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
Monday, May 31, 2010
Another weird thing about being unemployed is that the perspective on holiday weekends, well, holidays in general, is completely different. When you're working a holiday weekend is a day off work that's not a vacation or sick day. It's exciting. I always feel like I'm playing hookie on holiday weekends, like I'm getting away with something. Well, I mean, I felt that way when I had a full time job.
But now, 300 days, yes 300 days into my unemployment the stark trance-like shock has turned to a dull zombie-like malaise. I have more experiences as an unemployedee under my belt, now. I have a different perspective on a lot of things. Most of those perspectives are scary, sad, and woeful. But, there are a few good things, some good insights gained when you're unemployed.
This weekend is a good example.
Memorial Day.
A day off work, the official start of summer.
Road trips. Barbecues. Picnics. Ice cream. Opening of pools and beaches here in the Midwest. Parades. Furniture sales.
And, oh yeah, trips to cemeteries and war memorials. Or at least remembering those who served/serve in the armed services. Yes. That is the point of Memorial Day. Hence the name Memorial Day. The purpose of the day kind of gets clouded and lost in the flurry of the summer kickoff plans. There's usually a 3 minute segment tacked on the end of the local late news featuring a local old vet and/or the family of someone currently serving in the military.
Now that I'm unemployed and holidays aren't just a day off work to cram in a schedule of relaxing/partying/eating/shopping. Because I'm not trying to cram in a week's worth of vacation into one day I'm a lot more conscious (and conscientious) of the holidays. It is more than a day off work to me because I'm not working. I'm forced to focus on the holiday solely for it's intended purpose.
I spent a lot of my childhood in a really, really, really, really, really small town. There's a lot of social/cultural pressure in small towns. You do what you're supposed to do. Because if you don't everyone will notice. You go to work. You go to school. You go to church. You go to scouts. You go to the high school sporting events. You take your cookies to the bake sales and you buy a pie. You donate to the school fundraisers, library fundraisers, community park fundraisers, memorial plaque fundraisers, Elks Club, Moose Lodge, Lions Club, Rotary, Shriners, VFW and 4H (the Masons exist but they're in a whole other league club-wise - they keep a low fundraiser and parade profile - everyone knows, accepts and respects this) You also volunteer and belong to all or at least a few of those fundraisers/clubs.
You just do. Mainly because you truly do care but also because the fear of the unknown is strong in small towns. No one really knows what will happen if you don't participate because no one's dared to opt out. People probably consider it, think about how nice it would be to have some down time, a little free time away from the community. Every now and then a mystery illness or last minute trip comes up and the cookies go unbaked and the meeting goes on without a member.
But. You recover/return for the next fundraiser/meeting.
You participate. You're an active member of the community. Period.
And you go to the parades. Chances are good that you're in the parades.
You just do. You go. You stand and salute or put your hand over your heart when the flag passes by - every time it passes you.
When I was really young there were some old vets who served in WWI living in my town. Yes, one I. On Memorial Day they put on their uniforms and younger WWII and Korea guys from the VFW pushed them in wheel chairs down main street in the parade, always the first ones behind the fire truck. (In my home town the parades are led by a local cop car followed by a fire truck. It was a big stinking deal when we got a third fire truck so that the parade could have two fire trucks, one to signal the start and one to signal the end of the parade and one back at the fire house on active duty in case a fire broke out during the parade. It was also a huge deal that the new fire truck was yellow instead of red and to this day people are split into two groups: Those who are pro-yellow fire truck and those who are anti-yellow fire truck. I told you, it's a really, really, really, really small town.) The VFW always leads the Memorial Day parade. That's a sacred right of the VFW, never questioned, never argued.
When I was a kid, and to this day, I'm confused by the name VFW. Veterans of Foreign Wars.
"But Mum, aren't all wars foreign?"
"Not the Civil War."
"But that was a super long time ago, no one's still alive from that war and even if they were why should they be left out? That's not fair. They were in a war. Just because it wasn't foreign they shouldn't be left out of the club. Shouldn't they just call it VW?"
"Yes, Trillian, it should but it's not. Go get your good shoes, it's almost time to go. We want to get a good spot so we can see your brother."
"But Mum, what about cousin Tim who's in San Diego? He's in the Navy but he's not in a foreign war. Will the VFW let him join?"
"Trillian, Tim probably won't want to join the VFW anyway. Go get your good shoes."
"But what if he does? What if he wants to be in parades and wear his uniform?"
"Trillian, we're all just very grateful Tim isn't in Viet Nam and we hope and pray he stays in San Diego until they release him. And when they do I'm quite certain Tim is not going to want to put on a uniform ever again."
"But why, Mum? Why wouldn't he want to wear his uniform and be in the parade? The VFW guys get to go first behind the fire truck. If I was in a war I'd want to wear my uniform and be first behind the fire truck."
"Good shoes. Now."
Mutter mutter mutter I don't get it mutter mutter foreign war mutter mutter.
I'm still unclear about the VFW. Who is allowed in? Do you have to have touched foreign soil? Is just being on foreign turf enough or do you have to have served in combat on foreign soil?
I have three cousins who were drafted during Viet Nam. Two of them actually showed up and did their time. And as my mother stated, we are exceptionally lucky and grateful they were newly minted college grad geeks majoring in math and science using something called computers. Their active duty was confined to computer rooms. But. They were drafted and served during Viet Nam. They weren't in the military by choice but they did it. They went. They gave up part of their lives for America. Unlike my third cousin, who, without a degree in math or science and a history of "public disturbances," (read: drunk and stoned at concerts; several speeding tickets on his motorcycle; and playing his guitar in the park) had a high likelihood of being sent to Viet Nam. I'm not saying I agree with draft dodging, but in his case...let's just say it's for the greater good that he burned his draft card and hung out with relatives in Canada for a few years. But here's the thing. My cousins who did their military time during Viet Nam but not in Viet Nam...are they lesser veterans because they didn't step foot on foreign soil? Lesser veterans because they didn't see combat?
Turns out my mother was right, neither one of them cares about the VFW. They both left the second the US government released them of their draft duties and immediately resumed their regularly scheduled lives in the geek world. The thought of either of them donning their uniforms and marching in a parade (behind the VFW banner or not) is comedic. But still, what if they did care? Serving in the military was not on their life agenda but they were drafted the second they graduated college and they went. They did it. They served. During Viet Nam. Doesn't that count for something?
Let's forget Viet Nam for a minute (oh, would that we could, would that we could). Like my cousins during Viet Nam, my dad got nabbed at the start of Korea. He had a draft card for WWII, but came of age at the tail end and somehow managed to escape WWII. But he wasn't so lucky with Korea. Straight out of college and off to...border patrol. In Alaska. Okay. Thankfully he didn't have to go to Korea. Again: Gratitude to the Universe for that. But. He served, willingly, but not voluntarily, during the Korean conflict. Was he less of a soldier because he didn't set foot on foreign turf? Also like my cousins, my dad harbored no desire to put on a uniform again, nor did he want to be part of the VFW. So, no big deal.
But what if he did? What if he wanted to hang out with the other veterans at the local VFW hall? Just because he didn't step foot on foreign soil were his experiences in the military less worthy? Did he have less reason to drink and eat fried fish on Friday nights? He was issued a uniform, a gun, dog tags and the right to die for his country just like the guys who served in foreign countries.
My dad always thought he was sent to Alaska because of his family "history" during WWII. Three of his brothers and his sister's husband all served in WWII.
One of his brothers died. Well. He's listed as "missing" but we're pretty sure he's dead. Some people call deceased submariners "The Eternal Patrol." We just call him dead. Killed in action. Even though he had previous pilot experience he wanted to be in the water. He said he knew how to swim but so far had not learned to fly. He and his brothers had some narrow escapes flying in their plane before the war. My uncles and their friend, my aunt's first husband, had an old plane they fixed up and flew - yes, they were teenagers and in college and they had a plane. (What? That's weird? Their jalopy happened to be an old plane instead of an old car.) One particularly harrowing brush with death in their old plane on a cold Minnesota night convinced my submariner uncle that his odds of survival were better on sea than in the air. In a mean, ironic joke from the Universe that decision cost him his life.
My dad's other two brothers and my aunt's first husband took their chances in the air and were pilots during WWII. They all felt they had more control of their destiny while in the cockpit of a plane. They knew how to fly. They knew how to fix old broken down planes with tin cans, paper clips and tape. They were all relatively recent Norwegian immigrants and were fighting not just for the US but for Norway and their friends and relatives at risk in Norway. My oldest uncle, who was a teenager when they immigrated from Norway, spoke fluent Norwegian and German and knew the Northern European terrain. If you're sending an airstrikeforce into Germany he's the guy you want behind the throttle.
He and my aunt's first husband were shot down over Germany.
My uncle survived the crash and not only escaped POW imprisonment, but also led a group of POWs to safety, went home for a quick visit, sired one of my cousins and was back in the air two months later. (I know, it's like a movie. Robopilot.)
My aunt's first husband was not as lucky. My eldest cousin never knew her dad. It's doubtful her dad even knew he fathered a child. My aunt sent him a letter with the news but it's unlikely he received it before he was shot down.
My other uncle flew several missions and somehow escaped enemy fire on every mission. Which is weird because he flew straight into some of the most notorious battles at the most violent height of the war. Weirdness aside, it's good that he returned unscathed every time. Because unlike his older brother, his foreign language skills were rusty and his leadership skills were not exactly sharp. He brought a lot to the military table - daring, cunning and wit, mainly - but he's not the guy you'd want in charge of an enemy air strike. Organizing the poker game, taking the plane out for a booze run, yes, he's the guy you want in charge. And where angels fear to tread my uncle rushed in, the word "antic" is often used in sentences about that uncle. He's the Dean Martin of our family - I am unable to conjure an image of him without him holding a cocktail, cigarette and telling a really funny story. But funny as Hogan's Heroes is, my uncle's humor would most likely not have been appreciated by enemy captors or allied prisoners. If the enemy captors didn't kill him, his co-prisoners would have. And, he later fathered seven children, my cousins, most of whom I really like and all of whom who are making great and glorious impacts on the world.
Which makes me wonder and contemplate who my submariner uncle might have fathered. Apart from me, my dad and his brothers and sister are responsible for parenting some very successful, interesting and vital members of society. People who are truly changing the world for the better. (I'm the loser of my generation of the family tree, the cousin talked about in whisper. Excuses used to be made because I'm the youngest, the baby, but now that I've been unemployed for 300 days and about to be homeless, my position as family loser is secure.)
It's not that I don't think about my dad's and uncles' armed service. I do. And I am proud of them. I don't think any of them really wanted to be in a war, but, they did what they were asked/told to do. But I am not proud that my cousin's dad and submariner uncle died. It's sad. It's unfair. It's a loss of life for the sake of war. My pacifistic nature can't reconcile the justification of sacrificing a few lives for the greater good. And yes, sure, they knew the risks. My uncle volunteered for submarine duty. I am proud of anyone who does that. (Seriously, have you ever been on a submarine? It's nothing like in the movies.) And I am proud of their service and dedication to their country, particularly since they were all very recent immigrants, all born far, far away from American soil. In my eldest two uncles' case it was, "Hello! Welcome to America! Now go to school, eat healthy, get medical care and in a few years we'll give you a call to go into battle for us." I am not bashing them or their service. I am proud of them for that. But my cousin never knew her dad and has a lot of seriously painful issues because of that. And my submariner uncle never had a chance to really live his life. He was plucked into service at age 19 and dead at age 21. Now that my dad's dead there's no one left who remembers him except my eldest uncles' wife, who knew him only briefly while she dated my uncle before the war.
I think about how different and sad it would be if my other uncles had died. For a lot of obvious reasons it would be awful. But, impacting the here and now, ten children would not have been born. Ten people who've done and are doing really impressive things with their lives. I cannot imagine any of my cousins not existing. And the world would be worse without them. Teachers, scientists, engineers, doctors, volunteers, musicians, poets...the amount of things they do and the lives they touch, and help, is staggering. And for that matter, my brother and sister, too, have made positive dents in society.
But there's a gaping hole and big question mark over my submariner uncle. Maybe his kids would have been, like me, losers, embarrassments on the family tree. But, then, is that so awful? I wouldn't be alone in the shame I bring to the family.
After my last uncle died several years ago my dad was left to carry on the Memorial Day tribute and reflection on his own. When my uncles were all alive every family gathering included a toast and many stories about my submariner uncle. Death didn't make him a less vital part of our family. They talked about him was like he was still alive, that he just couldn't attend this particular family gathering. So much so that I didn't grasp that he was dead until I was about 6 years old. We went to Minnesota for a Memorial Day dedication of a submariner plaque. My dad and his brothers and sister were there to represent their brother. There was a gun salute, a flowery wreath, flags and a plaque on a rock in the cemetery by the lake.
After the ceremony we walked through the cemetery. My mother pointed out the graves marked with a flag and/or military insignia to me. Which set off my aunt's rant about "burying" my submariner uncle. She wanted to "bury" him in the cemetery. My uncles thought that was wrong and inappropriate because they had nothing to bury. And more to the point, they didn't want to waste a perfectly good cemetery plot for a body that isn't there. This is all a ridiculous argument anyway since my dad's family are all cremated. If my aunt had her way my submariner uncle, who's body is buried at sea, would be the only one with a full grave in a cemetery. This bit of irony of course did not escape my Dean Martin-esque uncle who never failed to point out the absurdity of my aunt's desire to "bury" my uncle. It caused more than its share of arguments and drunken jokes at my aunt's and dead uncle's expense.
That's when I started to understand that my uncle was, in fact, dead. Up to that point I just thought he couldn't make it to our family gatherings. I thought he lived somewhere far away under the sea and that maybe there were other cousins, cousins more my age and more like me, that I'd yet to meet.
At that age learning of my uncle's death was disappointing on a personal level. I desperately wanted cousins closer to my age to play with at family gatherings. I desperately wanted to have "a group." We always split into three groups: The adults and two groups of cousins - the older cousins and the younger cousins. I was too young even be part of the younger cousins. One of them, the one closest in age to me, three years older, was always nice to me, but she later confessed she was really glad when I was born because it meant she was no longer the baby. My birth gave her cred. This mysterious missing uncle gave me hope for kids and a group to which I could belong. Those hopes were dashed on that Memorial Day visit and plaque dedication.
Further complicating the whole thing was the term "vet." My dad, his brothers, my aunt, used the term "vet." Short for veteran. When they talked about each other, if it came up contextually, they'd throw in the aside, "He's a vet, air corp." Or, in my submariner uncle's case, "He's a vet, subs." Okay. I know I'm not the only kid who got this incredibly confused. I heard the term vet and assumed along with their day jobs my uncles were also veterinarians. Hey. They liked animals. We all always had a lot of pets. They all took in all manner of strays. We're all very respectful to animals. My POW uncle even once helped a bear cub who got tangled up in fishing line and was abandoned. (Robopilot. You want him on your team.) It made sense in my young head, okay? Plus I thought it was really cool that my uncles were all veterinarians.
So in my very little, very confused head I got the idea that my submariner uncle was an underwater veterinarian and that he was working with Jacques Cousteau on some Jules Vernian undersea adventure. The sum total of my underwater war/submarine knowledge was at that time limited to Jacques Cousteau documentaries, the 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea ride at Disney World, The Incredible Mr. Limpet, Flipper, and some weird '60s trippy animation I saw via my sister, something about a Yellow Submarine and an Octopus' Garden. (I know they're two different albums but in my head they're together, joined as one hippie '60s undersea acid trip.) Naturally I assumed my uncle was involved with all of that underwater amazement and that was why he couldn't attend family gatherings. I thought that was pretty cool. I drew pictures of strange multicolored undersea creatures and my uncle, in a submarine, floating by waving to them or administering first aid to them and curing their sick tummies. I even told kids at school my uncle worked under water in a submarine.
Again, another crushing blow dealt on the Memorial Day trip to dedicate a plaque to my dead uncle. He was still cool, a submariner to the end, but the possibility of getting to ride in a submarine was eliminated when I realized he was dead. My other uncles took me for rides in their airplanes, which I thoroughly enjoyed and bragged about in the school yard. Up to the dawn of the dead uncle realization I was holding out hope for a ride in a submarine. I imagined us in a really snazzy submarine floating around the seabed looking at octopi and whales and turtles and the Loch Ness monster. (Don't ask.)
When we got in the car to leave the Memorial Day plaque dedication I turned around and looked out the rear window of the car as first the plaque, then the cemetery diminished from view. Tears gushed down my cheeks. My parents thought I was overwhelmed by the ceremony and gun salute. (I was kind of a sensitive kid.) My mother tried to make me feel better by telling me it's a nice thing, we'd done a good thing, that now no one would forget my uncle. Which made me start out and out bawling. I was utterly confused. Not only was my cool submariner uncle dead, he'd been dead since 1944. 1944 seemed like hundreds of years, it was the Olden Days as far as I was concerned. It was in the time before television. The Dark Ages. (Until I was 7 I honestly thought they were called the dark ages because there was no television.) How could this guy who featured so prominently in family stories and jokes, talked about so regularly, revered for his submarine life aquatic, have been dead for so long?
All my hopes and dreams for one day meeting this cool submariner vet uncle and maybe even cousins were dashed. All those pictures I drew, all that schoolyard bragging, all those undersea adventures I imagined stopped. They ceased to exist because my uncle was dead. And had been dead since before television.
My parents didn't understand. They eventually figured out that I was completely confused about my uncle, that I thought he was still alive. They tried to explain WWII and they tried to help me understand that even though people die we still remember them and talk about them and care about them and love them and that's how our spirit lives on after we're dead. Really heady concepts for a 6-year-old who up to that point was harboring great hopes for a submarine ride with her aquatic veterinarian uncle.
Apart from my Robopilot uncle's wife, my father was the lone living member of that generation of the family. My dad carried out the Memorial Day tributes. Sometimes traveling to Minnesota for Memorial Day, other times marking the memory of his brother and other vets by participating in or watching the local Memorial Day parade. Now that my dad's gone I'm suddenly very aware that if none of us kids, me, my siblings and/or cousins carry on the memorial traditions those guys and their stories will fade. They're our family and it's up to us. Particularly our submariner uncle who died before he had a chance to have children. The only legacy he left was the stories his family told about him. I respect all that he did and all he sacrificed in a very short life.
But. I can't help but think about all the unanswerable what ifs of his life. He was smart, top in his high school class. He could have, no doubt, done a lot with his life. I'm sure he had plans beyond the war. My dad always remembered him as being patient. When his other older siblings teased and ignored him the submariner was patient and kind to him, taught him how to throw a football for maximum velocity and how to solve long division problems. (I could have used patience and help like that when my dad was ready to disown me for my inability to solve math problems.)
Now that my dad's gone I feel obligated to think about him and his siblings and their military service. The thing is, they never really talked about the war. They went, they did it, they were fortunate enough to return home alive, and resumed their lives. None of them joined the VFW even though with the exception of my dad they spent tours of duty on foreign soil. They didn't have military funerals, although they all received a flag and memorial from the military.
Military service was something they did not just because they had to, they wanted to do it. Even my dad, as convoluted as the Korean conflict was/is, even my dad put on the uniform and did what was asked of him, wholeheartedly. Then came home and resumed his life. They weren't ashamed of their service, but they didn't brag about it, either.
Sure, there were stories, sure, I heard about the POW camp escape, saw the medals awarded for heroic deeds and service, but none of them liked the word hero and didn't consider themselves special or better or different and didn't expect privilege or commendation for their service. If you met them, unless you asked them directly, the topic of the war or their service would never come up in conversation. Not because they were shell shocked or ashamed, they just had more interesting, current things to talk about.
So, what's the "right" way to honor guys like that? These aren't the guys who put on the uniform and march with the VFW in the parade, or drink beer at the fish fry talking about the old days in the war. They never dwelt on it. I always got the feeling they looked at their military service like any other chore you don't want to do. You just go ahead and do it, get it done and out of the way so you can move on to doing the things you want to do. I suppose there's some psychology to losing their brother and brother-in-law. "Living life to the fullest" in honor of their dead brother and friend who had their lives taken too soon and all that. I know my dad never took a second of life for granted. I think that was mainly his personality, but I'm sure it had a little bit to do with his brother and brother-in-law's deaths at such young ages.
Further cementing, and further confusing my thoughts on "what to do" for my uncles is the fact that when my cousin refused his draft notice no one, including my parents, were ashamed or angry at him. It was pretty obvious he would be Viet Nam bound and, particularly at that point, no one understood what was going on in Viet Nam and didn't think sending more boys would help anyone. There was no puffery or pontificating or grandstanding from my uncles. No one said anything like, "We served and we were proud to go, it's your turn, you don't ask questions, you serve your country." Everyone pretty much said, "Oh shit. Not Kevin. They'll send him straight over there. He won't last a week. Let's get him to Canada."
Not exactly the sort of thing you'd expect to hear from people like the Robopilot, my dad or even my Dean Martin-esque uncle. So much for patriotic duty above all. So much for supporting your government.
And yet, then again, my dad hated what was going on in Iraq and Afghanistan. But he and my mother regularly donated goods and helped assemble and send loads of care packages to troops.
What's the right thing to do for veterans like that? These are people worth remembering, but maybe not so much for their military service. Not that that's irrelevant. It's very important. But they didn't measure their lives by it so should we?
My uncles would talk your ears off about their children, their grandchildren, their trip to Bismark, ND in the middle of winter, the new design of an intake manifold or an interesting book they read about Canadian Goose migration or the new starting quarterback on the local football team. They'd ask you about your family, your car, your job and if you took the by-pass or went straight through on your way into town. Military service would not come up in casual conversation.
My dad always said things like, "We served so you wouldn't have to..." or "He died so others could have a chance to live." My dad did make a point to pay tribute to my submariner uncle. Because he was his brother but also because I think my dad felt obligated. My uncle didn't have children to carry on for him. There's no one but his siblings to "do" anything for him. And now that my dad's dead, well, that leaves us kids, the nieces and nephews to "do" something. But what?
The whole point of Memorial Day is not about the parades and the VFW or the wreathes or the plaques or the gun salutes. It's about remembering them. In my submariner uncle's case that's difficult. None of us nieces and nephews were even born when he died. How are we supposed to remember him? Ahhhh yes. All those stories my uncles told about him, stupid stuff they did when they were kids, his good grades and how he was patient and nice to his little brother, my dad. Yes, he died in a submarine while serving in WWII, but there's a lot more to him than that. And yes, my Robopilot uncle's plane was shot down, he survived, was a POW and escaped. But yes, really, there is a lot more to him that that. He saved a bear cub and took flew sick kids to far away hospitals. And yes, my Dean Martin-esque uncle flew an incredible number of missions but there's a lot more to him than that. He was a great dad to seven kids who all turned out hugely successful, he never passed judgment on anyone and could make everyone he met laugh in seconds flat.
Those guys weren't ashamed of their military service but it didn't define them. Their time in the military was important, but it wasn't their penultimate achievement in life.
So what do we, us kids, the next generation, do on Memorial Day to honor our dads and uncles on Memorial Day? All I can come up with is: Remember them. Be grateful for them. Be glad they came home alive and hope we're grabbing as much out of life as our submariner uncle would have if he'd had the chance.
2:18 PM
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Oh great.
Just swutting great.
The decline of modern civilization is picking up velocity.
Now that Bret Michaels is either dying/dead/healthy and turning over a new leaf VH1 is left without a new installment of Midlife Crisis Confidential I mean Middle Aged Man Getting Drunk and Ogling 20-Year-Old Drunk Slutty Strippers I mean Rock of Love. So what is VH1 to do without a titillating must-see show? What element of society can they exploit?
Why of course, clinically psychologically impaired people, that's who!
Seriously? This may be legal. It may be
But it's wrong.
This is not an official documentary on OCD, enlightening and featuring valid and clinical research. This is a sensationalistic reality show, a la Celebrity Rehab.
The participants may or may not be really afflicted with OCD, but the point is that they allegedly are and the cameras are rolling and they're showing the more made-for-television behaviors. They're showing the weird quirks, ticks, symptoms that make OCD so difficult for the people afflicted by it. And, unfortunately, those are the same quirks, ticks, symptoms that are annoying or humorous for observers who don't know what OCD is or that they're witnessing the symptoms of a psychological disease.
Let's all go to the freak show! It'll be fun! We'll watch real people with a psychological disease say and do funny things! It'll be a riot!
VH1: You are not PBS. You are not hard hitting, credible, sensitive, documentarians.
You are not even MTV. You are MTV lite. VH1 started as the lite version, the Michael Bolton version of MTV for people who found the alternative punk and rock of MTV too brash.
VH1, you are a lite-weight, inane, sensationalizing, entertainment network generating revenue from advertising dollars earned by high ratings.
Showcasing the drunken, naked, immature antics of washed up '80s hair band musicians and the superinflated strippers who love them is entirely appropriate for VH1. Showcasing the sad, painful, harmful symptoms of a emotionally/psychologically impaired people is completely inappropriate for VH1.
And so we fall.
It's easy to blame VH1. But I'm being too quick to judge. They're merely mirroring the accepted and desired attitude of the culture that created them. We have only ourselves to blame. When did it become okay to laugh and point at people who are ill?
What's really bugging me about this is that they're cloaking the show as compassionately helping the OCD afflicted participants. True compassion is discreet. True compassion doesn't involve boasting, showcasing, showboating or profiting.
In the past there have been things that made me wept for the future. Now I'm weeping for now.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Welllll, so much for that.
If you were an animal what would you like to be?
If you held a dream party, inviting anyone past, present or future, who would be on the guest list?
What color appeals to you most?
What's your favorite book, the only book you would take to a deserted island?
I didn't want to think they were trying to dupe me. Legally, they cannot ask anything remotely related to religion. We all know that. All the players involved are very aware of that. But they can ask silly, seemingly irrelevant questions like who I'd like to invite to a party, what animal I'd like to be and what book I enjoy above all others. They can then try to suss out my religious leanings by my answers. I know, that sounds so paranoid, so conspiracy theorist. I know. Which is precisely why I didn't want to think any of this. And why I refused to resent being asked those inane questions of no significance to the job. I don't want to think there's anything untoward, deceptive or judgmental going on. So I chose to just roll with it, smile and pause for a bit of reflection then answer the questions honestly.
And yes, for the most part the interview focused on the job and at times they seemed a little apologetic for the stupid questions. And I suppose the color question is valid given that I'm a designer. But, then again, all the more reason that's a stupid question: I can make a case for just about any color. Because I'm an artist. That's what I do. For a living. (If I was being cheeky or purposely contrary I would have said, "I love the dark crimson color of the birthmark on the back of my head, the way the light and shadows highlight the scarlet hues and tones of burning ember in the curves of its lines forming the 6 shapes.")
I probably bombed the interview because I didn't say I want to be a lion or lamb, a dove or a shark, a gazelle, a Yeti or a unicorn. Instead I said I'd like to be a cat living with someone like me. (If I was being cheeky I would have said a snake in a lovely garden. But I wasn't, and didn't want to be, cheeky.)
And if that didn't knock me out of the running the fact that I didn't invite God, Jesus, Mary or an apostle to my party did. Instead I said I'd give anything to be able to throw a party big enough to have my family - deceased, living and future - and my friends all together in one place. With some really, really great bands for entertainment and some artists, writers and scientists thrown in to keep the conversation from turning to family lore and arguments. (If I was being cheeky I would have said Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, XTC, Salvidor Dali, Jackson Pollack, George Eliot, Ayn Rand....But I wasn't, and didn't want to be, cheeky.)
And I'm almost certain that if those answers didn't put me out of the running the answer to the final question undoubtedly did.
What book, what one tome of reading material would I grab if I knew I was spending a lot of time on a deserted island?
Would I take The Bible?
No.
Me?
I'd take Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
I mean duh, of course.
Yes. At a job interview at a Christian-based company I said the one book I would grab and take to a deserted island is Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
Not the bible. Not something by CS Lewis or Paulo Cuelho. Not something like Watership Down or Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Not Canterbury Tales or The Prophet or even Road to Mecca. I could have rattled off any of those books, I've read and even enjoyed plenty of religious and spiritual books. I admire and respect loads of spiritual authors. But did I say any of those at an interview at a Christian college? Of course not. Because I'm an idiot. And I'm honest. And my favorite book is written by someone who is such an atheist he called himself a radical atheist.
And I am probably still very unemployed.
I wasn't being cheeky. I mean, I could have gone in there and been deliberately contrary and cheeky, all sensationalizing just to jangle their chains. I could have, but wouldn't. I do respect religion, faith... and I would never intentionally mock or judge or offend anyone for their beliefs. (Unless their beliefs include anger, hate, violence, mortal judgment, intolerance...but honestly, even then I just silently walk away.) I'm not evil incarnate.
At the very least I could have played it safe and towed a distinctly purposeful secular line. Purposely keeping things innocuous and giving no discernible clue to my beliefs or lack thereof. The religious dialog version of Pat of It's Pat. That's what a smart person would do.
But no. Not me. I opened my mouth and the truth came out.
I mean, how stupid am I? Apparently really, really, really stupid. Of all the books I've read and admired, of all the authors I cherish and respect, I could have chosen hundreds, and I mean hundreds of more religiously correct books, or at least one written by someone who didn't go around publicly bashing religion and declaring himself a radical atheist.
Somewhere Douglas Adams is slapping his knee in a fit of hysterics over that scenario. Given his distaste for HR managers and marketing and BS in general, somewhere out in the Universe the embers of his being are absolutely cracking up and proud of his role in the theater of the absurd known as a job interview. Nice to have him on my side but I really need a job. Dead Douglas Adams is not the person I need to impress right now.
Right now I'm unemployed. Because I'm an idiot who wants to be a pampered cat and who wouldn't invite Jesus to a dinner party or take a Bible for salvation on a deserted island.
I confessed all this to a friend who tried to console me. "Okay, Trill, let's pretend this was all a ruse, a set up to tease your religious beliefs out of you. Let's take their party stance on dealing with difficult situations: What would Jesus do?"
"He'd say His favorite color is purple, that He'd like to be a dove and He'd invite His Father(s), mother and apostles and all the little children of the world to a party to hear readings from Hhis favorite book. The Good one."
(Exasperated sigh from my friend.) "Yeah, true. But, he'd answer honestly and openly, right? He'd be true to himself and not play into their game. He would not practice to deceive, He wouldn't get sucked into their game and be untrue to Himself. So you did exactly what Jesus would do. You were honest and open and thoughtful and candid. You didn't play their game. You may not have given the answers they want, but you did give them honesty and isn't that more important than hearing what they want to hear? What more could they want from those idiotic questions?"
And of course my friend is right. If I was judged by my answers to those questions then I don't want to work with them. I don't think Jesus would think deceptive questioning and critical character judgment is appropriate. I shouldn't speak for Him, I know that, but from what I've read, in the Bible, yes, I've read it, He isn't down with deception and critical judgment and intolerance. My friend is right, if their stupid questions were a thinly veiled way to tease out information about my beliefs, they are the ones not acting in a Christian manner. A point she very solidly made by responding to my silence with, "The term you're searching for here, Trill, is self-righteous indignation. You should be feeling it. You should have huffed off with it."
But my friend isn't enduring abuse and threats working a low paying telemarketing job. My friend isn't living without health insurance and a steady paycheck. My friend isn't going to be homeless in a few months.
I wrote a ton more but it can all be said in those four words. It's a case of what isn't said carrying more brevity than what's spelled out nice and neatly, I guess. Like a Hallmark movie scant on dialog and big on significant penetrating looks between actors.
10:02 PM
Thursday, May 20, 2010 Oh God
Welll, here we go again.
I've been "luckier" than a lot of unemployed people. I've had interviews, even some second and third interviews. Some of the jobs I really, really, really, really, really wanted. Others...well...if I weren't unemployed I wouldn't have even applied let alone considered an interview. But. Unemployed people cannot be choosy. We have to leave personal job satisfaction issues behind. Intrinsic and esoteric personal fulfillment are not allowed. It doesn't matter if we want to do the job. It's not about us, it's about keeping a roof over our heads. I'm not saying I agree with that outlook, but, if the choices are: unemployment or a job you don't like, well, you take the job you don't like.
I had an interview for a job at a company that produces something in direct opposition to my personal ethics. It was a good job. I was highly qualified for it. But as I sat in the interview, and especially in the afterglow of it, I knew in my gut, heart, soul and mind that it was wrong for me. I just couldn't do it. Not a pride issue, but a personal ethics issue. Yes. Even more so than telemarketing. At least in telemarketing most of the products and services I am asked to represent aren't in conflict with my ethics. The job itself is a soul and dignity sapping experience, but the products and services? Meh, so far most of them are pretty decent. Not cheesy. No Sham Wows or scams.
Soooooooo, here's a new twist.
I had an interview for a fantastic job. The requirements, duties, experience, skills, creativity and professionalism required are an exact match to mine. I think I would really enjoy the job, I have a lot to offer them and they have a lot to offer me.
The interview went really well, I think. I offered lots of ideas about some of their upcoming projects, I even gave them the names of a few vendors and consultants who could help them with a few difficult projects. My would-be manager and I seemed to hit it off straight away, the HR people weren't gross, the attitude of the office was professional but seemed congenial and upbeat. The commute isn't easy, but it's not horrific, either. Great, right?! I mean, what more could I want? It's like the parting of the Red Sea, right? A win-win, right?
Okay. Well. This is me we're talking about. There's always a catch.
Where is this personal Utopian job mecca?
At a Christian based academic institution.
I know, I know, I hear your jaw dropping.
You can't believe that I even applied for a job there, and more to the point of awe, you're shocked that my application wasn't struck by lightening when it hit their HR department.
First off, I applied via a recruiter who kept me in the dark about the employer. (Which is one reason I do not like a lot of recruiters.) When I found out the employer was super interested in me, all I was told was that it was an academic institution. Which greatly appeals to me. I like school. I like that environment.
It wasn't until we were talking about an interview that I found out the religious foundation of the academic institution.
Okay.
They can't discriminate and so far no one's asked anything about my religious background or affiliation.
But. Should they? I think maybe they should know "about me." Should I tell them "about me?" Don't they have a right to know? Or is this really a don't ask, don't tell situation? I mean, legally they can't ask. But on a higher intellectual and ethical plane, shouldn't I offer the info? Isn't that the right thing to do? WWJD? I think we all know He'd be upfront and honest. Deception is a serious issue for Jesus.
As for my views, you know, I'm not against anyone else's spiritual or religious beliefs. I think religion is really nice for a lot of people. I've seen the good it can do for people and rock on to that. And in terms of philosophy and outlook on life and the world, I'm totally down with the ideals, the take-away points of Jesus. (I mean, come on, Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.? That's so Jesus.) So I'm not opposed to working there. Religion doesn't offend me. Well. Okay. I have issues with the Catholic Church, but the core, the religion at its base, doesn't offend me. And yes, yes, I take offense at turning a profit in the name of Jesus. And okay, yes, any religion where any sort of mortal holier than thou judgment is allowed, tolerated or perpetuated, especially from the altar, well, yeah, I'm offended by that. Okay, fine, yes, some issues surrounding religion offend me. But I don't think that'll be a problem at this institution.
...but...is it hypocritical, offensive and morally wrong for me to even consider working at a Jesus based institution when I don't believe in Him? Am I intrinsically bad, wrong, to not just walk away from this opportunity?
Am I too beaten down, too desperate to see this in black and white clarity?
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Well, that was fun. Four hours of abuse. Niiiice. And worse, there weren't as many lonely old people eager to engage in conversation with anyone, even a telemarketer. One of my more seasoned coworkers (he's considered a long term employee, 8 months on the job) told me Sundays are when the senior citizens really want to gab. Apparently Sundays are long, lonely days for senior citizens.
Today I had a lot of hang ups. That's okay. I prefer hangups to profanity and threats.
The fuck yous and fuck offs not only take a toll on my self respect, they also have an impact on my job performance. We're supposed to try to "turn the anger around" and try to engage the customer in meaningful dialog about the product or service we are marketing.
Further, if I disconnect a call it's noted and counts against me, like a demerit. Meaning, a customer can say anything to us and it's "better" for us telemarketers if we sit there and take it until they hang up.
Which means we take a lot of abuse to keep our low paying crappy job.
Today I had a guy try to engage me in phone sex. "Hello, Mr. Jackoff?"
"Yes?"
"Our records indicate you bought a Widget 9000. Are you happy with your Widget 9000?"
"Yes. You sound sexy."
"Great! Mr. Jackoff, were you aware there is an add-on device available for the Widget 9000?"
"No. Tell me about it, baby."
"Great! The Hoozit 2200 works with your Widget 9000. You may have noticed the adapter ring on your Widget 9000. The Hoozit 2200 easily and quickly attaches to your Widget 9000 via that adapter ring."
"Ooooo, sexy, yeah, baby, tell me more, you sound really hot."
"The Hoozit 2200 is reasonably priced and will enhance the performance of your Widget 9000. You'll see increased capacity and more efficient run times, saving you hundreds of dollars over the course of a year of regular use of your Widget 9000."
"I want to lick your pussy and give you a rim job."
"Great! Would you like to take advantage of our special offer today? You can purchase the Hoozit 2200 for $29.98. That's a 43% savings off the retail price."
"What'll it cost me to fuck you in the ass?"
"If you choose to take advantage of this great offer I can include an AC adapter at no extra charge. Does this sound like something you'd be interested in today, Mr. Jackoff?"
"Oh God yes, baby, give it to me."
"Great! I'll just need some information from you. Do you have a credit card handy?"
"Fuck you, bitch, fuck you and your hot wet cunt, you know you fucking want me."
"You can also order online. I'll need your email address and will send you the discount code."
"Mr. Jackoff? We require a credit card number or email address to complete this Hoozit 2200 offer. Mr. Jackoff? Hello?"
Yep. That's what I do. That's my job. Why didn't I hang up on him? Because it counts against me to hang up on him and sooner or later he'll hang up on me, so, it's in my best job interest to endure the abuse, the weirdness, the threats, the sex...it's all about them. And the longer we engage the customer, the longer the call time, the higher mark we get. So at the end of the month when our numbers are tallied the longer we keep customers on the line, the better our review. The better the review, the sooner you can move up and into telesurveying.
So. That's why I endure the profanity, the sad lonely old people, the phone sex guy. (And, I have his phone number, anyone think I should call him? I mean, hey, he thinks I sound hot.)
And you wonder why I am losing self respect? Why I'm willing, hoping, to lose self control? Why I'm trying to drink more and eat less? Why I don't care about myself, my health or my life? Look at what I'm doing for $8/hour. Phone sex operators earn more than that - and based on that caller today I'm thinking maybe I should consider it. At least there the callers call me wanting something and when they tell me to fuck off they mean it literally and not as an insult.
Wait.
I'm taking home $19.15 for five hours of abuse and Bristol Palin's getting $15K - $30K for one speech?
"...she's interested in expanding her message beyond teen pregnancy to include her experiences on the campaign trail and in the media spotlight; her parenting approach; and her outlook on life."
And she has an outlook on life worth paying $15K - $30K to hear? Can't she just Tweet her outlook on life like every other 19-year-old?
Public service is one thing, from a marketing standpoint Bristol would be PSA gold, if she truly volunteered, gratis, her voice and image. I'd actually back that plan.
But. Turning a profit, a huge profit, from her mom's "fame" and her teen pregnancy? Huh? What point am I missing in this?
Millions of educated, professionally experienced, intelligent, creative, insightful people are jobless and struggling to exist on $8 - $10/hour jobs (if they're lucky enough to land a job at all) and Bristol Palin is getting $15K - $30K/speech?
Monday, May 17, 2010
Well, here we go! I think I was onto something with the self control thing. My first day of telemarketing was brutal. The verbal abuse I endured was beyond what I expected (and I expected it to be pretty bad). We're told in training to not take it personally. And I don't.
But the thing is, I hate what I'm doing. I lost respect for myself the second I agreed to take the job. There's no way to dignify or rationalize or excuse what I'm doing. In terms of professional integrity I might as well be working on a stripper pole. I can't ever put this job on my resume and if anyone in my professional circle found out I'm doing it I'd not only be ridiculed and dismissed as a washed up has been, I'd be seen as a traitor lacking professional ethics. A few former colleagues might feel sorry for me and try to intervene, but what can they do? They're unemployed or working under the threat of it, too. They don't have any practical solutions, either. The most they can do is offer pity and hope that it never happens to them. "Did you hear about Trillian? *telemarketing*"
"Oh my God, not Trillian! Really?!"
"Yep. I heard it's true."
"Wow. Such a shame. I liked her. I never thought she'd have to sink that low."
"Just goes to show, it can happen to anyone. I had a roommate in college who did it, nice girl from a poor family, worked her way through college doing it. She got off the phone and into a real job, but still, she never really lived it down. You can't erase the experience. It's too degrading."
One day on the job and I'm already hating myself for it.
Self respect: Going...going...going...
Self control: Waning...waning...waning...
It's already easier to persuade myself to drink more than I should. I started drinking at 4 this afternoon. Two bottles of wine later I'm still not numb enough to forget that I have to go back to work tomorrow.
Which is weird because I haven't eaten much so you'd think I'd be more drunk.
Yep, control over food is slipping, just like old times. Amazing how all the years of discipline and emotional exercise over food is just vanishing. Kinda scary. I thought I conquered it but nope, it's just so much easier to not eat. I had some Cheez Its yesterday and a tomato and some carrots today. And those two bottles of wine. I don't want to eat and with my self respect waning it's difficult to convince myself that my health is worth the effort. Why? Why care about what happens to me when the only job I can get is one where people hate me and swear at me and yell at me and threaten to kick my ass?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
I just worked my first shift as a paid telemarketer! Woo hoo!
Five hours of abuse! With a 20 minute break! After taxes I earned $25.15!!!
I can't believe they're paying me for so much fun!
I'm trying calculate how many times in my life I've been told to fuck off and how many times someone's said "fuck you" to me. I'm trying to recall and tally the times I've been told to get a life/real job. I'm starting to realize that I've either led a very sheltered life or I've been insulted by a higher caliber of people, or at least people with broader, more concise vocabularies than the people attached to the phone numbers on my call list.
I honestly don't recall being told to fuck off too many times. Maybe 15, 20? Mainly by drunk guys at bars and concerts. I'm not offended, really. We're told in training to not take any insults or threats personally. So I don't. But. Still. You have to have thick skin to do this job.
In training we were told a lot of people never return after their first day of live phone work. I understand why. I knew there'd be some abuse, I mean, telemarketers are universally hated. And with good reason.
But. I didn't realize how much seething venom we invoke. One woman told me if she could spit through the phone she'd hock an infected phlegmy loogie at me. I haven't heard the term hock a loogie in a really long time, so, you know, thanks for that trip down memory lane. That's how I make it bearable. I disassociate myself from the job and the people I'm calling. Take the things they say to me as interesting responses, not as personal attacks.
When it's clear the call is going nowhere I let my imagination run with it. I try to envision the person behind the insults. Visualize them, their surroundings, their backstory. But. I don't make excuses for them. There is no excuse for the profanity and threats. (Oh yes, threats - one guy threatened to kick my ass then shove his boot up my throat so I could never call anyone again, another guy said he'd burn down our office building and everyone in it if anyone called him again. I'm pretty sure these people have no way of finding out where we're based, our trainers and supervisors say we're safe and secure, but, I am slightly concerned about it.) I mean, just hang up. Just hang up the phone. Well, first, put your phone number on the Do Not Call list. Then just hang up. The profanity, the insults, the threats...they're not necessary. No one I've met at my company wants to be a telemarketer. We're all desperate. And for the most part, we're all decent, normal human beings who, in real life, would never inspire profanity, insults or threats. And, as far as getting a life/job? Yeah. Most of us had lives and jobs until we were laid off and couldn't find new jobs and then our lives started to suck and we got desperate. We're doing this because we can't find other jobs. But make no mistake, this is a real job. It's the hardest $25.15 I've ever earned.
Why? Because of the effect on my self respect. There's no way to calculate that cost until more results are in regarding the effect this has on me and the rest of my life. But the mere fact that I'm telemarketing at all has already sapped a lot of self respect. I don't take it personally, but, I'm guessing there's a price to pay for repeatedly being told to fuck off. And the cost is most likely a lot more than $25.15.
Oh, and, minus the $6 commute, so, actually, I'm at a net profit of $19.15.
All I ask is that you think about this the next time a telemarketer calls you. Just hang up. Don't curse them out, insult them or threaten them. Don't rub salt in the gaping wound hole where their self respect used to be.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Excessive compulsive disorder.
Yes, I meant excessive. It's my new disease. You know, the loss of self respect leading to loss of self control thing.
I'm trying to navigate the subtleties between self control and self indulgence. It's trickier than I suspected.
Did you know that exercising self-control reduces glucose levels in the brain? I find this fascinating on a lot of levels. The whole physio-emotion-brain-functionality correlation fascinates me anyway, and this new information is adding new dimensions to my little philosophy hobby.
Van Gogh keeps coming to mind. What if a couple doses of insulin were "all" he needed to stabilize his issues? A little extra self control could have prevented the fatal gunshot. What more art might he have given us had he not died so young? But. then again, would a more emotionally stable Van Gogh see the world in the Van Gogh eyes we admire and gasp and sigh over? The talent would no doubt be there, but maybe the vision, the genius, would be lost in the glucose stability.
I'm no Van Gogh. I'm not comparing myself to Van Gogh. No way. I'm just saying, you know, lack of self control isn't necessarily a bad thing.
There's the excessive issue, though. What's the difference between a lack of self control and just regular excessive indulgence? Well, the glucose issue, for one thing. But apart from that sorting out the nuances isn't easy.
Since I've lost self respect it should be easy to lose self control, right? I mean, I thought it would be super easy. It's not, though. So either I have more self respect that I think I have, or, self control is actually a very powerful force.
So I tried to make a list of all the ways I exercise self control. That's not as easy as I thought, either.
Here's my attempt.
I don't drink to excess. But not due to self control. Well, not really. More due to the fact that I tend to fall asleep before I get falling down, slurred speech drunk. And booze is expensive. I don't have the money required to drink to excess. And the desire isn't really strong, either. Sure, occasionally I like to have a couple drinks, enough to numb the emotional pain and reduce the inhibitions, but I don't really like to drink often, like every day. It's interesting, when I was laid off I didn't start drinking at noon and get a good drunk on by 3 PM. I could. There's nothing and no one stopping me. But I'm not tempted. I think merely because I can do it, I don't. There's no real self control there, no fighting temptation or choosing the right choice. I'm simply not interested. Note to self: Try getting rip roaring drunk by 3 PM on a Tuesday just to see if you can.
I don't sleep around. But not because of self control. I'd sleep around if I could find willing partners. Then again, is that really true? Have I truly tried everything possible to get laid? There are blind men and old men and men with STDs who have difficulty finding willing partners, I could make more of an effort to find these men. I could scour the "intimate encounters" section of Craig's List and probably find someone willing to have sex with me. I haven't tried that (yet), but more out of fear than self respect or self control. I don't mind dying, but I don't want to die in some embarrassing scenario that would upset and humiliate my mother. Just because I've lost all self respect doesn't mean I have a right to disrespect my mother and her feelings. Crap. That's self control, isn't it? You can't be considerate and lose self control at the same time. Dammit. See what I mean? This is actually kind of difficult. I wonder how you deplete the glucose in your brain? That would help me lose self control.
I don't spend money. Mainly because I don't have any. That's not self control. Then again, I'm not robbing banks or stealing things or conning people. If I really wanted stuff I wouldn't let a little thing like a lack of money stand in my way, right? But I don't want to take anyone down with me, I don't want to hurt anyone but myself. I don't want to break laws. Crap, that's self control, isn't it? See? This is really difficult. Speaking of wasting money, can someone clue me in on the whole enormous chronograph watch thing? My theory: They're the new expensive red sports car. Direct correlation between the size, functionality and cost of the watch and the size and functionality of the penis. The bigger and more superfluous dials a watch has, the smaller the penis of the man wearing it. That's just my theory. And hey! I let go of some self control and espoused my theory on penises which has zero research to back it. (See above, not getting laid.)
Drugs. Yeah. Not interested. No self control required. I'd do Dexedrine if I could afford it and could acquire it without getting it from a back alley dealer or a questionable doctor. But there again, if I really wanted it I'd get it, I'd do it. I would have been doing it for a long time. I know the benefits of Dexedrine and the risks. I'm not pharmacologically opposed to it. But I dunno, if I truly wanted to do it I would already be doing it.
And why Dexedrine?
Food.
Ahhhhh. Yeah. The mother load of my self control. My name is Trillian and I'm an anorexic.
This is what scares me about self control. I spent a lot of years with hyper self control over food. I didn't eat. I exercised excessive self control. Which is, perversely, a lack of self control. Deprivation is a weird, involved and thorny issue. Lots of psychology behind it. It's not as trite and simple as television psychologists make it out to be. For me, self control is eating. It's easier for me to not eat than it is for me to eat. A lot of anorexics have control issues. They feel they have no control over anything in their lives and food is the one thing they can control. Not eating empowers them. Control wasn't my food issue. Self esteem was. I got a lot of negative attention because of my boobs. Every ogle at my chest made me feel objectified. (Oh, how times have changed, what I wouldn't give to be objectified these days...see above, Craig's List) I wanted my boobs to go away, or at least be smaller. I wanted people, men, to see me as something more than boobs. I wanted people, men, to respect me and not desire me for my boobs but for my personality, my brain, anything other than my body. (In my ideal world, I still feel that way. But I don't live in an ideal world. Growing up, having life beat the idealism out of you, kind of sucks.) I tried to lose as much weight as possible to shrink them, became anorexic and that was that. Fortunately I had a bad health scare, had a doctor who understood and cared and helped me. I made peace with all of that, and my body, and started forcing myself to eat. It took a lot of self control to eat. A lot. But I did it, I do it. I have an almost healthy, normal relationship with food these days.
So. Yeah. This is clearly where I need to begin my journey into a lack of self control. Just stop eating. It's that easy. It is easy for me. And without self respect it's even easier. Thank you, telemarketing job, for robbing me of the remaining shred of self respect I had! Now I can go back to not eating and from there, who knows?! Maybe I'll start drinking at noon, stealing stuff, taking Dexedrine and trolling Craig's List for sexual encounters! Losing self control could be a lot of fun!
Ahhhhh. But is that just being self indulgent? The disturbing truth is that I liked being anorexic. I knew exactly what I was doing. I did it with intention. Not to hurt myself, not to get attention or to rebel against my parents. Nope. I did it to deflect attention away from my body so that people would see me as something other than boobs. I did it so that people would get to know me, my brain, me, the person my parents raised and educated me to be. I'm not saying I was anorexic for them, but, certainly a nice by-product of my anorexia was that my parents hard work in raising me wasn't completely lost behind my boobs. And I'm pretty sure my dad slept better when my boobs were smaller and old men weren't ogling his co-ed daughter's chest.
But I dunno. There's a strong element of self indulgence to anorexia. I'm still trying to figure out the difference between self indulgence and self control. I know there's a difference. And I want to be sure I remain on the self control side. I've merely lost self respect and I want the loss of self control that goes with it. I don't want or need to indulge myself. I just want to live in accordance to the seething hatred I have for my life and what I've done to it.
It's like a Pulte McMansion development - it just springs up one day, sprawling as far as the eye can see, and it all looks the same.
I wonder what the bears, moose and other displaced water animals think?
Moose to bear: "Dam it, you let one beaver in and look what happens...there goes the neighborhood."
Bear to moose: "I'm afraid to hibernate, you can't turn your back on beavers for a minute. They're crafty and eager, can't be trusted."
Moose to bear: "Yeah, I was talking to goose and he said they're having encroachment problems. They were nesting and a beaver hooked up a branch right to their nest! That's going a step too far, there are little ones involved, there. As soon as the little ones can fly they're moving and renesting outside of Edmonton."
Bear to moose: "Aw, that's a shame. I mean, you want to take a stand, but I understand why they're leaving, you're just one goose, you know? And you have to consider your family, the little ones. They grow up next door to beavers and the next thing you know they're dating them...I mean, I'm all for beaver rights, but I don't want one dating my daughter."
Moose to bear: "Yep, yep. Sad day when families are chased farther away. Soon they'll be everywhere, just one big beaver nation."
Bear to moose: "I have a cousin down in the states, you remember, Ben? Well, he's got a nice place on protected land in Florida, one of those gated communities. We're thinking of going down there."
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Moment of silence for Ernie Harwell. If you're not a baseball fan or you're a non-Detroiter ignore this post.
The problem with good guys, strong voices that can be trusted and respected, is that they are, in fact mortal. And they die. They leave great memories, but their voices are silenced and somehow that doesn't seem, well, right. The world seems quieter, but not in a good way. A "something's missing" way.
Ernie Harwell.
Synonymous with the Tigers and Summer. The first thing that comes to mind when I hear the words The Tigers or Summer is Ernie's voice coming from a small portable radio in the garage. Or car radio or transistor radios on boats and beaches. He's so woven into the fabric of summer it's an instantaneous reaction.
My dad always turned on that old, beat up portable radio in the garage as he worked in the yard and puttered around the garage in summer. If he was in the back yard, he'd make periodic treks to the garage to catch up with the game. My dad grew up a Norwegian immigrant in Minnesota. Hockey, skiing and football were the only sports that mattered up there, but he was curious about baseball, he wanted to love it because it's so American. My dad loved anything that screamed American. When GM called my dad to Detroit (also because it didn't get any more American than General Motors) he never let go of his allegiance to the Vikings, but, he latched onto the Red Wings and Tigers like a newborn baby. He was a Tigers' fan, loyal and proud. And that was due, in large part, to Ernie Harwell. When he and my mother moved to Detroit they tuned their radios into WJR. There was Ernie, announcing the games. They used to go to the games with friends. Both my parents were enthusiastic about having a home team. It fed their craving to be just like any other American. And Ernie, the voice of the Tigers, was so enthusiastic and seemed like such a nice guy...how could you not be a Tigers fan? How could you not love baseball?
Ernie's voice drifted from the radio in the garage through the screen doors and throughout the house. Other dads in the neighborhood did the same thing. So as you rode your bike around the neighborhood on a sunny early Summer afternoon, drifting on the warm breeze were the prisms of water drops spewed from sprinklers spinning in spirals, the smell of barbecues and lilacs, the sound of lawn mowers...and Ernie's voice calling the Tigers' game. As you rode between houses Ernie would fade in and out, in a sort of Doppler effect. Bucolic. It's the definition of modern bucolic.
I think of Ernie as the narrator of my childhood summers. Even though he only called Tigers' games, in my memory, in my imagination, he called my entire Summer vacation. It's his voice I hear when I think about anything related to The Tigers or Summer. "And she's off, Trillian takes to the sand, it's a lovely day here on Lake Huron, it looks like Trillian's ready for a big day, oh yes, here she goes, she's winding up, going for a third pail of water, yes, yes, that's it, she's done it! She has a moat! She made a sand castle fit for the highest nobility! Right there on the banks of Lake Huron, oh my goodness the stands are going wild!"
You know the song, "Boys of Summer?" Of course you do. I like that song. Maybe I'm weird (no comment necessary) but whenever I hear it, in the faint, distant background of the melody I swear I hear Ernie Harwell calling a Tigers' game. Logically I know it's just my imagination captured by the aural incense of a well crafted song, but still...when I mention that phenomenon to anyone from Michigan they get a faraway look in their eye and agree with me. "You're right, Trill, I do hear Ernie!" (I wonder if Glenn Frey, also a suburban Detroit native, feels the same way about his band mate's solo hit...)
One of my earliest memories is riding home from a Tigers' game in the backseat of the family Pontiac. It was a hot mid-Summer night. We'd been to a Tigers' game, possibly my first, I was probably four-years-old. The game must have gone extra innings because it was really late. I fell asleep at the game, I vaguely remember my dad carrying me out of the old Tigers' stadium and my brother protesting that I ruined everything, it wasn't fair that we had to leave early because I was tired. (As an adult I can see his point - it wasn't fair to him that his tired little sister couldn't hack an extra inning game.)
As we drove on I-75 there was a moment of sensual serendipity that has stayed with me ever since. It is my happy place. When I can't sleep, when I'm stressed (which is a lot, these days) I take a second to go to my happy place, and this is it, this is the one safe, beautiful, happy place I rely on to calm me.
I was pulled out of my drowsy backseat slumber by my mother gently saying to my dad, "Oh look, the Northern Lights are spectacular tonight." I vaguely remember seeing her gently reach over and touch my dad's elbow, her arm silhouetted against the dashboard lights. Back then (which makes me sound really old, "Back then...") once you got a few miles out of the city there wasn't much light pollution. Anyone from Michigan knows - night is dark in Michigan, really dark. The Michigan night sky is uniquely dark, though. Deep blue velvety hues, not a solid color, there are subtle variations to the deep blues. And dotted with stars of all sizes and luminosity. I presume it has something to do with the lakes, being surrounded by huge bodies of water must have some effect on the color of the sky. I dunno. It's different, it's pretty, who cares why? But, back then, especially when the heat index was at its peak and the Northern sky was especially clear, you could see the Northern Lights. Sometimes brilliant, sometimes faint, sometimes really colorful, sometimes just soft shades of white, but for a few magical nights you could see them flickering in the Northern sky. We'd all go out into the backyard, all the neighbors would, too, and just stand there in the silent, hot Summer night looking at them.
Okay, so there we were driving home from a Tigers' game, heading North on I-75. My mother spotted the Northern Lights, the excitement of which woke me. I was in a sleepy cotton candy/Cracker Jack/Vernor's daze. I remember this vividly: I turned my head from my left shoulder to the right, to rest it on the car door (this was before car seats or even seat belt laws). My head felt like lead but I wanted to see the Northern Lights, so I managed to rest my head on the car door, positioned so that I could look up and out the car window at the Northern Lights. My eyes were at sleepy half mast but the sky was so beautiful I couldn't close them, I couldn't stop looking at the Northern Lights. The Pontiac's tires on the pavement made a gentle hum in my ear resting on the car door. And from the other side of the back seat my brother, with his mitt in his lap, was practicing his Ernie Harwell impersonation, re-calling the game we'd just seen, word-for-word, inning by inning. My brother was replaying the Tigers' game, impersonating Ernie Harwell's narration. Driving through the night on I-75, the Northern Lights flickering so bright and so close you could almost touch them, the hum of the Pontiac's tires steady and strong, my parents in the front seat, a belly full of cotton candy, Cracker Jacks and Vernor's, and my brother impersonating Ernie Harwell. Even then, even as a young kid, I knew this was a special kind of bliss. Everything, right then, at that moment, was perfect. And it's Ernie's voice I hear narrating that perfect moment.
And oh, the beauty of AM radio. Sometimes you can pick up an AM signal from a freakishly far distance. On car trips, family vacations, my dad tried to tune in WJR to keep up with the Tigers. No matter where we were, all over the country, I'd prod him to tune in WJR to see if we could hear Ernie (or J.P. McCarthy) in far flung places. Once my dad was able to tune in WJR as we drove through Kansas City (must have been a clear day with good trade winds). That was the thrill of that vacation. I even wrote about it as a highlight to my summer vacation when I returned to school in the fall.
When my parents had friends over for barbecues, if the Tigers were playing, the radio was tuned into WJR and Ernie Harwell was a guest at the party. It wasn't just the men who were interested in the game. The women would cheer and raise a glass in toast when there was a score. The sound of the crack of a ball on bat made everyone listening at the barbecue go silent and hold their breath, listening to Ernie calling the subsequent play, hoping for a jubilant Ernie proclaiming a home run. All across the neighborhoods all across the city and state, this backyard scenario was played out - the question might not be how many games did Ernie call, but how many barbecues did Ernie entertain? Millions, I'm certain of it.
And so many boys, not just my brother, grew up impersonating Ernie. My brother still does this - play-by-play commentary of everything, anything, while impersonating Ernie, "Mum opens the oven door, and ahhh, yes, there we have it, it's, it's PIE!!! The fans are going crazy tonight!"
Some things are so special, so unique to Detroit, that unless you grew up there, lived it, it's probably difficult to understand the romance, fondness and affection those of privileged to live have for the sounds of Detroit. It's because Detroit had such strong voices, such distinct sounds. J.P. McCarthy's Music Hall and Focus, Sir Graves Ghastly's laugh, Bill Bonds' alcoholic on-air rants, Olly Fretter tempting with five pounds of coffee, the rev of engines on Woodward or Eight Mile, local musicians getting played on the radio and getting national fame, music drifting into the night from Pine Knob...but Ernie Harwell, his voice is the one we hear as the steady, sure, reliable voice of Detroit.
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
You know how self respect = self control? I'm going to start my own research study on that.
Because obviously I'm losing self respect. I'm a fully trained telemarketer, now. It's not humanly possible to be a telemarketer and not lose self respect. At least it's not humanly possible for me. A couple people in my telemarketing training remarked that I have too much class to be "doing this." I don't know about class, but I do know that desperate people do desperate things and dignity does go straight out the window in desperate situations. You can only strive to preserve some integrity and hope the desperate situation improves quickly enough to salvage some self respect.
I likened telemarketing to the porn industry because the parallels are alarming. I'm not intimate with the porn industry. I'm basing my knowledge of the porn industry on conjecture, personal opinion and a couple 20/20 and Jerry Springer shows.
You hear women, porn actresses, say that to get through their sex scenes they a) get high and/or b) emotionally shut-down, "go blank" to the point they disassociate their brains, their souls, from their bodies. They prefer to be "unaware" during the taping. I know, I know, there are other women who say they love it and find nothing wrong with it and rave about how much they enjoy sex and are proud of their work in porn. Rock on for them. I'm not judging. Really, I'm not. If someone is of sound, sober mind and wants to make porn movies, rock on, sister. There are people who claim they like being a telemarketer, too. But having met some of those people, I can say with complete authority, the second they're offered a better job, a "legit acting" job, they'll throw off their headset, disconnect their call phone and be nothing but a blur out of the call center. The love the profess for telemarketing will in hindsight be a short-lived affair, a fling, rather than a lifetime commitment built on mutual respect, trust, devotion and love. I presume the same is true for the women who love being porn actresses.
A lot of times, particularly in desperate situations, it's not so much compromising self-respect as it is leveraging it. But the symptom of self-control is the same, regardless of the semantics.
I had a friend/roommate years ago. I have nothing but warm fuzzy feelings about her, then and now. She was a blast. She's the kind of roommate everyone should have in their early 20s. She was nice, funny, non-judgmental, crazy, up for anything, always knew where the best parties were and always paid her share of the rent on time. We'll call her IDDD. We'll get to that in a minute.
IDDD and I hit it off straight away. You know how sometimes you meet someone and there's no pretense, no awkwardness? Nothing but understanding, respect and a mutual awareness that you both see things from the same perspective? Yeah. Kind of like falling in love. A meeting of minds. And hearts, too.
At first glance we were kind of an unlikely pair. I was tall, anorexic, clinically shy and on the Winona Rider in Beetlejuice side. I recently found a few photos of those days and noticed that I bore a striking resemblance to a Beau Brummelstone. You know the Beau Brummelstones, the Flintstones version of the Beau Brummels. (The Beau Brummelstones, oddly, feature a left handed lead guitarist/singer who looks like John Lennon and a right handed bassist who looks like Paul McCartney. See for yourself.)
(You're welcome.)
Yeah. Those Beau Brummelstones. I resembled the tambourinist. (Shockingly, I had dates back then. Men, real guys, who asked me out on dates. I dunno. I got nothin', no explanation other than we were all young and men are weird.) IDDD was a short blond bombshell who thrived on meeting people, she'd initiate conversations with anyone. We hit it off straight away.
IDDD worked in the recording industry. The legit recording industry. Well, as legit as the recording industry gets, anyway. She pursued and got that coveted job by networking. And yes, by networking I mean partying. She never slept with anyone in the company management (that I know of) but she made sure she got to their parties and connected with them. She orchestrated her assault like a five-star general. She researched, knew who was who, found out everything she could about them and got herself in front of them at parties. Next thing you know she had a good job at a leading label.
Okay. So. Those parties. Yeah. Well. You know, they were a lot of fun. IDDD dragged me along for the ride. Not entirely against my will, but, I was in college and double majoring and actually cared about learning and my grades. (I know, silly me, had I only known how useless that education and grades would turn out to be in my later life.) No one other than IDDD could have persuaded me to a) put aside my studies and b) socialize with cool people. The first weekend of roommating with IDDD I learned that she was kind of slutty. Okay, a lot slutty. Okay, a nympho. Not judging, not judging at all. Just stating a fact. She could have just about any guy she fancied, and, so, she had them. IDDD working in the recording industry was like a tech geek working at Apple. She loved the industry and was dedicated to it, but she was just a little too close, a little too involved with her work. Okay, I'll just say it, IDDD had an affinity for rock musicians. She wasn't a groupie, but, if he was in a band and she found him attractive, nothing was out of the question.
Unless.
Unless he was a drummer.
IDDD refused to have anything to do with drummers. I Don't Do Drummers. I soon learned this is a common theme among groupies and recording industry insiders. I've never figured out why. Strong arguments can be made for the skills required - rhythm, energy, biceps, momentum, stamina - I mean, a girl could do worse. People say drummers are by definition crazy, too crazy, even for the rock industry and point to Keith Moon and John Bonham. Okay, but, you know, they were good drummers. IDDD flat out refused to have anything to do with drummers. Much the way I refuse to date smokers. Every woman has her point of intolerance, the line she won't cross.
For IDDD that staunch refusal to do drummers was her way of leveraging her self-respect. She was slutty. She did sleep around, a lot, indiscriminately. She made no excuses or lies about her sex life. Unlike another of our roommates who was sleeping with a Catholic priest at the time (it was all very Thornbirds) who tried to convince everyone she was a virgin and that the priest was merely counseling her on issues with her father (every Friday and Sunday night. In her bedroom.) We were never sure if her issues were with her actual biological father or The Father. He'd shriek out "Oh God, Mother Mary may I? May I?!" she'd shriek out "Oh God, oh God, oh sweet Jesus yes!" so we presumed she had issues with The Father and the friendly neighborhood priest was just doing his job counseling her. (Eventually even the priest openly admitted they were having sex - of course the fact that I was having breakfast one morning and he came into the kitchen sleepy-eyed from our roommate's bedroom, wearing only in his underwear, kind of dictated the acknowledgment, but our roommate maintained that there was no sex involved because she was, of course, a virgin and would never sleep with anyone who wasn't her husband.) That girl had the audacity and self-unawareness to judge and criticize IDDD about her sex life. She routinely called her a whore and told her she was going to Hell - all the while she was sleeping with a Catholic priest and proclaiming to be a virgin. Glass houses. Stones. (I know, I could write a book.) But if anyone insinuated to IDDD that she was easy or slutty she held her head high and proclaimed that she wasn't that easy, she wouldn't sleep with anyone. She would never sleep with a drummer. (Or a priest.) In her mind she had self control because she would not sleep with a drummer. (Or a priest.)
She liked partying and sex and she worked in an industry where both were the expected norm of behavior, just another day at the office. True, IDDD lacked self-control. Ahhhh youth. Didn't we all, in some form or another, lack self-control when we were younger? You have to test your limits to know what your boundaries are. I believe that, staunchly. But. Even the youngest hooligan knows when they're reaching that limit. It just doesn't feel right. You know when your self-respect is being compromised, or when you're leveraging it. Once it's compromised, or even leveraged, self control is harder to maintain.
IDDD once told me she lost her virginity at a concert. It was also the first time she'd ever drank beer. She was 15 and went to the concert with an older boy from school. At the concert, some even older boys bought her and her date beer, she got drunk, the boy from school got drunk, they found an empty corridor on their way back from the bathroom, and that was that. She wasn't upset about it. "Hey, I enjoyed it, too, and we ended up dating for a year." 15-year-olds are not known for their self control. Or self respect. So I'm not comparing adult life choices to being 15, drunk and at a concert. But. IDDD also said that after the world didn't end because she got drunk and had sex, and further, she enjoyed it, she didn't see a need for controlling her sexual desire. She wanted it, she wasn't morally conflicted over it and so she embraced it.
All the television therapists would talk about a pattern of behavior being set at that concert, and unhealthy self esteem resulting and necessary breaking of the cycle. But I dunno. IDDD was one of the most well-adjusted people I've ever known. Sure, she slept around, a lot. But. Taking the sexual judgment out of it, if you didn't know about her sex life, you'd like her, you'd be impressed by her intelligence, humor, generosity, awareness and sincere kindness. (and truly, she somehow managed to be discreet, I was a roommate so I knew what was going on, but I don't think too many other people had a clue she was so, um, active) And she had her limit. She wouldn't do a drummer. That barrier helped her maintain her self-respect. She also knew she couldn't sleep around like that forever. She was well aware that she was young and able to attract men, easily, but that it wouldn't always be that way. She said she wanted to get it while she could, enjoy sex to its fullest potential while she had the opportunities. And she wouldn't sleep with a drummer. To my knowledge she never did, and so her self respect remained in tact. She didn't cross her boundary so in her mind, she didn't lose self control.
How many people do you know who say they "only" drink beer? They justify their alcohol intake by saying, "It's only beer, it's not hard liquor, I'm not doing tequila shots or pounding martinis." Or, their drug use, "Hey, it's only pot, I'm not dropping acid or smoking crack."
It's justifying behaviors. Leveraging self respect and losing a degree of self control. If you can and will stop at a couple beers or an occasional high, then you are exercising self control. Good for you, that's healthy self respect in my book. (And for the record, I'm not judging anyone because they drink beer or smoke pot, if you know your limits and it's not interfering with your life, and you are fully aware of the health risks, then rock on.)
But on those nights one drink turns into two or three, and you realize you're drunk or getting there, and you know another drink will put you over the edge of sobriety, you know you're making a choice to either stop drinking booze or you leverage your self respect, have another drink, get drunk, lose your self control and wake up wondering why your head hurts and who those people are on the floor of your bedroom. Okay, that's an extreme scenario. But once you choose to do something that will push you past your limits of self control your self respect is compromised, or leveraged.
Sometimes there's justification. Self respect is leveraged rather than compromised. Blowing off a little steam, having a little fun...sure. Why not have a few drinks and a little fun, escape your head and life for a while? Not a bad thing in moderation, right?
I am unemployed. I have to find a job doing something, anything, and telemarketing was a quick solution. Far from the best solution or really, even a viable solution. I don't want to do it, but I'm desperate. It's temporary and not a reflection of how I am normally, right? This is me justifying working in telemarketing.
I leveraged my self respect for a minimal paycheck. A paltry sum of money that won't even make a dent in my mortgage payment, but it's the best I could do, quickly, now, and so here I am watching my self respect drain out of me.
And it's no surprise that my self control is losing the battle, too. I don't crutch on alcohol (really, I don't) but lately I'm wondering why not. I enjoy wine, I like a cocktail or two, and quite frankly I like the sense of relaxation I get from it. But I've always maintained a healthy respect for it. I have tested my limits. I know how much is too much for me. I have been utterly blotto and I don't like it, I don't like the complete loss of self control (or the way I feel the next day). But now I'm wondering why. Why not lose self control? I've already lost self respect by taking a telemarketing job. Dignity? That's gone, too. I don't feel good about myself or the choices I had to make. Justify it all you want, make excuses for me, but, I've slept with a drummer. My drummer is a crappy job in telemarketing. It's done, it's over, there's no going back, no matter how quickly I find another job. The fact will always remain: I sold my self respect to the lowest bidder. I slept with a drummer. Once it's done, it's done. So why not embrace losing self control, too? Once self respect is gone, is there a reason to care? I'm starting to understand what the women in porn movies mean by "tuning it out, just going to a blank place in their mind" and get through it.
I live in the city. I prefer to work within the city limits, but, heh heh, funny, that. There are scant few jobs posted in the city limits these days. Of the job postings I find, 90% of them are at suburb-based companies. So, you know, while not my ideal employment scenario, I'm in no position to be picky. I'll happily, yes, really, happily, deal with the commute if there's a job and a company who wants to hire me. That's not desperation talking. Well, I mean, it is, kind of, but not really. Even before I was laid off I heard about job opportunities and more often than not they were in the suburbs. If they were in the far-flung suburbs I knew they were complete non-starters, but I long ago made my list of do-able suburbs commute-wise. Trying to meet men also helped form my commute limits. I spelled it all out in orange and black in the "Location, Location" section of my online dating tips. There's do-able and there's "are you crazy?" We all have our tipping point. I'm fairly patient and if there's a train or bus that goes there and I can spend the commute reading or watching a movie or working, I'm "okay" with it. It's not ideal, but I don't dwell on it.
My tipping point is any commute over two hours (one way), for a job or a date. After that I'm spending more than four hours commuting for said job (or date, not that that's an issue anymore). There are 24 hours in a day. Typically jobs require at least 8 hours of work-time. So that's 12 hours, half a day, spent dedicated to work and commuting to and from that job. Ideally we sleep 6 - 8 hours/night, so on a 6 hour sleep night that leaves 6 hours left "for me." Not ideal, leaves zero time for any real activities during the work-week, forget volunteering or going to dinner or movies with friends or doing laundry. Not gonna happen. Hence my 2-hour rule. Anything more than that and life honestly becomes nothing more than work and sleep. From where I'm sitting right now I say, "Okay, fine, I need a job and I'd be sleeping with a roof over my head, not in a homeless shelter, so, fine, work and sleep, fine by me." But that is desperation talking. So I have been pretty strict with myself about the 2-hour commute rule.
Thing is, where I live, a two hour commute can be as little as 20 miles. Especially on public transportation. My former job was a little under six miles, door to door. I always gave myself 45 minutes for the commute. There were days, Cubs game days, for instance, when that six mile commute took two hours. Because I live and worked in the city, I had the luxury of a bike-commute on weather-appropriate days. That was a sanity saver. So it's not just about looking at a map and calculating distance v. the posted speed limit or train schedule.
I will go anywhere for a job - anywhere realistic.
There are logistic issues to consider, especially since I don't own a car. A few days after I was laid off I started a tactical pursuit for employment. Part of that strategy was looking at maps, train routes, bus routes and figuring commute times for the more prevalent locations for jobs, factoring in what I know about snags and delays on the routes to those locations. Since I'm okay with up to a two-hour each way commute I have quite a few options, a pretty decent job search area. Which is good since the jobs in the city limits are waning more every day.
I notice the lower paying jobs are in the city. I have theories, conspiracy and otherwise, about this. Daley, the root of all my conspiracy theories regarding the city, is of course to blame. There's no tax incentive for businesses to stay in the city and it's getting more and more difficult to attract workers into the city for jobs. I have applied to three jobs currently located in the city but with the caveat that "this job will relocate in Summer/Fall of 2010." Why? Because the companies are moving - to suburban locations. One job that I really wanted is going to be relocated to Wisconsin in a few months. I crunched every number I could trying to make the commute do-able, but even if I bought a car and the traffic gods smile on me, the commute is 3 hours each way. I can't realistically take on that responsibility, even for what sounds like a perfect job for me. And no, moving, at this juncture, isn't an option. Once I go into foreclosure, yes, at that point, location isn't an issue because I'll be homeless. But right now, while I'm still trying to keep a roof over my head, that roof is unsellable.
Here's a sidebar to unemployment that people don't seem to consider. Especially smug employed people. "There are plenty of jobs, unemployed people have to be more flexible and relocate." Sure, I get that, and for many of is it will come to that. But, it's not as easy as "just moving." For those of us with mortgages, heh heh, lots of luck selling. We have a new foreclosure in my building, that brings the total foreclosures to 6, and even the units that have been at bank auction for over a year are still vacant, no one's buying and the values on our condos are dropping like lead - selling and moving isn't a viable option for me or most other people right now. If, if I can sell my place it would be at such a loss that I'd still owe a lot of money on a mortgage - I, like most people who only have a couple years of equity into their mortgage, are under water. The value of real estate has dropped so drastically that I can't sell anywhere near what I paid for my place, and I got a bargain basement price at the time I bought. Add the foreclosures issue into the mix and yeah, "moving" isn't as easy as putting out the for sale sign, packing up and moving to a new job. I didn't bite off more than I could chew with my condo. If I hadn't been laid off I'd be fine, I could ride out this real estate downmarket, pay my mortgage and property tax for less than I'd pay for rent and maybe even have money to do that kitchen renovation I'd like. But. I did get laid off and that's where things get ugly. Because I'm frugal to an alarming degree I'm paying my mortgage and I paid my October and April property tax. Yay me. But if I don't get a full-time job, soon, even my extremely frugal ways won't help - the money I raided from my 401K will be gone and I'll be in foreclosure and homeless.
And in a perverse way, that may help my job search. Once I'm homeless, I'll be a true vagabond and the world is my oyster for job location. And because I will have lost everything, and I mean everything, moving expenses will be minimal - you don't need to rent a U-Haul when all you have is a couple suitcases of work clothes. But other people, normal people, who have things like beds, dishes, chairs and tables, they have to pay to move their stuff. And they have to pay deposits on apartments and utilities etc. etc. Moving is expensive. Relocating for a job sounds "easy" but it's not - even if the spirit is willing, the reality is that it's expensive and if you've been unemployed for a while, well, the relocation money for the start-up expenses just isn't there. Would I go anywhere for a job? Once I'm homeless, and lose everything I own? Yes. Until then, no. It's financially unrealistic.
But even focusing on a narrow area is fraught with issues. I notice the jobs in the city are waning, and the jobs that are readily available are low paying. Retail sales associates, fast-food workers, wait and bar staff, hotel housekeeping...service oriented jobs that don't provide very good salaries - at least not to start.
Take my telemarketing job, for instance, a nice building with a "prestigious" city address, an easy commute on bus and train, but us workers make $8/hour. There was a woman in my training class who commuted in from a far suburb - took her 2.5 hours and cost her $7.00 round trip to commute on the train, if she drives she has to pay $8 - $20/day to park (if she's lucky and gets an early morning shift allowing her the early bird parking rates). At the $8/hour rate of pay, she's not really "making" money. Like me, unless she gets more than a two-hour shift, after taxes she's in a deficit situation, she's paying to work. And she's spending five hours to commute to that job. Is she crazy? No. She's been unemployed for a year and she's desperate for work.
This is where I live, now, until I go into foreclosure and I'm homeless. So I'm focusing on here and now, a realistic do-able commute.
Until then I'm trying to find employment where I am, which, in a large urban area, should be easier than if I happened to live in a small rural area. But oddly enough, I'm finding that may not be the case.
There are the sheer numbers. Bigger city = more jobs, right? Yep. But. Bigger city also = more people who are unemployed. The competition for jobs, all jobs, is fierce. One of my former clients (who wants to hire me but can't thanks to that non-compete agreement...we're working on that...) told me that they hired someone for a particular job four years ago. They had a handful of people apply for the job and they weren't thrilled with the choices. But they finally found a suitable candidate, had to pay them a lot more than they budgeted because they had so few bites on the job posting. (It's not something a lot of people are qualified to do, and among those qualified, this isn't a particularly attractive company for that line of work.) Okay, well, a couple months ago the person they hired decided to not return from maternity leave (blog for another day) and they recently began looking for candidates. They used the exact job description and posting they used four years ago - the one that garnered them only a handful of lackluster candidates - and they have been overwhelmed with responses. They have thousands of resumes. They figure about half of them are not qualified, but, so far, there's merit and credibility to many of the people applying for that job - a job nobody wanted four years ago. My client's company is also "excited" because they can pay far less for someone in that position now. The job that was so boring and unattractive four years ago that they had to greatly increase the salary to attract a candidate is now so popular that they can cut the salary below their opening bid four years ago. Yes. They're going to pay someone less than their minimum salary range for the same job four years ago. Feel free to draw parallels to the real estate market.
What does this have to do with commuting? Well, a lot. My former client's company is based in a suburb - close into the city, though. A relatively "easy" commute. A lot of their job candidates are from far-flung places. One candidate who is very qualified and seems like a great match for the job, lives about three hours away from the office. My former client is shrugging it off, "What our employees do with their spare time is their business. If they choose to spend their spare time commuting to work, who are we to judge? If they want to deal with that commute, and they show up for work on time and don't leave early, it's none of our business. They know we're not paying relocation fees, they know they're expected to be here 8 hours a day, if they can't hack the commute we've got thousands of other applicants who can." That's a "good" attitude. They're not discriminating, they're seeing beyond the address. And besides, people lie. People use friends' and relatives' addresses, buy pay-per-use cell phones for that area-code...all in an attempt to appear to live close enough to qualify. These tactics are posted and touted all over the job-hunt advice sites. There's a good chance the candidate who appears to live walking distance from the office actually resides three hours away in their parents' basement.
And I can't blame people for lying. It's dog-eat-dog in the job market. Guerrilla tactics are the excepted and expected norm. All's fair in the job hunt. I don't condemn or condone any approach. If it works for someone, gets them employed, rock on. Ethics? Pfft. Whatever. Pride and ethics are fine when you have a job and can pay your mortgage or rent. When you've been unemployed a long time and are staring down the barrel of homelessness, pride and ethics seem a lot less important. Do whatever you have to do to get the job and then worry about ethics. Job hunt tactics that would have appalled me a few years ago are now met with blase indifference. "She slept with the HR director? Meh. Whatever. She's qualified for the job, her department was downsizing, they're both single and consenting adults and if putting out put her in that job it's more a reflection of the HR director than her. She got laid instead of being laid off. From where I'm sitting - in front of a computer looking for a job for the 271st day in a row - that sounds like a win-win."
Lying about where you live doesn't seem like a big deal in comparison to some of the things I've heard and witnessed in the job hunt over the past few months.
The thing is, though...I kind of suck at lying. I'm not judging others' morality, but for me, I can't see any merit in lying about where I live. Or at least I didn't. Now I'm reconsidering.
I found what appears to be a perfect job for me. Something I'd really enjoy and would be super good at, the company should salivate over my application.
Except there's one little catch. Always a catch, isn't there?
Must live in the western suburbs i.e. Schaumburg on north, Naperville on the south and St. Charles on the west.
Oh no they din't. Oh yes, they did. There's a map with a red zone, like the delivery zone on a Chinese take-out menu left in the door, of acceptable residency.
Suffice it to say I don't live within 30 miles of even the farthest parameters of their delivery, I mean residency zone.
In theory, yes. But. I understand their point of view. And since they say, in bold type, "Must live in the Western Suburbs" twice before describing the job, and then list it as the first requirement of the job, and then have the delivery area, I mean residency zone map in the job requirements, clearly they have had issues with commuters. I get that. Where they're located is far, far away, but, on a train line. People could commute there. I calculate that it's just out of my two-hour time commute rule, but for this job I'd break the rule. It's that perfect for me. Moving out there, now, is not an option (see above, foreclosure/real estate market). A year from now, who knows? If the job works out and the housing market improves, yeah, I mean, I guess, sure, I'd consider moving closer to work. I'm single, I don't have kids, nothing tying me down (though, being single and childless are legit reasons for not moving to the suburbs).
But it's a non-starter. I either lie about where I live or don't apply for this job that's otherwise absolutely perfect for me and for the hiring company.
