevailed. She would have feigned a headache and the Dickens family might have been spared the poverty that sent Charles to work as a child laborer and high school students the world over would not write term papers on David Copperfield. For every action there’s a reaction. ‘Tis true.
But when you stack up evidence, the highlights, the bright spots in history, are few. And worth the sacrifice when compared to the high volume of low spots in history. Let’s face it, humans, as a species, haven’t really lived up to their abilities. Given our brains and opposable thumbs we should be a lot further along by now. Oh sure, sure, pat on the back for all we have done, but I mean, really, when you step back and think about all the time and talent we’ve had at our disposal we’re slackers. There are insects surviving, thriving and evolving better than we are. My theory is that optimism is what's holding us back. More pessimism, more "what if..."s and fewer "why not"s would help us jettison forward into species evolution.
So. There I was. Like my Viking ancestors asking myself, “Why not?” Setting off in a boat without a rudder assuming I could get back home again, none worse for the experience. But with absolutely no plan for what the future could present. See what I mean? If optimism had been bred out of humans my ancestral imprints of Viking stupidity and over-confidence wouldn’t get me into the sorts of situation I found myself in that evening: Out for drinks with a man I know only by referral of neighbors. Neighbors who refer to him as their bachelor friend.
I’m well aware that the reaction people have to finding out I’m still single, never married, at “my age” is “There must be something wrong with her.” Or, “There must be a good reason (read: a horrible flaw) why she’s still single.” Or, if I’m having a not so great moment people roll their eyes and blame my less than stellar behavior on my lack of a man – and then turn around and blame my lack of a man on my behavior.
See, when you’re a heterosexual woman of a certain age and never married, everything you do is studied and gossiped about. You’re a social anomaly, a freak. You serve as a living, breathing warning to young women: Don’t let this happen to you. Watch yourself, behave or you could end up like her. I know, I know, I’m exaggerating. Slightly. Think about the spinsters you know. Surely you have encountered at least one in your lifetime. Got her in mind? Okay. Now. Be honest. What were your first two thoughts after I said, “Think about the spinsters you know.”
Gotcha.
Don’t feel bad. I think it must be human nature. With each passing year people are becoming more vocal about their thoughts on my singleness. People I barely know, people I’ve just met, stare at my unringed finger and ask me point blank, “Why aren’t you married?”
It would never in a bazillion years even occur to me to make an obvious stare at a wedding ringed finger and ask someone I barely know, “Why are you married?”
I’m getting more used to it. I used to have to excuse myself to the ladies room to release a few tears of sadness or vent a few loud sighs of outrage. For a while I did reply with, “Why are you married?” (The answers are a blog for another day but I note for the record: They shut up and changed the subject. Fast.) Now I just shrug, leaving the inquisitor left to speculate. They speculate anyway, no matter how I respond, so why not just cut straight to that chase?
But here’s the thing: People do not react to the “news” of singledom at certain age when the single person is a man. It’s not, “There’s something wrong with him.” People, peers especially, think or say, “heh heh, way to go, old boy.” Or “escaped the shackles so far, eh stud?!” Or, “Waiting for the right one, smart man!” Single men are always called bachelors, no matter how long they remain single. Single women, however, hit an unspecified age and wham! they go from single gal or bachelorette to spinster. Just like that. I’m here to tell you, it happens over night. One night you go to bed a single gal. You wake up the next morning deemed “spinster” by society.
And so, upon settling in at the bar with my neighbor’s bachelor friend I was not surprised that the first words out of his mouth were, “Why are you still single?”
Yes, really.
Apparently this is why he wanted to go out for drinks with me even when his friends had to cancel. Either he wanted to know why any woman my age would choose to remain single, or, my neighbors wanted him to get the scoop on me.
That would have been an opportune time for some of my Viking ancestral DNA imprint to kick in. “Them’s fightin’ words!!!” Maraud! Torture! Disembowel! Conquer!!!
But no. All was quiet on the Viking front. I just sat there politely searching for words.
“I uh, erm, I, well, I just haven’t met the right one.”
“Uh huh. Picky, eh?”
Okay. Really. This guy was being a jerk. Maybe it was nerves, maybe he’s one of those people with an abrasive first impression. He was kind of pushy coming out of the elevator that day. But my neighbors are super nice people. I cannot fathom that they would be friends with someone who isn’t, well, nice. And they tell me how nice he is and talk about all the nice things he does for them…so maybe it’s just a gruff exterior. So, for my neighbors’ sake more than mine, I said, “No, not particularly. I won’t date smokers, drug addicts, convicts or pedophiles, but other than that I’m pretty open.”
“So, you like men but they don’t like you?”
I kid you not. Had I known I was going to be put on trial I would have brought a dating attorney to defend me.
Affecting a jovial jocularity I tried to make light of his assertion “That’s an oversimplification, but for the sake of this discussion, sure, let’s go with that. And you? How is it no one’s snatched you off the dating market?”
“I’ve had plenty of opportunities (haven’t they all) but I’m not in a hurry. There’s no pressure for men. I can wait as long as I want. I can have kids forever (really? Wow) When I find the perfect woman then I’ll get married.”
Good luck with that.
He continued. “Women don’t have it as easy. I feel sorry for you gals sometimes. You have to strike some poor schmuck while you’re young or else you lose the opportunities.”
“Ahhh, is that it. Someone forgot to tell me that.” I tried to make a joke of his statement, tried to turn the conversation somewhere other than where it was going (I did learn something from my Viking ancestors, don’t set out in a boat without a rudder), but humor is not one of this guy’s character traits.
Put that on my list, too. Non-smoker, non-addict, non-felon, non-pedophile, sense of humor. And tall. I’ve decided I like, and want, tall. Okay, well, I mean, in my fantasies lately the men have all been tall so, you know, that’d be nice. If a non-smoking, non-addicted, non-felon, non-pedophile man with a sense of humor man comes along and he happens to not be tall I’m okay with that. I’m just saying, you know, as long as I’m fantasizing about a non-smoking, non-addicted, non-felon, non-pedophile man with a sense of humor, you know, crazy talk, I’ll throw in tall, too.
“Yep. No one wants to date a spinster,” he said, very smugly.
This guy, this man, who was at least 8 years older than me, and unmarried, had the nerve to call me a spinster.
Okay. Okay! I am a spinster. And collecting dust up on the shelf. But. The pot calling the kettle black never, ever sits well with me.
“No one wants to date a jerk, either,” I said. Out loud. Except I didn’t intend to say it out loud. In my mind I said it in my head. It was a full minute of awkward silence later when I realized I actually said it out loud.
He was not amused. He was not enlightened. He was mad.
“No one wants to date a bitter bitch,” he finally retorted.
The manners were cast aside and the gloves were off. We were in open hostility territory.
“No one wants to date a rude asshole. Who wears gay shoes.”
Oh no she din’t!!!
Oh, yes. She did.
Because yes, he was wearing really gay shoes. Which stood out as even more gay against his otherwise very Sout’side butch homophobe outfit. I’m guessing he currently, or in the very recent past, drives a Camaro. A bitchin’ Camaro. And I’d bet a paycheck he’s never missed a Metallica tour. See what I mean? On that kind of guy gay shoes are even more gay. Double gay.
If he can state the obvious and make fun of me at the same time, well, so can I. He made the rules, set the tone, not me. Okay, I know, I know, I shouldn’t have stooped to his level and it just makes me look bad and whatever blah blah blah.
Not surprisingly his response was straight out of the Sout’side butch homophobe rule book, “Fuck you. Fuck you!” And he stood up and made a big gesture about shoving his bar stool into the bar.
I raised my drink to him and said, “Cheers.”
Good riddance, right? Right. The bartender, who overheard most of the “conversation” laughed and came over to me. “What an asshole. Did you meet him online?”
I kid you not. Funny to think that a year ago that would have been true. I would have had to admit that yes, I met him online.
But nope. This was a guy who came with personal references. From people I like.
And that’s the problem. I do like my neighbors. And I live just a few doors down from them. There’s no way to avoid them until this whole thing has blown over.
And unfortunately it’s not blowing over quickly.
Remember how I said my neighbor had a breech of email etiquette?
Yeah. Well. Guess who’s sent me a nasty email every day since that night? No, not my neighbors. Mr. Gay Shoes himself. But he’s “clever.” When my neighbor sent us an email trying to reschedule our “date” he responded with a reply all very politely declining. Immediately followed with an email sent only to me stating in further detail how I’m a loser, a bitch and no wonder I’m single.
I could forward his email to my neighbor with a note saying, “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.”
But no. He’s their friend and they like him and if they haven’t seen this side of him then it’s not my business to expose him.
After several nasty emails from him I finally responded telling him to stop emailing me and that I’m blocking him from my email.
Which I promptly did.
Which opened a Pandora’s Box of issues with my neighbors. Apparently they sent an email to both of us and he responded with a reply all, which of course bounced back from my address. But apparently my neighbors also received the “didn’t reach some or all of the intended recipients” message and thought they were doing me a favor by telling me that I didn’t receive an email from this guy and started forwarding his emails to me.
I know. I know. These people, nice as they are, have a way of putting me in some very awkward situations. First they called me the wrong name for like, a year, and now they’ve put me in the middle of this “situation” with their friend who’s a jerk. They’re nice, innocent people. (I think…) But crimony, what next? They’re unwitting accomplices to weirdness in my life and anything’s possible.
Meanwhile, the bachelor jerk with gay shoes is now sending these double entendre messages which get forwarded to me. He’s playing a game where every time my neighbor suggests that we go out, he agrees and says, “Check with Trillian, see if she’s free, I don’t seem to be able to send her email.” He knows darned well I don’t ever want to see him again, and I know darned well he never wants to see me again. But I’m looking like the bad guy, the problem in all of this. At some point I’m going to have to just tell my neighbors that the gay shoed jerk and I didn’t hit it off and I’m not interested in seeing him again. I have to fess up and deal with it, sooner rather than later.
This is all proof that I’m better off up on the shelf, not trying, just giving up on dating, romance, love, men, all of it. It’s a loud and clear message from the Universe (in case all the other messages weren’t loud or clear enough) that I am meant to be single and that it’s not only upsetting for me, it’s dangerous to society at large for me to attempt to date. And that the answer to the question "Why not?" should always, always be, "Because optimism is thwarting evolution. Instead ask 'What if...?' and thoroughly explore all the ifs. And talk yourself out of it. Just. Say. No."
9:31 PM
Thursday, June 04, 2009 Salvation, rising like the sun over a dewy meadow, bringing promise and hope to the land.
Swut.
Belgiuming swutting swut.
Am I alone here or is this the bleakest day in modern history? It's wrong on so many levels even I can't begin to articulate them.
No one wants to buy an American car, but boy oh boy, "we" just can't get enough Wal-Mart. Intelligent, creative, educated, hard working people with experience and great ideas can't find jobs for months at a go because no one's hiring, no one. No one, that is, except swutting Wal-Mart. It's come to this?
I weep for the future.
I'm not sure what my lowest level of desperation is. I've been pretty low. I've plummeted to some pretty low depths. But I've never been forced to choose between unemployment and working at Wal-Mart.
Still, I think that's my definition of rock bottom. I'm not certain because fortunately I've never been quite that low. But as I sit here today, facing a probable lay-off in a few months, I'm not ashamed to admit to the world that if I could find paying customers I would prostitute my body before I'd even consider prostituting my soul to Wal-Mart.
I know, I know, pride goeth before a fall, and when I find myself in that situation perhaps I won't be so self righteous and that Wal-Mart smock won't seem so bad. (I assume they wear smocks - they wear smocks in the commercials and it seems like it would be a mandatory smock and name badge kind of place.) But the thought of getting up and going to work at Wal-Mart makes me more nauseous than the thought of getting up (or, well, down) and going to work on my back. And I wouldn't have to wear a smock or a name badge.
I mean, think about it. At least that's over in a few minutes. Since I'm clean and friendly I'm thinking I could get at least $100 per trick.* And with prostitution I could just turn-off my body, let it go numb, send my mental focus deep and far from the physical activity - conjugate German verbs (Present es geschieht; sie geschehen Simple Past es geschah; sie geschahen Present Perfect es ist geschehen; sie sind geschehen Past Perfect es war geschehen; sie waren geschehen Future es wird geschehen; sie werden geschehen Future Perfect es wird geschehen sein; sie werden geschehen sein)and classify animals and plants (Kingdom: Animalia, Phylum: Chordata, Class: Osteichthyes, Order: Gasterosteiformes, Family: Syngnathidae, Genus: Hippocampus) - to take my mind off what I'm doing with/to my body. At least I could still use my brain at work.
A job at Wal-Mart, I'm guessing, is just the opposite. Turn-off your brain and use your body. For $7.50/hour. No conjugating or classifying there.
Assuming there's a future beyond the next few years it makes more sense to keep your brain sharp for hopeful future employment.
It's a very personal decision, prostitution. Some people already consider me a prostitute because I work for corporate America. Basically, how low will you go? What's your threshold of vulgarity and/or morality? To define selling your soul you have to define soul. My definition of soul lies in my brain - the ideas, emotions and decisions I choose. As far as I'm aware my vagina doesn't have a brain - or a soul. Nor is it capable of vulgarity or morality. (which could explain the woeful state of my love life...perhaps that's the problem, my vagina isn't vulgar or moral) Don't get me wrong, I'm not excited about the prospect of prostitution, I'd rather not turn tricks for a living and to be clear, we're talking only after I've lost everything including my home and have exhausted all forms of employment other than prostitution and Wal-Mart. And I certainly do not mean to be glib about It in the Big Picture sense. Prostitution born of desperation isn't funny.
Nor is working at Wal-Mart.
I know. I know. Some people don't have a choice. Some people aren't as willing to compromise their bodies as I apparently am. I'm not dissing people who work at Wal-Mart.
Well. Not all of them. I am dissing the people who like working at Wal-Mart because they like Wal-Mart and it's their dream job. And don't mind wearing a smock and a name badge.
For the rest of the Wal-Mart employees, the ones who hate it, the ones who were forced into it because every other company in a 100 mile radius of their home closed, the ones who resent wearing a smock and a name badge, the ones who understand the implications of all that Wal-Mart represents and hate themselves for being part of, and consequently perpetuating, the problem, for those Wal-Mart employees I have sympathy and sadness.
And I feel sadness and compassion for the second and third generation Wal-Mart employees. They simply do not know any better. Children raised by parents who work at Wal-Mart, barely scraping by, barely providing food and shelter, shopping at Wal-Mart because it's all they can afford, those children don't know another way of life. With few other opportunities they are forced to seek employment at Wal-Mart, too, and the cycle is perpetuated. Sound familiar?
It does to me. It sounds like welfare.
And with 22,000 - 34,000 new jobs in the next year, that's exactly what it is.
Wal-Mart is the new welfare.
When you think of it in those terms my threat to become a prostitute before working at Wal-Mart doesn't seem quite as severe. There are plenty of women who take up prostitution because they've hit bottom but won't or can't go on welfare. "What else was I going to do? I needed money, I couldn't find a job...it was prostitution or welfare and I couldn't get welfare..." I mean, most of us feel compassion for a woman in that situation.
Well, guess what? By September I may very well be one of those women. If I lose my job I can last a couple months unemployed, at best. I can pay the mortgage for a few months while I hopefully, quickly, sell my place, or, go into foreclosure. Then it's on friends' couches or home to my mother.
Ahhhh, my mother. If my mother loses my dad's GM pension her savings and income are going to be quickly depleted by her medical expenses**. We joke about the two of us being homeless, living in her handicapper van and eating cold tins of beans because her van doesn't have a cigarette lighter to warm them, but the joke stings with an all too near plausibility.
I don't "mind" losing everything, including my home. I've been emotionally numb for years. Loss has become a way of life for me. But my mother? No way am I going to let her suffer. I will turn tricks to support her if need be. And, given the choice between that and Wal-Mart, she'd probably support my decision to choose prostitution. Watch for us on the "Mothers Who Allow their Daughters to be Prostitutes Rather than Work at Wal-Mart" episode of Maury Povich.
Play along at home. Try it. Substitute the word Wal-Mart where you'd usually say welfare. See how apt it is in every sentence. It's like the Chinese fortune cookie "in bed" trick. It works every time.
*What is the going rate, anyway? I mean, for just a straight up roll in the sack, nothing kinky, nothing oral, nothing drug-related? $100? $200? Do they still call it turning tricks? Are there men with corporate middle manager women fetishes? I mean, if all I have to do to get a guy off is put on a work suit and talk about spreadsheets and quarterly marketing strategy reviews I should fetch a high dollar. Assuming guys with that fetish exist. I realize it's a niche market but I'm guessing not a market with much competition so I might stand a chance at making a profit. "Ooooo, such a naughty systems analyst, aren't you, huh? Aren't you? Oooooh, yeah, baby, spread this sheet and skew my data, RSS this!" I can't imagine anyone getting off on that, but there's a whip for every kink and I'll bet a paycheck there are men out there who get turned on by women speaking middle manager-ese.
**FYI, GM cut health care for non-union retirees last year. Hence, many people, senior citizens, who retired with the promise and expectation of health insurance now have none. I know, I know, I don't have the promise of health insurance when I retire, lots of people, most people do not. But, these are people who budgeted and planned their retirement around that promise and expectation. Imagine being 78 years old and out shopping for health insurance. Yeah. Good luck with that. That's just one fact you don't read in the news snippits and something you might want to consider before you say "GM and its employees 'deserve' this."
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Fortune Cookie Thought for the Week Okay, so not exactly a fortune or advice or winning lottery numbers, but funny: "You have a mouth as sharp as a dagger, but a heart as soft as tofu." He who write fortune cookie saying should stick tongue out in mirror. Like the steamer calling the wok black, there fortune cookie writer.
I've heard people talk about the kernel panic screen but I thought it was like unicorns - it's always a friend of a friend who had one, never anyone you directly know. And what it actually means is cloaked in myth, legend and speculation.
I doubted if it was real. Oh sure, I saw the screen shots, but hey, I've seen paintings of unicorns.
I'm here today to tell you: The Mac kernel panic screen is real. It happens. It exists. It's swift and it's thorough.
One minute I was working in PhotoShop with iTunes keeping the playlist crooning, the next minute I was staring at a blackened frozen screen telling me: You need to restart your computer. Hold down the power button for several seconds or press the Restart button.
It was so unexpected and surprising I just sat there staring at it for ages. As one might react upon seeing a unicorn. I was afraid to move, scared to do anything. As one might react upon seeing a unicorn. I was shocked. And afraid. As one might react upon seeing a unicorn. My brain went into that hyper-fast Run Lola, Run special effect mode. Memories, trivia, what...what...what the...what if...it can't be...it doesn't exist...but there it is...it's real...it's true. As one might react upon seeing a unicorn.
Yadda yadda yadda Genius Bar yadda yadda yadda Airport card yadda yadda yadda disk drive yadda yadda yadda browser update yadda yadda yadda money yadda yadda yadda Genius Bar yadda yadda yadda kernel panic resolved.
Cripes.
Here's the thing. I was out of town working in a hotel room when the kernel panic hit. The day prior to that the hotel's server was down. When the concierge told me it was up and running again I couldn't get Firefox to load and Safari was flaky. Grudgingly I tried Explorer for Mac and it was more stable than Safari (and the non-functioning Firefox). A day later I got the kernel panic screen.
So, it's possible this is all Bill Gates' fault. But still. I was out of town, relying on my laptop to get me through meetings with clients. Exotic as it was to see the kernel panic screen The Steves really let me down this time.
I mean, now that it's over it was, you know, kind of exciting. I feel, well, kind of privileged, chosen. I don't often get bragging rights. But now I have them. "Kernel panic on a Mac? Oh yeah, it's real. It happened to me. The black restart screen? Oh yeah, it's real. It's real."
And it opens a whole new world of possibility. I have a renewed sense of awe and wonder. If the Mac kernel panic is real, what other scary myths are true? Big foot? Unicorns?
