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
Friday, October 09, 2009
Woo hoo!!!
Guess what I did today?!
I started a new chapter of my life. Just like that! All in one day!
I'm just a Marlboro habit and a Maury Povich baby-daddy DNA show away from turning into white trash!
I know! I didn't see that coming, either!
Here are the facts as they happened.
Fact: Didn't answer the phone fearing a bill collector. Fact: Ate cold two-day-old pizza for breakfast. Fact: Flirted with paving steamroller driver. While he was steamrolling pavement. Fact: Filed for unemployment. Fact: Went to a free clinic for free medication samples. Fact: Put money in a lottery pool. Purchased lottery pool tickets. Fact: Drank a Big Gulp. Fact: Reasoned that stale bar peanuts have enough nutritional value to be dinner. Fact: Drank booze that comes in a plastic bottle. Fact: Played Foghat Slow Ride on the juke box and did the stripper "woo!" move in the appropriate places in the song. Fact: Gave real and serious consideration to getting a tramp stamp.
I know. I know!
I mean, the tramp stamp and Foghat things could be excused away by the plastic bottle booze. You know, so, it might not be quite time to pack up and move to the crappy rent-by-the-week trailer court, but...even as the buzz wears off and the cheap-booze headache moves in, the tattoo idea still lingers. Maybe when I get my first unemployment check...
11:28 PM
Thursday, October 08, 2009
So, yeah, it's official, I'm really and truly unemployed, now. As of last Friday the 60 day WARN Act pay days came to an end.
Wow. That 60 days flew by faster than I ever imagined possible.
I wasn't stupid or egotistical enough to think I'd beat the odds and land a job in those 60 days. I hoped that would be the case but alas, like everyone else in my "situation," there's no fast rebound to a new job.
I now have five friends who've been unemployed more than a year. These are professional, well-educated, sharp people with years of great work experience (proven track records!) and phenomenal contacts and references. These are people with everything going for them...except a job. So. You know. I am very, very aware of the job market. And my occupation. And myself.
I've been facing reality since last Winter when the threat of lay-offs first trickled through my ex-company. I tried to brace for it as best as possible. I didn't go anywhere or buy anything other than the bare essentials. But here's the thing: I didn't earn that great of a salary. I was getting by, barely, and saving anything more a little bit in my 401K was next to impossible. Especially with medical treatments and bills coming in on a weekly basis.
So now what?
Well, I dunno.
Here's one of the weird things about all of this. I'm generally, you know, in the big picture, feeling more positive and, dare I say it, happier, than I have felt in years.
Yes, every night is a sleepless night due to stress and worry about money. Yes, I'm scared about my future. Yes, I miss working. Yes, my foot is in agony because I can't afford to continue prescriptions and treatment for it.
But. I feel, well, gulp: positive. I assume this is a form of dementia. And I'm okay with that. I've always known I was borderline insane. If I have a form of dementia which makes me feel generally positive and upbeat, hey, s'all good. Beats the heck out of depression.
Here's my new thing. When I hear someone spouting off all negative ranty or mean I make a mental picture of them wrapped in a metaphoric blanket of sympathy and forgiveness. In my mind it looks like a sort of glowing fuzzy orange-y Snuggie® draped over their shoulders. I then beseech the Universe to help them find resolution and peace for whatever their issue is.
I know. I know! I swutting know!!! I told you I'm slipping into dementia.
The reality, is, though, along with my innate cynical streak I've always had an equally hopeful nature. Oh don't look so surprised.
How many times have I been criticized for being too nice? Too many to count. Men have ended relationships with me because I'm too nice. Coworkers have taken advantage of me because I'm too nice. Friends have pushed the boundaries of friendship because I'm too nice. People I barely know have made me the butt of hurtful jokes because I'm too nice.
I know all of that. I'm apparently too nice. But I'm not naive. And that cynical streak keeps me out of serious trouble - I will strike like a coiled snake and snap a venomous bite if I'm pushed too far. I never thought I was "too" nice because it was tempered with awareness, quick wit and a sharp tongue.
For the past few years, okay, since HWNMNBS dumped me, I've been trying to be less nice. Nice, but not too nice. I've struggled to figure out the tipping point. How nice is too nice? The rule of thumb is that if you're beatifically Jesus-like and get taken advantage of on a daily basis you're too nice. Easy enough to gauge, right? I'm certainly not beatific and absolutely not Jesus-like. And I don't think I let people take advantage of me very often - and if they do take advantage of me it's because I was aware and allowed it. Hence the rule of thumb wasn't helpful to me. Because even though I wasn't beatifically Jesus-like or being taken advantage of, I was still being told the reason bad things happened to me is because I'm too nice.
In fact when I was laid-off everyone, and I mean everyone, including my own mother, said the reason I was let go and some of my ne'er-do-well slacker coworkers are still getting a paycheck is because, you guessed it: I'm too nice.
Which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever to me.
"Well, HR director, we have two employees in our department, one is creative, hard working and clients love her, but she's too nice, and the other is a sycophantic slacker who complains about everything and no one want to work with her. Which one should we lay-off?"
"Oh, the one who's too nice, of course! Duh."
Crazy as it sounds that is apparently exactly what happened, right down to almost that exact conversation in HR.
Something clicked in my head when I found out that bit of obtuse management decision-making. And in a bit of counter-intuition, I've been feeling generally more positive ever since.
Sure, I am teetering on the edge of psychosis. And that's scary, disturbing, troubling. But, the rest of the world is more unbalanced than I am. Normal logic simply does not apply. My little dementia isn't a big deal in comparison to the bizarre mental maladies plaguing the world outside my head.
So how does one cope in a world where normal logic does not apply? Pump mind altering medications into the ventilation ducts and water pipes? Not a bad idea. Grab a weapon and start retaliating? Yeah, that's one way. But those are solutions based on modifying or terminating other peoples' behaviors. And while there's a nice bit of Dr. Evil power tripping inherent in mind-control it's not a long term solution. And I am, of course, too nice to even contemplate what I'd do with that kind of power and control. I don't want to change other people. I want them to change themselves.
It would be easy if we were all too nice. We'd be a boring lot, but we'd be calmer, saner and life would be a lot more pleasant for all of us. Like in a Snuggie® commercial. Happily lounging around in our cloaks of warm, fuzzy contentment.
And that was my epiphanette. Those illogical, mean, ill-tempered, deceptive people? Look at them and wrap them in a blanket of metaphoric sympathy and forgiveness and give them hope for personal peace. The base root of most of the negativity in the world is insecurity. Hence the hope for inner resolution personal peace.
I know. I'm all Dalai Lama all of a sudden. Weird, eh?
Yeah. Kind of. I suppose. Especially in my "situation." Unemployed and within a few months of losing everything and being homeless and here I am handing out metaphoric blankets of sympathy and forgiveness and hopes for inner resolution and peace.
But time away from work, real time away, just me and my head, has been very, well...(hate this psychobabble term) centering for me. I'm finding my way back to myself.
Oh yes, I strayed. I was not always me. I tried to stay true to myself, but, day in, day out, I'm afraid I wasn't always quite the way I was when I entered this world, you know, personality-wise.
I knew I was miserable at work - mainly thanks to my idiot boss (no blanket of sympathy for her, see? I'm not totally enlightened) - but I did like my job, I did like what I did. I liked helping clients with creative solutions to their businesses. I liked having a career, such as it was. It didn't define me but it certainly played a major role in my identity and self-esteem. I was confident in my abilities to do my job, and, doing my job gave me a lot of confidence and fulfillment. Without it I'm obviously more than a little forlorn.
But here's the weird thing. As the days pass and I'm no closer to a new job, I'm a) happier and b) less interested in my career and the career goals I've maintained and updated since I was old enough to understand the concept of career goals.
I know. I know. Wow. That is weird. But oddly, not too disturbing for me. All that education, time and hard work spent on establishing and maintaining a career, my self-esteem rudder, and poof, now I'm all, "meh, whatever, maybe I'll just cash in the 401K, buy a second-hand car and air-stream and just drive around wrapping people in metaphoric blankets of sympathy and forgiveness. Or buy a boat and just drift away, me and the fishes and the whales and the plankton and the particulate matter..."
I know. I know how this sounds and that's the scary part. I am very, very aware of what's going on, here, and yet I don't mind.
Oh! Oh! I just remembered something! I, um, well, I have to eat some humble pie. My way to atone for some not-so-nice things I may have said in the past is by publicly coming clean here.
Ya know how I'm not a fan of the Beatles? (Fear not, I'm not all obladeeladahing around.) Right. So. The other day I was heading up to the grocery, coupons and meager shopping list in hand. A friend called on my mobile. We ended up having this deep conversation about work, the Universe and the meaning of life right there on the back alley landing of my building. My friend is still working, clinging to his job for dear life. He said he's really stepped up his game, really staying on the ball. I said I fell off the ball. He said to me, "Trillian, I'm really glad you're finding a way to find the good in all of this. I admire your positive attitude, that's got to count for a lot. But geeze, Trill, you've never not worked, you are your career. You are someone, a professional. Don't you miss it, now that you're not out there, now that you're off the ball?" And I was all, "hmmm, good point but yeah...not-so-much, no. Oddly enough I don't miss being on the ball." And he was all, "Wow, Trillian, are you going to turn hippie on us, join a commune and make goats milk soap or something? What are you going to do?"
I had absolutely no response to that. I have no idea what I'm going to do. So off I went to the grocery. I was standing in the laundry detergent aisle trying to figure out the price per ounce, factoring in my coupon and weekly sale price v. the store brand. I mean, I was deep into this decision about laundry detergent and getting the most washes for my money. A mother with two young children apparently was making the same decisions. And it occurred to me that she probably thought I'm just another stay-at-home mom doing my part to keep the family budget by really caring about my laundry detergent decisions. To her I probably seemed normal, like this is my normal life, buying laundry detergent at 1:00 on a Tuesday afternoon.
And here's where I have to eat humble pie. I suddenly became very, very aware of the muzak in the store. It suddenly seemed louder and right in my ear. "Don't you miss the big time boy you're no longer on the ball? I'm just sittin' here watching the wheels go 'round and 'round."
Oh. My. Sweet. Lord. Ooops, wrong solo Beatle.
I get it. I get it! John Lennon's a swutting svengali of leaving a career and sitting around doing pretty much nothing and feeling positive about that. Dreaming my life away handing out metaphoric Snuggies® of sympathy and forgiveness. Wow. Okay, it took a lifetime and a major life upheaval for me to relate to a Beatle on any level, much less elevate him to the status so many others do. But I'm publicly admitting that, yes, yes, okay, John Lennon: Great poet. Kinda sneaked up on me, that one. Instant karma or something.
I don't know the last time I heard that song, years, I'm guessing, and even then certainly not by choice. And I certainly never had, you know, a moment of understanding with the Beatles, together or solo. But wow, I'm having this moment with Mr. Lennon and even though it's kind of freaking me out, it's cool. It seems okay, not scary, apt. Cliché, I suppose, given my spiral into dementia of happiness, but generally pretty cool. And no, I'm not listening to other Lennon or Beatles works. Just the one incidence of adoration. But it's a good one. It's nice to have a new theme song. Missed the Boat was getting kind of old.
Right. Back to the regularly scheduled blog.
The difficult part for me is that I'm going through this on my own. Other people who have these types of post-lay-off life-self-awareness episodes speak of how good it feels to get back in touch with what matters most in their lives: Their relationships with their spouses/significant others. They speak of deep bonds reaffirmed and partnerships strengthened. They feel more positive and confident than they have in years because they're away from a soul-sapping job and able to focus on all the deep important stuff they have in their lives, their relationship with their spouse and family. They talk about how they could never manage it without the love and support of their spouse/partner. Many laid-off people mention that an unforeseen benefit of unemployment is spending more time with their children and strengthening their family unit. Yay them, rock on, that's all super cool.
But. Um. What about those of us who suck at relationships so badly that we're up on the shelf collecting dust? What do we do?
Hand out metaphoric blankets of sympathy and forgiveness, I guess.
My dating life sucked(and still does), men have worn down my self-esteem on that front for so long that I believe the damage is irreparable. And I felt bad about that. I still do. It's a blazing indication of failure. I'm single. And lonely. I don't want to be single. But I cannot form and maintain a healthy, loving relationship with a romantic partner. I am apparently utterly and completely inept and incapable of attracting and keeping a suitable mate. I cannot carry out one of the most basic human biological functions: Finding a mate. If it's because I'm too nice, well, there you go. A nice easy cliché answer to a deeply complex issue.
But now, instead of rallying against that too nice streak, I'm embracing it. Oh yes. I am Trillian and I am too nice. Go ahead. Take advantage of me. Everyone does. It's okay. I don't mind. I'll just wrap you in a metaphoric blanket of sympathy and forgiveness and hope you find inner resolution to your issues and come to a place of personal peace within yourself. I was never totally on board with squelching my niceness, anyway.
Without a man or a job to focus my attention, tag, you're it. My self-esteem and confidence has to be derived from within, of course, but it needs to vent, it needs an outlet.
So. Off I go, out into the world, wrapping glowy orange-y blankets of metaphoric sympathy and forgiveness. The problem, as well as the beauty, of this is that there's no way to test the results. There's no way I'll ever know if the rude woman at the pharmacy counter is feeling less hostile and better about herself since I wrapped her in a metaphoric blanket of sympathy and asked the Universe to help her find the strength to face her insecurities that are obviously causing her to be a rude, hostile control freak. I'll never know. I assume not, I assume she's still going around all hostile and rude.
But I gave her brain matter - thought - and sincere hope. I gave her something. Because I'm too nice. But it's what I've got - all I've got, literally - to give. If my dementia compels me to go around giving brain matter, sympathy, forgiveness and hope, well, I mean, there are worse things that could happen to me.
10:29 AM
