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

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

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






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

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

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

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




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

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

200i: iPodyssey

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

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

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

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

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

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

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

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

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

Slanglish

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


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

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

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

Lap Dance of the Cripple

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

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

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

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

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

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

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


















 
Mail Trillian here





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

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


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

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

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

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


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



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

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




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





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







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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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





























Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero

 
Thursday, December 03, 2009  
It's official. The Universe is testing me.

Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.

Or, failing that, perhaps something along the lines of serenity now!?

I'm going to step away from my Snuggie® doling place of positivity for a moment.

Belgiuming swutting mother-Belgiuming Hoosier State Troopers.

I swutting hate Belgiuming Indiana. Always have. Always will.

Crossroads of America? Take a look at a map. More like armpit of America.

Okay. Serenity now. Serenity now. Serenity now.

Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.

Deep breath in, exhale slowly out.

Giant metaphoric blanket of compassion for everyone in the entire state of Indiana, yes, including the fine patrol officer who pulled me over on the Indiana Toll Road and spent 45 minutes harassing me.

Maybe, maybe I was driving slightly over the speed limit. But I'm not sure because the speed limit wasn't posted in the area where I was driving. He claimed it was a work zone and the speed limit is under the 45 MPH law.

If I'd seen any sign, and I mean any sign of construction - a stripey orange barrel with a flashing light on top, a flashing yellow arrow, a sign stating "CONSTRUCTION ZONE", a sign stating, "45 MPH," a sign stating, "WORK ZONE, FINES DOUBLED," a sign with a funny looking round-headed guy with a shovel, a DOT pick-up truck, an actual road worker, loose gravel, heck, even a lone sandbag split open and flapping in the breeze in the median, any indication that construction was taking place - I would have been driving 45 MPH. I'm a safe and considerate driver that way. I don't mess around in construction zones. I just don't. I'm Ms. Courteous and Safe Driver. I really am. So safe and courteous that even without any indication of construction on the Skyway I was driving 55 MPH while everyone, and I mean everyone was passing me so fast they were blurry and made that whooshing Chuck Yeager noise. I know better than to drive above the posted speed limit on the Skyway. I know the speed limit is 55 MPH. I also know Hoosier troopers don't mess around with Illinois, Michigan and Ohio drivers.

Sidebar: What the swut is a Hoosier? I mean, I know it generally means hick or dolt or lackey, but really, what is a Hoosier? And furthermore, Indianans out there, please, explain to me why you're so swutting proud of being hicks/dolts/lackeys that you go around calling yourselves Hoosiers? Is it because you want to come off all humble and full of humility and aww shucks-y? If so, you're misguided. So. Stop it.

Okay. So. I was driving a rental car with Michigan plates. Through the fine state of Indiana. Near the fine city of Gary. Home to US Steel and Michael Jackson and the stinkiest stretch of highway in the United States. Those three facts are related and not coincidental. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Okay. So. I'm rolling along, cruise control engaged at 55 MPH exactly, cars and trucks are flying past me at speeds that made me feel like Mr. Magoo in a Model A with Jetsons-esque spacecars whizzing by me, complete with the whooshy blippy noises, and Sgt. Imaprickwithabadge comes darting up behind me, nearly rear ending me. Me, the one going 55 MPH while dozens of cars are Jetsoning by me, Sgt. Toobigforhishoosiersuit magnetizes his HoosierTrooperMobile to my bumper. I looked in the rear view mirror and smiled. I nearly waved to him, all pleasant and happy-like. Because I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was all "60 miles from Chicago, a full tank of gas, half pack of Twizzlers...what a lovely day for a drive, the snow is falling and I'm driving a rental car with a mere 1,200 miles on it, an iPod adapter and front and rear speakers to break in." The only thing, the only thing I may have been doing "wrong" was listening to the stereo too loud.

Had I been in a residential area a) I would not have had the stereo at amps at 11 volume and b) I wouldn't have been listening to Planet of Sound. Because it's scientifically impossible for me to listen to Planet of Sound at a volume lower than permanent hearing loss, PHL, levels. But because I was driving on a stretch of highway through the middle of swutting US Steel I felt pretty confident that blaring the Pixies at PHL levels is not an infraction of any local laws. And as far as courtesy goes, a car driving along the Skyway through the middle of US Steel while the occupant blasts Planet of Sound at PHL levels is the least of the local population's problems.

So I'm all "Good day officer, how's it going back there, la la la..." not even bothering to tap the brake or decel the cruise. I mean, I was going 55 MPH, the only one on the road traveling less than 70 MPH. Why would I even worry about the Hoosier Trooper magnetized to my bumper, right?

Well, next thing I know Sgt. Wasteoftaxpayersdollars has his lights and sirens flashing.

My reaction? "Oh dear, there must be an emergency somewhere, I'll pull over and out of his way."

You're probably a lot smarter than I am. You probably know where this is going. You probably know no good is ever going to come of a Hoosier Trooper magnetized to your bumper on the Indiana Toll Road with lights and sirens flashing.

But since I had absolutely no idea that I was doing anything wrong, I was all little miss innocent and confused when I pulled over to let him pass me and noticed that he pulled over, too, and was getting out of his Hoosier Patrol Mobile.

"Afternoon, Ma'am." I hate getting ma'amed. Hate it. So that put me in a bad mood with this guy.

"Hi."

"Do you know how fast you were driving?" I hate that ridiculous question. Does anyone, anyone ever answer that question honestly when they get pulled over? Why do they insist on asking us drivers if we know how fast we were driving? Obviously if we're driving fast enough to get pulled over by a state trooper we either know we were over the legal speed limit or we don't know what the legal speed limit is or we have a broken speedometer or we're drunk or stoned out of our minds and have no clue we're even driving a car let alone how fast we're driving it. In any or all of those cases there's no way anyone is going to answer truthfully. The correct and I'm guessing only answer to that question, in the entire history of driving, is, "No, officer, I'm not sure how fast I was driving." What comes next is divergent upon the driver and the circumstances. Some people start nervously blabbering on and on, some people cry, some people get sarcastic with the officer, some people meekly shrug, some people try to stay calm and say as little as possible.

I take the silence is golden approach. Less is more. That is, on the occasions when I've been pulled over. And there haven't been many of those occasions. Thankfully. But kind of oddly considering I have a bit of a lead foot. Except on the Indiana Skyway where I always set the cruise at 55 MPH. Yes. Okay? Yes. I have a tendency to drive fast. Okay? But only where it's safe to do so. Only on highways where there isn't much traffic or back roads in the middle of nowhere. I would never, ever endanger anyone else. Sure, I like to drive fast, but I like to drive safe, too. And I always obey the speed limit on the Indiana Toll Road where I always set the cruise at 55 MPH. My dad taught me a lot. A lot. A lot of useful, practical stuff. One of the first things I learned from my dad was that you always, always drive the posted speed limit in Indiana and Florida. The local highway authorities in those state don't take kindly to out of state plates, especially Michigan plates.

On our many road trips I observed my dad slow the car down the second we crossed the Indiana border. My dad habitually drove 95 MPH so when we hit the border and he slowed it down to 55 MPH it always felt like we were entering another dimension, falling over the event horizon of a black hole like on Star Trek when time stands still. It seemed like we all started talking sloooooower and deeeeeper until no one said anything and gravity inside the car got all wonky. Adding to that effect was that my mother always, always sighed and said, "Indiana. In-dee-annnna. Sigh. Indian.Ah. (pause) You know they don't observe daylight savings time, here. Stubborn. And I can never remember if they're Central or Eastern time. So I have absolutely no idea what time it is. (looking at her watch and the dashboard clock, all nervous-like, eyes darting from watch to clock to billboards, like a frightened victim in a Hitchcock movie looking for some sign, some escape) It's Summer, so it's either 10:15 or 11:15 or possibly 9:15. Hurry up and get to Chicago, dear. Indiana confuses the children. (another pause) And it smells. Kids, remember to hold your breath through Gary. You don't want to catch lung cancer from the steel mills."

I kid you not. Every time we drove through Indiana my mother recited that exact speech. Every now and then I call my brother and impersonate my mother giving that speech. It makes him laugh and reminds him that he's due for therapy. The phrase, "Indiana confuses the children" lives in infamy and perpetuity in my family. Of course. How could it not?

Never mind that we lived within smelling distance of Detroit and Flint, we spent summers swimming in Lakes St. Clair and Huron and our dad smoked Chesterfields. The eminent danger of the smell of Gary looming ahead of us cast a sinister and serious pall in the car. One minute we were rolling along at 95 MPH playing car bingo, singing along with the radio, friendly little cartoon bluebirds whistling outside the car windows, all snug and secure in the knowledge that we knew exactly what time it was and the next minute we were all helter skelter about what time it was, abruptly slowed down 55 MPH making gravity inside the car all wonky, observing radio silence, and scared witless about "catching" lung cancer.

Welcome to Indiana.

You know, my mother is normally a very sane, intelligent, thoughtful, logical woman. The voice of calm and level-headed reason. But the second, and I mean the second we crossed the Indiana border she got all funny in the head. She does have a thing about knowing what time it is. I think the whole Indiana Summer time defiance thing messes with her mind.

So.

I have pre-existing issues with Indiana.

But.

I know, I learned from my dad, you always, always drive 55 MPH in Indiana. No matter what time of year it is or how bad Gary smells, you risk catching lung cancer and drive 55 MPH.

Hence my confusion as to why Sgt. Prixalot was asking me if I knew how fast I was driving.

"Yes, sir, I had the cruise engaged at 55 MPH." Big smile and outstretched palms of the innocent motioning toward the speedometer.

"Uh-huh. I'll need to see license and proof of vehicle insurance."

"Um. Okay. But can I ask why? What did I do wrong?"

"You were in a construction zone. Construction zones are 45 MPH. You were driving 10 MPH over the limit. I don't know how you all feel about worker safety in Michigan, but here in Indiana we put the safety of our road crews at a paramount and fines are doubled in construction zones."

I already had my wallet out to pay the tolls. I handed him my license. "Construction zone? I didn't see a construction zone. Or a construction worker. Or a posted speed limit sign."

I know. I know. Okay? I know. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid thing to say. Never, ever insinuate that you're right and the officer holding your driver's license is in any way wrong. I know this.

But I was confused. Bewildered. Flummoxed. And a little scared. It was a rental car and I had no clue where the proof of insurance was. I assumed the glove box but I couldn't find it in there.

"The toll road is under construction from LaPorte to Hammond."

"Oh. Ahhhh. (affecting an air of logical explanation) See, I got on it at Lake Station. If it was posted at LaPorte I wouldn't have seen the signs. And, honest, officer, I haven't seen anyone working on the road..." Outstretched palms of the innocent gesturing to the workerless shoulder of the road.

I know. Okay? I know. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid girl with an Illinois driver's license driving a car with Michigan plates on the Indiana toll road. I know. Okay? I know.

"Chicago, eh? Chicago. How is it you have a Chicago driver's license and Michigan tags?" he said this looking over his Clint Eastwood sunglasses.

"Rental car." I said. I think I may have implied a "duh." I'm pretty sure I didn't actually say "duh" but I can't be positive that I didn't roll my eyes, thus implying "duh."

What happened next can only be explained by the fact that I am the Universe's whipping girl, scape goat and longest running joke. Yes. The Universe is bullying me. I hate to sound (or be) paranoid, but how else can you explain that even though I turned down the car stereo when I pulled off to the shoulder, suddenly, the jangly weirdo opening guitar of Motorway to Roswell came blaring, and I mean blaring out of the car speakers? Okay, it can be explained thus: I had my iPod plugged in and I had turned off the volume equalizer for sound-a-rama on my Michiana road trip. Regrets? I have a few. But still. What are the odds that at the very moment that Sgt. Womenhavehurtmeinthepastandmyunderwearisridingupmyass started badgering me for the proof of insurance Motorway to Roswell would come blaring out of the car stereo? I mean, on that very same iPod there's some Bob Seger, sure to be a Hoosier Trooper favorite, there's some Tom Petty, he sings about Indiana. But does the Universe blast Seger or Petty the exact moment Sgt. Igetoffonharassingmotorists bent his head down and toward the open window to look me in the eye and reprimand me for not finding the rental car proof of insurance? No. No, the Universe instead decided to have a laugh at my expense and blasted out Motorway to Roswell at the precise moment Sgt. Wedonttakekindlytostrangers stuck his face in the open car window in preparation for a reprimand.

The very second he opened his mouth to start a speech about the responsibilities of driving a rental car and what to check for before you leave the rental car lot, out blasted that jangly guitar intro, which is silly-sounding and seemed like I was mocking Sgt. Ihavenosenseofhumorandhaventbeenlaidin10years.

And to make the situation even worse, while I was fumbling in the glove box for the proof of insurance, my iPod, tethered to the dash, fell between the passenger seat and the console between the seats. So I couldn't just hit stop.

Instead I grabbed at the cord and attempted to pull it out of the dash. But it was a brand spanking new car and my cord fit really snugly into the dash hole. (I like that term, by the way. Dash hole. Hee hee hee.) In all the nervousness and weirdness of the moment I couldn't get the thing unplugged and ol' Frank was screaming, "Last night, he could not make it, last night he could not make it...HOW COULD THIS SO GREAT TURN SO SHITTY..." and that guitar was jangling away, and crimony, the whole situation just kept getting worse. It seemed like the "turn so shitty" part was a lot more loud and well pronounced than I remember Frank singing it in all the times I've listened to it in the past. But maybe that was just my nerves effecting my hearing. Indiana. It messes with your mind. Ask my mother.

And still no proof of insurance.

At this point Sgt. Imgoingtomakeanexampleofyou had had enough.

"I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car, ma'am."

Again with the ma'am? Really? Really?

I knew better than to protest.

I didn't like getting out of the car and I didn't see any reason for him to ask me to get out of the car and every urban legend and horror story I've ever heard or read about policemen turned bad and fake policemen and evil doings in hayseed counties flooded my brain. "I'm going to die. In Indiana. On the toll road. Near Gary. At the hands of a pissed off psycho Hoosier Trooper. At the very least I'm going to catch lung cancer standing out here in the open air. I hope he does rape and kill me because that would be quick, and hey, at least I'd get to have sex, and since I'm probably catching lung cancer standing out here on the side of the toll road in Gary, rape and murder would be better than a long, drawn out lung cancer death."

"I'm sorry officer, it's a rental, like I said, and just give me a minute and I'll call the rental car company and we can get this all straightened out in no time."

"I'm going to need you to get out of the car and take a breathalyzer test."


Whoa.

Whoa.

Hang on just a cotton-pickin' Hoosier second.

A breathalyzer?

I do not drink and drive. Ever. Never. Ever. Not one sip, not even a rum ball if I'm going to be anywhere near a driver's seat within 24 hours. I. Just. Don't. Do. It. Never have, never will. It's like, I dunno, a commandment to me. Thou shall not drink and drive. Period.

So I was not only surprised and confused by his request and insinuation, I was also insulted.

"I'm sorry about my stereo, officer, really, but I have not been drinking."

I know. I know. Okay? I know. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl with an iPod malfunction and no proof of vehicle insurance.

Then, suddenly, I remembered my rental car agreement. Ah-ha!!! That shows that I signed for insurance!!! So I reached into my bag to find the rental car agreement. The ratty old starred bag, which suddenly looked like a stoner girl's bag, a bag of weed would look totally natural falling out of it onto the car seat. The ratty old bag would look totally at home on the seat of a '78 Camaro. I'm tellin' ya, Indiana, man, it messes with your mind.

Sgt. IhaveweaponsandIknowhowtousethem had no patience or tolerance for my fumbling around in my bag and apparently he thought I was going to pull out a gun or knife or mace. He backed away from the car and yelled, "Keep your hands where I can see them! Step out of the car! And keep your hands where I can see them."

Seriously.

Having never been in a "keep your hands where I can see them" situation I was more than a little, um, what's the word? Oh yes. Petrified.

I managed to grasp the rental agreement as I pulled my hand out of my bag. I put up one hand and said, "It's just the rental agreement," and slowly handed it to him with my other hand.

"I said step out of the car."

I was still really, really, really, really uncomfortable with that.

Every instinct, every feeling in my gut, everything about this seemed, well, wrong.

Maybe, maybe I was going 55 MPH in a 45 MPH construction zone. I'll give him that. Maybe I didn't see a construction zone sign and maybe I deserved a 10 MPH over the limit, doubled in work zones, ticket. I don't think deserved it, but let's just say I did. Okay, fine, give me the ticket, and another one for not having proof of insurance on a rental car, and that's that. A big day for this guy, I would think. Why the breathalyzer? Why the "step out of the car?" Why the "keep your hands where I can see them?" All because of the Pixies blaring out of the car stereo? I dunno. I'm not usually so suspicious, but my antennae were tingling, big time.

But there he was, yelling at me to get out of the car.

So I did.

He took the rental car agreement and told me to move to the rear of the car and to put my hands on the trunk. I hoped that Hoosier squad cars have video tape rolling at all times so that if Sgt. Pulloverinnocentwomenandthenrapeandkillthem tried anything it would at least be caught on tape. So the guys back at the station could enjoy it, too. I made sure to stand right smack in the middle of what I hoped was the squad car camera lens. (I've seen COPS a few times. I tried to recall the camera angles from the squad car tapes they show on COPS.) Sure enough, Sgt. ThisishowIgetoff came back and administered a pat down.

And yes, he spent a little more time than I think was necessary on my chest and butt. But how do I prove that? How much time does a thorough boob and ass pat down officially require? And, how firm do the pats need to be? I will say this, Sgt. Gropeandfeel had a light touch. A little too light if you ask me. A little too, this makes me feel creepy and dirty, um, well, a little too sensual. I'm used to the female TSA agent frisk. Pat. Pat. Pat. Swat. Pat. Done. Have a nice flight. This guy was more tap, tap, tap, tap, wiggle, tap, wiggle, tap, ooooowhathavewehere?anipple? tap, tap. I mean, I dunno. There's gray area. I didn't do anything wrong in the first place, certainly nothing to warrant a pat down, and for that reason alone the whole thing is suspect. But, on the other slim chance, the guy was (albeit overzealously) doing his job. And he didn't manhandle me. Maybe, maybe he was trying to be polite? Is there such a thing as a polite roadside frisk? Yeah, I didn't think so, either.

Sidebar: I've been pretty humiliated in my life. I think it's fair to say I've already endured more, and more types, of humiliation than the average person experiences in an entire lifetime. But standing bent over and pressed against the trunk of a rental car on the side of the Indiana Toll Road with US Steel exhaust billowing in the background while being frisked down by a Hoosier Trooper is a form of humiliation I never thought I'd get to experience. Once again, one more time, all I could think about was my parents. Hanging their heads, my mother shedding tears, my dad trying to console her and flashing me disappointed and angry looks, "A good neighborhood. The best schools. Church on Sunday. Girl Scouts. Summer camp. Music lessons. Art lessons. Math tutors. Encyclopedias. Travel. Orthodontia. Good shoes. Love. Affection. Encouragement. Support. Where did we go wrong? Where? Where Trillian? How did we fail you? What did we do to you? How did this happen? What's wrong with you? Why are you doing this to us?" Yeah. Shame. It's a bitch.

Realizing I'd already sunk to a new and different low of humiliation I took the breathalyzer. And passed. Of course. I haven't had booze in a week, and that was two (small) glasses of wine.

Sgt. OooopsIdiditagain seemed disappointed that I was alcohol-free.

And then something truly bizarre happened.

He handed me my license, rental car agreement and told me he would let me off with a warning but that I should remember that the Indiana Toll Road is under construction and the speed limit is 45 MPH and fines are doubled in work zones.

And that was that.

I got back in the car and pulled back onto the highway, set the cruise to 45 MPH, cars and trucks whooshed by me even faster than before, and I crept, slowly, back to Chicago with the stereo volume all nice and civil. Appropriate for a residential area on a pastoral Sunday morning.

After all that. After all the "Because I Wear the Badge and I Said So" nonsense, the frisking, the breathalyzer...after all that, he just gave me a warning and sent me on my way.

Not that I'm complaining about not getting a ticket. I didn't do anything to deserve a ticket in the first place. (I triple dog dare you to find any, any sign of construction or road work along that stretch of road. And what about the people speeding along a lot faster than 55 MPH??? Huh? Huh? What about them??) It's just...I mean, huh? What the...???

If it was "just" so Sgt. Hoosierdaddy could, um, heh heh, cop a feel, wouldn't he make a bigger deal of it? I mean, borderline sensual pat-down notwithstanding, he didn't really "get" much. I've had more intimate encounters with people crowded next to me on the El. I know, I know. Never underestimate the mind of a pervert. I know. It's shocking how little it takes to get some guys off. I know. (And yet...do I ever manage to date a guy who has such low standards or desires??? Noooooo, I get the guys who have complex needs and desires specific to only 2% of the female population and 10 page (8 point type, single spaced) lists of requirements that eliminate me from anything more than a first date or casual fling.) He didn't "do" enough to warrant me filing a complaint, and really, did he "do" anything to me? I mean, apart from the humiliation? Ahhhhh, the humiliation. B-I-N-G-O and Bingo was his name, oh. Getting off on power. Forcing someone, a woman, to do what you tell her to do. Niiiiice. Nice work Sgt. Ihaveissueswithwomenandareallysmallpenis.

The joke's on him, though, in some respects. He had no idea who he was messin' with. Humiliation? Yeah. Being frisked on the side of the road was a new kind of humiliation for me. But humiliation comes natural for me. By the time I rounded curve at the Field Museum I was over it. Even now, reflecting on it, I'm not feeling especially violated. I've endured worse. Even if he did get off on his little magic fingers pat-down I'm not particularly "upset" about it. On the list of Humiliating Experiences I've Endured it'll end up pretty far down in the tally.

But I am mad to think a creep like that could get a badge and it disturbs me to think that sort of behavior exists and is perpetuated. I shudder to think about what other, less fortunate women, have endured by more forceful, more intrusive men behind a badge. But for me? Meh. He lives in Indiana. That's punishment enough. By tomorrow I'll have wrapped him in a Snuggie® of compassion and sent him on his way to the back of my memory. But not before giving the world a warning about a creep patrolling the Indiana Toll Road.

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8:56 PM

 
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