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:

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<

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

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?

"50 First Dates"

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

Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Find Federal Officials
Enter ZIP Code:

or Search by State

Find State Officials
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or Search by State

Contact The Media
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or Search by State

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.)



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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


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?!)


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.


Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto


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

Friday, October 30, 2009  
Okay, okay, I get it. I staged an intervention with myself.

I got out of the condo and did something useful with myself. I'm helping my mother. It's sort of an out of the frying pan into the fire situation, trading one form of anxiety for another, but at least helping my mother get rid of a lifetime of stuff accumulated through a long, happy, marriage and three children and four grandchildren is doing something useful.

I washed and brushed my hair. I did laundry. I'm wearing clean underwear.

And yes, I shaved my legs. And my mother will make me eat something other than cookie dough and Diet Pepsi. And I'm out in the world, interacting with people. So yeah. It's good.

I'm giving away a lot more forgiveness and sympathy Snuggies® and that feels good - or at least helpful. You know, psychologically. I'm not a productive member of society in that I don't have a job, but, I'm doing what I can to contribute to the greater good. Handing out good will and compassion. Hey, it's the least I can do.

Matlock was on the train. A smartly dressed older man who, I kid you not, looked exactly like Matlock era Andy Griffith. Except instead of Andy’s gentle, kind, smiley, folksy wise sage demeanor, this guy was a jerk. Not a crotchety old man kind of jerk, not an “I’ve seen it all and been through a lot in my life and I’ve earned the right to spout off now and again” kind of jerk. Just a jerk. A run of the mill asshole. The sharp contrast of his congenial Matlock looks against his asshole attitude was a challenge for my forgiveness and sympathy Snuggie®. Sending a wish to the Universe for this guy was not easy.

I mean, where to start? What does he need? What sort of guidance and enlightenment could the Universe give him to help ease whatever’s causing his jerkitude? At this stage of his life if he hasn’t bothered to, or been inspired to realize that his anger and hostility might, just maybe, be self-inflicted, then is there really anything anyone, least of all me, can summon for him? I can give him the forgiveness and sympathy Snuggie®, no problem. Done. But what’s at the root of his jerkitude?

Usually, so far, anyway, it’s been pretty easy to ascertain what’s eating people, or at least what the Universe could help them with in getting past their negative behaviors. The woman at the grocery with the disheveled hair and clothes yelling and slapping her two bawling kids? Duh. She needs a decent night of sleep, a break from the kids and a strong does of patience. Hey, Universe, little help here for the woman on the verge of alienating her kids? A little patience, a little sleep, a little reminder that she wanted these children and that the bawling, grabby, snot-nosed beings are also her funny, cute, innocent, darling joys who require nothing but love, acceptance and guidance to appropriate behavior. Done. Forgiveness and sympathy Snuggie® in place, wish to the Universe sent, hope rendered. Job done.

See how easy that is? It takes like two minutes.

Accept. Forgive. Heal. Love. Peace. Duh. (I'm thinking about getting that tramp stamped somewhere on me. By the way.)

But this Matlock asshole? Yeah. That’s a tough one. I puzzled over that for a long time. When he got off the train at Kalamazoo I watched him jabbing his cane at a woman I assume was his daughter or daughter-in-law. She didn’t flinch. She’s obviously used to his assholiness. She obviously expected it. Eureka. Universe, help this guy’s family accept him and not hate him and give them the patience to deal with him. Maybe their kindness to him will in turn calm him, ease whatever emotional and/or physical pain is causing him to be such a jerk.

I wrapped an extra Snuggie® around him and cloaked the woman in one, too. She didn’t need forgiving but boy did she need sympathy.

I thought about how futile and insignificant my little wish to the Universe is to that woman and even the old jerk. The thing I really like about this is that no one will ever know I'm thinking nice things for them. Kindness of strangers and all that. It rocks, right? We'd all like to think people do that for us, right? But we all know it doesn't happen. Often. So I feel like I'm picking up the slack for the rest of society who are too busy or preoccupied to think about taking a minute to think nice things for strangers. Hey, I'm not working, what else am I gonna do? Mainly I just feel the world needs some attitude adjustment. Rather than get discouraged by mean, selfish, arrogant, angry, or uptight people why not give them what they obviously need? Forgiveness and sympathy? I mean, I can't actually, you know, take them to therapy and solve all their problems. But I can very easily control my reaction to them. The world attitude kettle is about to boil over, I know it, you know it. If my forgiveness and sympathy Snuggies® are relieving any of that pressure, well, you know, that's cool. If not, oh well. At least I'm trying.

I'm not expecting anything in return - karma points or a plea bargain when I find my soul sitting at a bar in Hell listening to ABBA - but a couple odd things have happened lately. I'm not sure how the karma thing works and I'm pretty sure if the whole God/Satan thing is real, Satan, like God, works in mysterious ways. I'm remaining scientifically agnostic but I'm trying, I mean, really, really trying, to be more spiritually hopeful. There've been a couple incidents since my dad died that defy logic and reason. I'm not ready to openly discuss them. But. You know. Let's just say I'm a lot more open to spiritual possibilities these days.

I'm not going around looking for clues or significance, and certainly not assigning significance to things are just coincidental. I'm not reading anything into anything. Fear not, while I'm more open to the concept of, well, you know... I'm not actively looking for meaning in everything - or anything for that matter. I've always said, always maintained that if God, Jesus, Buddah, whomever, wants to come into my life I'm fine with it. They're welcome any time. My door is agnostic, but it's accepting and compassionate to any supreme deity who doesn't condone violence and hatred, and that door has always been wide open. So far no one's come to visit. Okay, well, I mean, since my dad died there have been a couple incidents. But. I'm not talking about those yet. The spiritual jury is out on them. I need time to digest it wrap my feeble brain around them a bit more.

However. Since the whole forgiveness blanket idea hit, I have had a couple, you know, niceties happen to me. Nothing big or impressive or life changing. But certainly out of the ordinary for my life.

For instance....

Right after I bestowed forgiveness and sympathy to the Matlock guy and his family, it was 10:00 AM and I was jonesing for a Diet Pepsi. I vowed to at least cut back on the crap during the visit to my mother’s. She still does not approve of pop and doesn’t allow it at home. Even, especially, when the grandkids are visiting. She’s a good gran who spoils the grandkids rotten, but there are limits, standards, to maintain. She knows I’ve had pop, of course, and she knows the grandkids drink pop, but she doesn’t approve. We know she knows and we know she doesn’t approve, and she’s knows we know she knows and doesn’t approve so there’s lots of guilt. I love my mother and she has endured a lot thanks to me and my life(?) so I figure the least I can do is respect her feelings about pop.

Besides, since my dad died she’s been trying to get me to drink his booze. “There are a couple bottles of wine in the pantry, your dad’s, you might as well drink them.” “Why don’t you have a Scotch? That last bottle your dad opened is going bad, I bought some soda, you can dilute it.” When I visit and I take her to get groceries she rolls over to the liquor aisle and says, “What was that wine Dad and you liked? I’ll get you a bottle.”

When I visited my parents my dad always got an extra bottle or two of wine, he’d splurge on something “nice” for my visit. I knew he drank much cheaper wine when I wasn’t there and I know my visits were a handy excuse to get a better caliber of fermented grapes. But I also know he wanted to get something special for me, something nice, something good. I’m the only one of us three kids who enjoys wine and can distinguish between good and bad. Mainly thanks to my dad’s tutelage.

Sometimes he’d surprise me and pop open a bottle of champagne. I love the stuff. Love it. When I was about 11 he and my mother let me have a glass of champagne at a fancy hotel. It was Dom and it was like mother’s milk to me. After that, on rare, special occasions, my dad ordered me a glass of champagne or a Kir Royale. “The champagne isn’t great here, Lieutenant, the kir will sweeten it and cut the sting on your palate.”

I know. I know. You may be thinking, “OMG!!! That’s horrible! You were just a child!!! What a horrible, horrible, irresponsible man!!! Where was child protective services?!! Your mother allowed this?? Does the name Drew Barrymore mean anything to you??? Were you in rehab by age 16??”

Simmer down. My parents, my dad especially, held the opinion that demystifying adult vices was a good way of preventing abuse of them. He’s the kind of dad who, when he caught my 14 year old brother stealing one of his cigarettes, went out and bought a pack of unfiltered Camels and made my brother smoke the entire pack at one go. My brother was violently sick for days and has never touched a cigarette since. As a very young wide-eyed preschooler observing all this I learned a valuable lesson, too. No allure, no temptation, no smoking. His methods may not have always been traditional, and often my mother looked on with concern that he was crossing a line, but, gotta hand it to the man, us kids survived to adulthood, earned college degrees, (until recently) maintained professional careers and generally lead healthy, lives without a need for rehab or addiction counseling.

Well. Apart from my new drinking problem. Diet Pepsi. Ugh. Yeah. I know. My parents didn’t allow me to drink pop but they pushed booze on me. Don’t ask me to explain. There is a difference; there is some logic there. We all know the health dangers of artificial sweeteners and caffeine. I kind of wish my parents had applied the same demystifying tactic to pop. Maybe if they’d let me drink it when I was a kid I wouldn’t have this drinking problem now. Kinda doubt it, though.

10 hours into the first day of my Diet Pepsi-free regime I was suffering withdrawal. Big time.

I wanted to stretch my legs and back, anyway, I reasoned, so I took a walk to the café car. I mean, you know, naturally. Where else was I going to walk? I was on a train. I had to go to the café car, right? It’s purely coincidental that they happen to have Diet Pepsi for purchase in the café car. And hey, they also have wine for purchase in the cafe car. If I really had a problem, a real drinking problem, I’d be downing train wine from Chicago to Ann Arbor. But no. All I wanted was a Diet Pepsi. (feel free to insert a Suicidal Tendencies sound bite here. “All I wanted was a Pepsi, just a Pepsi…” )

As the train rolled into Battle Creek I rolled into the café car. The café attendant was nowhere to be seen. The car was empty.

“Swut. Did I miss the announcement? Is it closed?”

I must have looked panicked because I felt a jovial pat on my shoulder. “Here I am, no worries. What would the pretty lady desire?” A man wearing an Amtrak café car uniform and a smile slid around me and behind the bar.

Okay. Let me take a minute to explain Amtrak to the uninitiated. Amtrak has fantastic employees. From the station attendants to the engineers to the conductors to the café car staff, my experiences (of which there are many, coast to coast and part of Canada) garners a 96% outstanding rating when it comes to Amtrak staff. Even their call center reps are nice and helpful. I kid you not.

And yes, I know, I know, someone out there will disagree and have a tale of horrible service, rude employees and a vow to never ride a train again. But. My experiences, at least where Amtrak staff is concerned, have always been exemplary. Professional, courteous, helpful, and, gulp, friendly.

It’s the friendly part that puts them in the exemplary category. They could be professional, courteous and helpful because it’s their job and their supervisors tell them they have to be that way. They are objective goals for which standards can be set and goals can be met.

But friendly? Friendly is subjective. And not necessary. If an employee is professional, courteous and helpful does it really matter if they’re friendly? Not so much. And you can’t teach friendly. People just are, or are not, friendly. And like I said, it’s subjective. And generally, I find Amtrak employees to be friendly. Nice people. I know a few airlines who would benefit greatly by having their attendants and agents spend a week riding the rails observing and learning from their transportation employee brethren.

So. The ‘pretty lady’ comment didn’t come as too much of a surprise. I mean, well, sort of a surprise, I don’t get called pretty lady very often. Even in the jovial, general greeting sense. I’m not the type of woman who evokes ‘pretty lady’ greetings.

I was thinking about this and I realized I haven’t been called pretty in something like 9 years. And that was just a basic pleasantry, a ‘pretty lady’ generic kind of comment. Ah well. Blog for another day, therapy for another breakdown.

‘Pretty lady’ made me think of other general comments guys, usually older men, usually bar tenders or wait staff or your friend’s dad. Ma’am, missy, cutie, sweetheart, babe, little lady…little lady. Geeze, has anyone ever called me little lady? My dad. When I was, in fact, little. Around the time I turned six I morphed from little lady to lieutenant. I guess I earned my stripes.

When I was a teenager my parents started calling me young lady when they were about to scold me or beseech me to examine my behavior. “Young lady, get in here right now.” “Young lady, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do about the hi-fi speaker.” “What is the meaning of this Algebra grade, young lady?” “And just where do you think you’re going dressed like that, young lady?” “Just who do you think you are, young lady?”

The latter were, of course, rhetoric questions. The only possible way to respond is with sarcasm and that’s never a good idea when you’re 15 and blasted the hi-fi woofer into submission via Clash at top volume the night before. A smart young lady affects a guilty, apologetic, submissive demeanor and heads straight to her room to reflect upon the error of her grievous ways, pray for forgiveness and guidance in reforming her life, and hopes she can reform fast enough to salvage her future.

Consequently to me, young lady packs a powerful disciplinary punch. Even when meant as a jovial greeting.

But. Pretty lady? Yeah, it’s been a long time. I was in Mexico a really, really long time ago, and the men on the streets used to holler out, “Pretty ladeee, pretty ladeee, roses?” (Or whatever they were selling.) It bugged me. I mean, I know they’re just trying to make a living, but attempting to tease money out of tourists by doling out “compliments” to any unMexian woman who walks by got on my nerves. To me it spoke to the financial oppression and hardships they faced, that they were forced into a sort of compliment slavery trying to hawk flowers, fake silver bracelets and Chiclets on the streets.

Yes. All that went through my mind when the Amtrak café attendant called me pretty lady. But, given that he’s an Amtrak employee, I knew it was just a friendly greeting. He was there and ready to serve me whatever my pretty lady heart desired off the menu.

“Is the Diet Pepsi in bottles or cans?” I asked, a little too desperately.

“Cans, I’m afraid. But they’re ice cold, I’ve been chilling them just for you since Hammond, Indiana.”

How’d he know I prefer bottles and abhor cans? How’d he know the only way I’d drink out of a can is if it’s chilled to sup-zero temperature?

Because he’s an Amtrak employee, that’s why.

I smiled, chuckled at his joke. “Ooooo, since Hammond? Wow. You’re good. Since you went to so much effort I’ll have two, please.”

“Thatta girl, I knew you were a woman of fine, discriminating taste.”

Okay. That cracked me up. I know, I need to get out more. But it >is funny. And typical of Amtrak employee friendliness and joviality.

I’d been trying to figure out who the guy reminded me of but I couldn’t place him. When he said that last quip it dawned on me that he looked exactly like John Oates circa 1985. Yes. John Oates of Hall and Oates. Circa 1985. Smaller stature, curly mullet, neatly groomed but bushy mustache and all. That’s a look I haven’t seen in real life for a while. I thought about asking the Universe to bestow this nice guy a favor and nudge him into updating his look. But he was totally rocking it. I think he digs his John Oates circa 1985 look. He seemed happy. Comfortable. Confident. So, you know. Yay him.

The down side to Amtrak is that food and beverages are pricey. Especially for us unemployed riders. But cans? One can would never satisfy my craving. Chilled to perfection or not, I was jonesing, bad, and one can would not be enough.

I reached into my pocket for money. All I had was a twenty. I handed it over and he gave me change back as if I’d only bought one pop.

“Ooops, here.” I handed him back money for the second pop.

“Nope,” he pushed it back at me. “On the house, or on the car, as the case may be.”

“Really? Thank you.” I’ve seen the café car attendants filling out inventory reports. I’ve spent enough time in café cars to know the attendants are required to account for everything they sell. I was pretty sure this guy was actually paying for my pop out of his own pocket. Maybe not, maybe there’s some lee-way café car attendants are given, a pretty lady allowance of some sort. And, after all, I reasoned, I am a frequent tracker, I’ve logged a lot of miles on Amtrak. The least they can do is give me a can of pop once every 10 years.

He thanked me. I smiled and said, “you’re welcome.”

This is where it gets weird and somewhat uncomfortable.

“Oh, yummy. Delicious.”

That’s him, not me savoring my Diet Pepsi.

Yes. He said, “Oh, yummy. Delicious.”

Uhhh. Huh? There was no one else there, he wasn’t looking at any of the food or beverages behind the counter. He was looking straight at me and smiling.

Sensing my confusion, apparently, he said, “Your smile. Yummy.”

I was flustered. I blushed. I kid you not, I was flustered.

“You have a very yummy smile. Very yummy,” he said, again.

…and now I was officially kind of creeped out.

“Oh. Um. Thank you. Thanks for the pop. Have a nice day.” I instinctively smiled, you know, how you do, even when you’re creeped out, because when you thank someone and bid them a nice day you smile. It’s just what you do. It makes the gratitude and good day wish official. If you don’t smile it’s just perfunctory manners, not genuine gratitude. If you’re going to thank someone, it swutting well better be genuine. Says me, anyway. So a smile is a required part of the sincerity of thanking someone. But in this case, the guy was getting all weird about my smile and giving him another one suddenly seemed like I was flirting back at him. Which made me blush even redder (cheeks were burning hot at this point) and feel more flustered and more creeped out.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough and, I felt bad about that. What had he done? Nothing. He was just being nice to me. He was flirting, for sure, no doubt about it, but where's the harm in that? Men flirt all the time. Just not with me. I felt uncomfortable because of my own issues, not because the guy was genuinely creepy. "Yummy" is kind of a weird adjective to grab when you're complimenting a woman on her smile, especially if you happen to look exactly like John Oates circa 1985, but there's nothing mean or offensive about it.

Instead of slinking away I said to the Universe, "okay, help me out, here. Help me give this guy compassion." And, voila! I did something completely out of character. Like an out of body experience. I said, "You know, I had four years of orthodontia. Headgear, rubber bands, retainers, the whole bit. It was torture. So, compliments on my smile mean a lot to me. Thank you." Smile again.

I know. I know. I know! Breakthrough or what?!

He put his hands on the counter affecting a sort of braced and ready for action stance and did one of those, “mmm, mmm” smirks, the kind with the tongue clicking noise. He laughed and thanked my orthodontist for the good work. And said, “Very yummy.”

As I crossed into the dining car I heard him mutter, quietly, but obviously loud enough for me to hear, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns…”

Okay. I mean, kind of overkill with they yummy smile thing, but still. A man, a real man, an actual XY chromosomed man, was not only nice to me, he was flirting with me. That's unprecedented. I'm pretty sure it's the first time a guy has flirted with me in about 7 years. It was a little creepy, what with the repeated yummy smile thing, but still, I've been such a nonsexual entity for so long that I completely forgot how it feels to have someone express actual attraction to you. I mean, crimony, for a minute there I actually felt like a viable woman, a member of the breeding race. I felt, gulp, worthy.





Stage an intervention, shave my legs, do my laundry, wear clean underwear, wash my hair, hand out some forgiveness and sympathy Snuggies® and look what happens?

Okay, sure, he was an Amtrak café car attendant who looks like John Oates circa 1985 and has an odd compliment vernacular, but that doesn't matter to me. It might matter to a lot of other women, but it doesn't matter to me. I've been riding high on that compliment ever since he gave it to me. Someone, someone, noticed me and bothered to compliment me. It's such a small, insignificant thing for most people. My friends get complimented and flirted with all the time - my married friends claim they hate it, that it's a rude nuisance, they're wearing wedding rings for crying out loud. But. I always wonder how they'd feel if the compliments and flirting stopped. I'm guessing they might start to feel not-so-great about themselves. It's natural to want to feel desired. We are programmed to breed. If we don't feel desired it brings our entire biological purpose into question. If we can't attract a mate we are effectively not viable, credible members of our species. Throw all the feel-good psychology you want at that, tell me that there's so much more that matters, important stuff like intelligence and sense of humor and kindness and on and on, but the bottom line is that if you can't attract a member of the opposite sex none of that matters. Unless you're Mother Teresa. And few of us are Mother Teresa. Most of us need to know we're desirable.

And now I know there's one man, one guy, who, at the very least, noticed and likes my smile.

Karma? God or Satan working in mysterious ways? A gift bestowed from the Universe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. No good deed goes unpunished. But more to the illustrative point is that it only takes a few seconds and minimal effort to do something nice, something positive, to make a huge positive difference to someone else. Even, and I think especially, complete strangers.

12:25 PM

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