Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
"Good morning, Saddle Up and Spread 'Em obgyn, how can I help you?"
"I need to make an appointment for my yearly exam, please."
"Okaaaay, lessee, name?"
"Tricia McMillian."
"Okaaay, lessee, ah, yes, Dr. Snatch?"
"Yep."
"Okaaaay, lessee, how about 4PM, Wednesday, January 20?"
"January? 2010?"
"Yes. Dr. Snatch is very busy. That's why we encourage her patients to book a year ahead for their yearly exam. I see you didn't book your appointment when you were here last year. The soonest we can possibly see you is January 20. That's our first appointment. We have a wait list for cancellations, I can put you on the list but you're still going to have to wait several months, so I suggest taking that January 20 appointment."
"Errrrm, well, that's problematic for me..."
"Are you having a particular health issue?"
"No. Well. Yes, actually. I do have a health issue. I was laid off and my health insurance ends on October 3."
Click. Muszak.
Click.
"Okay, how's next Tuesday, 11:15 AM?"
"Works for me. Thanks. Did you bump me to the top of the cancellation list?"
"No. We have a few appointments for special patients. We value your reproductive health and don't want a lack of health insurance to come between you and your health."
"Thanks, from the bottom of my uterus, thanks."
Amazing how the end of the health insurance IV drip opens doors. "Time is running out! Get your piece of my health insurance now while they're still paying my claims!"
My gyno isn't the only one getting my insurance money while the gettin's good. My podiatrists, plural, have been trying all manner of treatments on my foot. Dextrose injections, sclerotherapy, physical therapy, nerve induction exams, you name it. Now, I'm all for this, I want to get this thing resolved, no stone unturned and all that, but..."we" have been doing much of this in order to avoid another surgery. Now that my health insurance has a sunset, a very real expiration date, you should see these people scurrying to get my foot "taken care of" by October 3. Suddenly the "avoid surgery" tactic has turned to "let's get in there and get this done while you still have insurance and some time off work."
Yes, I see the merits of "using" my time off and health insurance. But. I'm not on vacation. I'm not a lady of leisure. I'm unemployed and desperately trying to find a new job. Spending three weeks in bed and then in a surgery boot for another three weeks isn't exactly the best way for me to get a new job. But, hey, while I still have health insurance...
There's a doctor at the Mayo Clinic my podiatrist reveres. The guy is allegedly the Foot Whisperer. I wish I was joking. The Foot Whisperer has a year+ waiting list. And only sees patients who have exhausted every, and I mean every, treatment option and idea. Well, that is now me. And now that my insurance is about to expire, how interesting that the year+ waiting list isn't a big deal. "For you, little lady, we'll make an exception, we'll get you in before October 3."
Okay, I mean, I appreciate the favors. I do. Really. But. I'm starting to feel a little, um, what's the word? Oh yeah: Used.
I'm not calling them opportunistic. But. It is a little disconcerting that the threat of losing health insurance opens doors to expeditious health care.
I'm not sure I want to whisk off to the Mayo Clinic. That's a whole other blog. (Me? Mayo Clinic? Really??? I feel humbled and wary all at the same time.) But I'm caught up in the health insurance feeding frenzy. Who knows when I'll have health insurance again?
4:19 PM
Monday, August 24, 2009
Unemployment: Week Four commences.
Sunday night rolls around and I feel like I have to go to work in the morning. You know, Sunday Night Syndrome.
It feels like I’ve been on vacation and I have to return to work Monday morning. Complete with dread of my boss.
Yes. I have a phantom job. Like a phantom limb, it feels real, painfully real. It's not until I begin to make my mental to-do list for the week that I remember I don't actually have a job. It's a phantom job.
Making the whole thing weirder is that my paychecks are being deposited as if I’ve been at work. It gives me this odd sense of normalcy – getting a paycheck, paying bills…all very normal except that I’m not at work. This two months on the payroll thing is nice, I guess, but I think ultimately it contributes to denial. I want to feel disassociated from my job but I can't turn off that part of my brain. Like amputee victims feel like they still have their missing limb, I feel like I still have those job responsibilities. I feel like I should be helping my (former) clients. I feel part of that. I'm not, and I know I'm not...but...I feel like I am still there, that I still have those responsibilities. I feel like I'm just on vacation. My phantom job.
Not helping this matter is that many of my (former) clients have been in contact with me. They miss me. (Awwwww) They preface all their conversations or emails with, "I know it's not your job anymore and I shouldn't be bothering you with this...but I can't get an answer from (insert former coworker of your choice here) and I really need to know (insert work issue of your choice here). I understand if you can't or don't want to help me...but...transition...difficult...can't get used to you not being there...miss you...hate working with your (former) company now...I swear I won't bother you again...just this one last thing...."
I mean, it's nice to be missed, nice to know my (former) clients appreciate me and miss me and are mad at my company for letting me go. But. I was let go. And I need to let go. So do my (former) clients. Helping them is nice - they get the help they need, I feel useful, professional. But it's not real. It's a prosthetic. A fake job.
The problem is that I do care about my (former) clients and I do genuinely want to help them. But. It's not my job anymore. And there are legalities involved. My (former) clients have contracts with my (former) company. And I'm not officially a private gun for hire, yet. I'm still on the payroll...and yet...not working for them, either. It's a very, very, very weird and complicated place. My phantom job.
People keep telling me, “Enjoy this time off. You’ll be working in no time.”
"I can't believe they let you go, but, heh heh, their loss. Smart girl like you? You'll be working again in no time."
"You? Ha! What are you worried about? Good grief, you'll be working in no time. Enjoy the time off while you have it, you'll be back in the grind before you know it."
"You're a sharp cookie, you'll have employers beating down your door when they find out you're looking for work."
Either people are trying to make me feel better, or they have a lot more confidence in me and the job market than I do. Or they're in deep denial about how bad things really are "out here" in Unemployed Land of Unfortunate Laid-off Adults (ULULA, as I call it).
It's been years, and I mean years since I've been jobless. I wasn't brazen enough to think I'd never be unemployed again, but, until the past few months it wasn't something I thought about often. I concentrated on my work, my job responsibilities and didn't dwell on the existential aspects of work. I'm a responsible professional. Or, erm I was a responsible professional.
Now I'm not sure what I am. I'm applying for every job I can find and trying to keep a healthy, confident attitude about myself and what I have to offer potential employers. I am a sharp cookie. When it comes to my work, my skills, my talent, my knowledge, my experience, my education, my professionalism...I am confident. I don't doubt myself or my talents.
But.
I know there are loads of other talented, skilled, knowledgeable, experienced, educated professional people who are in my exact situation. Unemployed.
This recession is different. This recession is affecting white collar professionals like no other recession.
Once again I'm part of a trend, a statistic.
Funny how in real life I never quite fit in, but boy oh boy, when it comes to statistics I'm heaped in with loads of other people. Little Miss Popularity of the statistic world. Pick a label, any label, and affix it to me:
Somehow I don't find a lot of safety or comfort in my statistical popularity. That's probably the affect of disaffection attributed to my generation. Don't blame me for my disaffection and disassociation, blame my statistical demographic. Then blame society, my parents, the media, Reaganism, Thatcherism, Pufnstufism. (It always comes back to Jimmy and that damn flute, doesn't it? Want to blame someone for GenX and our issues? Look no further than Sid and Marty Kroft.)
I had to leave the safety and comfort of my parents' house. It was getting womb-like. I didn't want to leave and that made me realize I had to leave. I wasn't complacent, I was job searching and making lists and trying to formulate a plan and networking.
And losing sleep.
But I was sleeping better at my parents' house. A tell-tale sign that I was getting too comfortable. Oh sure, I still had trouble going to sleep, and didn't sleep more than a few uninterrupted hours. The night demons in my brain followed me to my parents' house and plagued me there, too. But, they weren't as noisy or as mean as usual. They were more forgiving and less intrusive. More like Where the Wild Things Are friendly but boisterous beasts than the sinister slimy fanged things who plague my nocturnal brain at my place.
The first night back at my place they threw a party. They kept me up most of the night. They saw that one of the condos down the hall from mine has a big florescent Sheriff's department foreclosure no trespassing sticker on the door. They seized upon that and danced around my room all night chanting, hissing through their slimy fangs, "That's gonna be you! That's gonna be your condo in a few months!!!" to the beat of Megadeth blaring from my neighbor's stereo.
Ahhhhh. All nice and stressful and agitated and anxiety driven. Just the way I need it. "What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?"
In contrast to the pastoral calm of Grieg's Morning Suite No. 1 of Peer Gynt gently implied, always, at my parents' house. "It'll all work out. It'll all work out. It'll all work out. Mummy loves you. Mummy will take care of you." Too comfortable. Too cushy. Too relaxed. Too understanding. Too easy to forget my real life. Too easy to get caught up in helping my mother. Too easy to feel safe. Too easy, period.
I need the pressure and anxiety to push me, add an air of urgency and anxiety. This is bad, real bad. This is a bad situation. Avoiding my reality by returning to the womb isn't going to keep my stress level where it should be: At Code Red, SEVERE ALERT, highest risk. Megadeth. At my parents' my stress level was more in the orange and even, a few times, yellow zones. All very Grieg-like. In my situation, in ULULA, letting your stress level lapse to yellow isn't a good thing to do. You let down your guard when you're in the yellow zone, leaving yourself vulnerable to attack. That Morning Peer Gynt suite lulls you into a nice prozacky state of calm.
Code red, SEVERE ALERT, though, lends a nice air of fear and urgency. The incessant throbbing, pounding bass and yelling of Megadeth doesn't lull. It lobs grenades. Perfect background music for the soundtrack of my life.
