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
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Chapter 4 of Just Drive, She Said is now posted. (In which we learn Matthew swears like a Canadian.)
Unless I get a full time job in the next couple weeks I won't be able to pay my mortgage in September. So, the time has come, I have to brace for impact.
I've already purged a lot of my life and stuff of life. There have been steady trips to the donation center and the dumpster and a few sales on eBay. So I don't have a ton of stuff.
But. I do have some stuff.
And I haven't been homeless for a long time. And the last time I was homeless I had just returned from England and didn't have many possessions. And I was young and my parents were happy to have me (and my meager possessions) while I regrouped and relocated. "In transition" is the polite way of saying "kicked out of the UK and sent packing home to Mummy and Daddy." At that point in life I was young enough that there wasn't a lot of shame or speculation about staying with my parents for a few weeks/months. In that case it truly was just a transitional phase. I was outta there in 6 weeks.
This time...well...this time it's certainly a transition but the future's not so bright and it will most likely be a lot longer than 6 weeks.
I love my mother and she's happy to take me in - she's not judging or pressuring me - but...does anyone over the age of 25 want to move back home with their mother? I mean, really and truly, as cushy and nice as it can be, or may sound, does anyone really want to live with their parents? Especially anyone who's been a functioning member of society for a lot of years and never thought about, much less expected, to have to indefinitely move home with their parents?
This is a new concept for me and I have a load of questions. If anyone's gone through this, this losing everything and having to move home with parents situation, please, I could really use some advice.
I currently rent a small storage locker a few blocks from my condo (that's what us cityfolk who live in tiny apartments/condos without basements/attics/closets do with the stuff that usually goes in basements/attics/closets). It's not full, but, the rest of my stuff won't fit in it. I don't have a ton of furniture, but I'd like to keep my desk, couch, dresser, chair and bed. Which doesn't sound like a lot, but, when you look at storage lockers, that stuff takes up a lot of real estate, even when stacked on top of each other. A bigger storage locker costs more money. Money I don't have.
Which leads me to my next question: Do I keep my stuff stored here, in Chicago, or, do I load everything that will fit into the smallest U-Haul I can rent and find a cheaper storage locker close to my parents' house? The storage rates there are cheaper than in Chicago, but, the cost of the U-Haul will pretty much consume the savings on the cheaper storage locker in suburban Detroit.
The problem is, of course, I have absolutely no idea what's going to happen next or where I'll end up in the end. I presume, at this point, that I am destined to be an old (and unemployed) spinster living with her mother. Which is numbingly depressing.
And there are issues beyond the numb depression of admitting defeat, surrendering and accepting that I am an old (unemployed) spinster who can't hack it on her own and has to move home with her mother.
My mother wants to move from my parents' house. It's far too big and difficult for her to manage on her own, or, even with me there. It's just too big and too much work and pointless for her to be there - even with me moving back home with her. Unfortunately that house is located in Southeast Michigan and I triple dog dare you to sell a house in Southeast Michigan right now. She's not looking to make a lot of money on it, but, there's a foreclosure in the neighborhood and two other comparable homes that have been on the market for over a year and haven't had a nibble.
But, my siblings are pressuring her to put the house on the market. They're worried about her there on her own and think the upkeep and high property tax are silly wastes of money. My sister is angry with me for even considering moving in with my mother because she thinks if I'm there it's an excuse for my mother to not move. My sister also thinks I'm a spoiled rotten baby sponging off my mother. My sister also thinks I'm a loser because I've never been married and can't even snag a boyfriend. My sister also thinks I'm a "waste of eggs" because I've never had children.*
So this whole "moving back home with my mother" situation is even worse than it sounds. It's not something I want to do, no one wants to be unemployed, file bankruptcy, go into foreclosure, lose their home and move in with their parents. Trust me. Even the most slacking mooch doesn't want to do that. But added to all the usual issues, I have the bonus of siblings who are opposed to me moving in with my mother and see me as a threat to our mother's well-being.
But apart from all that, there are practical issues involved, like the storage locker. Where do I store the few meager possessions I have?
Or, do I just get rid of everything? Give away, donate, sell and throw out everything except a few articles of clothing and the laptop? I mean, let's be real: I'm homeless. I don't need stuff. I don't deserve stuff. I can't find a job so I don't deserve to have stuff.
And I don't need a desk or couch or bed or dresser because I'm swutting homeless. Furniture goes in a home. And I will be homeless.
Optimistically we can say this is only a temporary situation, an awkward pause in my life, and when I get a job and get back on my feet I'll need a bed, a couch, a desk, a dresser...clothes, dishes, towels...
But. Once I file bankruptcy and go into foreclosure I'm guessing it will take a while (years, I presume) to establish myself as financially viable enough to even sign for a lease on an apartment. So is it even worth the expense and effort of storing my meager possessions all that time?
And again, where do I store them? The likelihood of me finding a job in Southeastern Michigan is slim. I know. Who loses their job and moves to Michigan in hopes of finding a job? No one. No one does that. Because Michigan, much as I love it, is not exactly the land of opportunity right now. But I have no other viable choice. Sure, I have friends who have offered a spare bedroom or couch, but I can't stay with them indefinitely. My mother is the only one who will give me an open ended invitation. But does that mean, should I decide to keep some stuff, that I store my stuff there?
And let's just say my mother is miraculously able to sell the house. Then what? She's not sure where she'll move, but it'll probably be a small place in a retirement community - where I'm too young, ineligible, to live. Which leaves me really and truly homeless. Which means there's no reason for me to be in Southeastern Michigan. So why store my stuff there?
Why keep my stuff? Possessions are a luxury of the employed. Unemployed homeless people are not allowed any luxuries, especially possessions.
Anyone who's been through this, please, I really need some sound advice on how to proceed. I don't have the life skills for dealing with this situation. I'm learning, I've learned a lot, but, I've never been in this situation and I don't know anyone who has so I need some solid and sound advice.
*To give you an idea of what I'm walking into by moving home with my mother, my sister's latest self righteous rant at me: "As messed up as my marriage was, at least I got married, I could have married a lot of different men, I have children, and I have never been without a man in my life. I know how to maintain relationships. And I have children. I'm normal, I function like a normal human being. I have relationships, children, a home and a sex life. You can't even find one man to date you, no one will marry you, and now you can't even adopt children. You can't find a job, you're losing everything. You're a total fuck up. And now you expect Mum to take care of you? You're such a spoiled brat, grow up and deal with the mess you made of your life instead of dragging Mum down with you." Yeah. I know. Thanks, sis. Really. I really appreciate the compassion and support. You always come through for me with compassion and concern. But she's right. This is my mess, my problem. She is more adept at life. She was unemployed last year, too, nine months. My mother did help her financially. But my sister mainly relies on her two boyfriends for financial support. She finagled money, food, vacations, college tuition for one of her daughters and a new car out of them while she was unemployed. Is it prostitution if the men who give you stuff after you have sex are called boyfriends? Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Apparently woe, is, in fact, me. I guess in retrospect always kind of suspected it but didn't want to believe it.
I know. Everyone feels that way sometimes. Woe is me? C'est la vie.
When it rains it pours. That's life. But why does that only happen with the bad stuff (woe)? Why doesn't it ever pour the good stuff? (what's the opposite of woe? I don't even know. Joy?)
Have you ever heard anyone having a good streak, great things happening one after another, stop and say, "Sheesh, it's so true! It doesn't rain, it pours!"
I have not.
That's a shame.
I wonder why we get hit with the crap of life all at once but the good stuff is single and sporadic?
The obvious answer is: Attitude. A crappy thing happens and we feel down and out, the negativity not only colors our outlook but leaves us vulnerable and that breeds trouble.
But you know what? In spite of everything that's poured on me I think I've stayed pretty darned positive. Frustrated, sure. Confused, oh yes. Scared, more like terrified. But. The chin has been kept up, propped up a few times, sure, but up. People even comment on it. "Trill, you seem really positive and it doesn't seem like you're even faking it!" "Trillian, you have the best outlook in the midst of all this." "You're really upbeat, that's gotta count for something."
But attitude will only get you so far. Even a positive attitude won't bail you out of everything. Witness: My life (?). I mean, sometimes there is no up side, no silver lining to find, even as a consolation prize; not even a humorous spin on it. Maybe that's the definition of woe.
But. A bad attitude and/or a negative outlook certainly won't help. And it'll annoy people and eventually alienate you from your friends and family.
Neutrality is probably a good compromise. When I can't get to a positive outlook I strive for neutrality. I learned that after the HWNMNBS breakup. When a lot of things suck, when everything hurts and makes you ache, feeling nothing feels good.
I've been trying to get my gear into neutral for a few days and I'm sort of having a hard time. Because apparently woe is me. I'm woe. I don't want to be woe.
So, since everyone feels that way sometimes, people probably have suggestions. Suggestions, anyone?
This is what I have thus far: Unemployed single zero one month away from foreclosure seeks full-time job ASAP and/or buyer for condo.
Hey guess what?! I met a guy at a party a few weeks ago and he asked me out. "Out" as in, on a date! I know! I know!
But fear not, Singleton is not in danger of losing its mayor. Of courrrrse not. C'mon, you're expecting a miracle?
You know those Dos Equis ads with the "most interesting man in the world?" Well, I met and went on a date with the most affected man in the world.
You might want to pour a tall glass/mug of your favorite beverage. This is gonna take a while. Read on if you dare.
People tell me that I've reached the age where, if a man in my age range has never been married and he isn't gay there's a reason why he isn't married. I hate that train of thought. Hate it. But there is slightly more credibility to that adage for men than women. Why? There are a lot more women my age than men. Obviously many of us women are single. Some of us have obvious or not so obvious flaws that keep us single. But many other women simply drew a losing straw. There aren't enough men. There is not someone for everyone - at least every woman. It's statistically impossible. Statistically there are at least 3 - 5 someones for the men, but us women lose out statistically. We're told we need to consider much, and I mean much older men. Someday I'll tell about what happened with eHarmony, but one of the main reasons they deigned themselves to reconsider me as a candidate for their exclusive club of datable people was based on my willingness to consider dating men 12 - 20 years older. I kid you not. What the...???? But at least by sheer numbers, men my age have a smorgasbord of women from which to choose.
A point that I keep to myself when someone says, eyes rolling and voice trailing poignantly, "If he's not married by now there's probably a very good reason..." I do not like judgments like that. But. Sad to say, yes, there probably is a good reason a man my age isn't married. Even so, I silently feel sorry for the guy in question and hope that the "good reason" is in fact a good reason: that he's been focused on his career and hasn't met the right girl or simply is not interested in a committed relationship. (Hey, it's the least I can do. I am the mayor of Singleton. I gotta throw some karma bones into the Universe for the citizens of Singleton.)
I meet and have gone on dates with a lot of these guys. They live in Singleton. And most of them are really nice people. Some of them have ridiculously overinflated opinions of themselves and think they can (and deserve) very young, very hot, very witty, very sexual women and any woman who doesn't fit their rigid criteria is proof to him that he's better off single, playing the field and holding out for that perfect woman. Some of them have personality/emotional/social quirks that prevent them from meeting women or maintaining a relationship. Some of them have substance/addiction issues.
A lot of them are nice guys who just haven't met the right girl.
And some of them are just jerks.
And those are the men who are are not married who are interested in me. Yay me. This is why I don't date. I don't want to date jerks, and it seems that the only men interested in me qualify as jerks. Ergo, I don't date. To wit: The drunken abuser. The not-so-closeted-gay-guy. The humping dwarf. Those guys all "liked" me. Meanwhile, the men I like are absolutely not interested in me. And no, I am not too picky. If anything, I am not picky enough. I liked several of the men I met in my 50 First Dates foray, but they were clearly not interested in me. Which is why I am up on the shelf collecting dust.
But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I am too picky. Maybe extreme personality types are for some reason attracted to me, hence, I meet extreme types of men who are overwhelming and come off as jerks, but if I hang in there long enough to get through their veneer they might be great guys. (That's me playing devil's advocate.)
You tell me. I'll tell you about a man who seems to be interested in me and you tell me if I'm being too picky, if I'm wrong to not want to see him again.
I went to a barbecue at a friend's house a few weeks ago. It was mainly couples (married), a few friends from my friend's husband's office and me.
So this one guy from my friend's husband's office showed up with a bottle of wine and lobster tails with homemade mango coulis. You might think that was the first tip-off that I was having a close encounter with the most affected man in the world. But it wasn't.
The first tip-off to his pretension was his overly groomed long hair slicked and pulled into a pony tail held by a piece of dark colored twine adorned with some sort of coin dangling from it.
Or, wait, maybe the first tip-off was his gauzy impossibly white linen shirt unbuttoned to his navel, super starched dress slacks and...mandals. Ugh. Mandals. (For the record on certain men, with everything else about his apparel "normal," sans mandals, I find a very fine white linen shirt attractive.*) But this guy, this most affected man in the world, did have perfectly groomed feet. I know a pedicure when I see one and this guy is clearly a regular at a spa salon. I mean, if you're going to wear mandals at least have clean, well groomed feet. But still. Mandals. And pedicures.
Actually, maybe the first tip-off was the thermoelectric travel wine cooler. With shoulder harness. Yes, not a strap - a strap could lead to sloshing the bottle of wine too much and aggravate the tannins. A harness, on the other hand, keeps the bottle securely at the appropriate angle and won't overstimulate the tannins. We learned this upon his arrival when someone remarked on his thermoelectric wine bottle carrier and he gave us a lesson in proper wine transportation. I dunno. I'm thinking if the tannins are that sensitive maybe we shouldn't be drinking that wine, or at least not transporting it.
But, actually, before I saw the thermoelectric wine cooler with harness, I should have been tipped-off by the oversized Nantucket basket he was carrying. It was pristine, one of the finest real life examples I've ever seen of a Nantucket basket. And inside, nestled in layers of aluminum foil, parchment and linen cloths was a stoneware casserole dish that wasn't like any stoneware casserole dishes I've ever seen. Admittedly, my stoneware casserole dish viewing is limited to my mother's Francoma and my friends' Pampered Chef versions. Under the cover of the stoneware casserole was an array of lobster tails, marinating in their mango coulis. Mango coulis he spent all afternoon making from mangoes he personally harvested (yes, he used the word harvested) and preserved.
Have you seen the movie Baby Mama? Okay, it's not a great movie. But. You know Steve Martin's character? Yeah. This guy is very likely the inspiration for that character.
Okay, so, straight off the bat I (and to be fair, everyone else present) was all, "ewwwww, what a pretentious bore." And, "Gay."
He didn't exactly "blend in" with the suburban parents crowd.
And unfortunately, for very different reasons, neither do I.
And so it came to pass that most of the evening when he bored the pants off someone his attention was directed to me. "Oh, you've been to New Foundland? You should talk to Trill, she spent some time up there!" "Oh! You live on the Lake! So does Trillian, you should talk to her, you're practically neighbors!" "You sail? You should talk to Trillian, she worked crew on a sailboat, she grew up on Lake Huron." "Wow, you like art, you should talk to Trill, she's an artist." "You read books! Wow, cool, you should talk to Trillian, she reads a lot." "Oh! Your sandals are custom made in Bermuda, how interesting, you should talk to Trillian, she wears shoes."
Thanks, friends, really, thank you.
And yes, yes, of course it's nice to have attention. Of course. Of course it's nice. And usually these suburban barbecues are filled with married couples, maybe a gay couple or two and me, the lone single, straight woman, so yes, it's a nice change of pace to have another Singletonian at a party full of couples. Even if he is the most pretentious gay man I've ever met. It was nice to have someone else present who isn't consumed with talk about their children and raising children and schools and play groups and the new karate teacher and dvd players and cup holders in minivans. It is a nice reprieve from the parentalk that prevails at these barbecues I feel inexplicably forced to attend.
I don't think it was a setup. My friend's husband invited some people from work and this guy was a consultant on a big project and my friend's husband felt obligated to invite him. My friend (the wife) didn't even know the work people were invited until the night before the barbecue.
We had a few conversations. Or rather, he talked, rambled on and on about one topic or another, and I half listened and pretended to care.
Sidebar: To be fair, he's into art and has traveled extensively so there was some common ground.
It was during one of these "conversations" that he complimented me. "Oh, what an exquisite ring, cloyingly simplistic but upon closer inspection very complicated. The Etruscan style is so devilish that way." (I kid you not. That's an exact quote. From his mouth to your eyes. I told you, gay.)
Okay, as it happens, I share his opinion about Etruscan style and I am drawn to it for those same reasons, which is why I chose a setting that hints at Etruscan for an emerald that came from an aunt's brooch. And yes, yes, it is nice that someone noticed the nod to Etruscan. I spent painstakingly long hours digging up examples and drawing sketches trying to explain and convey a) what Etruscan is and b) why I wanted this emerald set in a simple but not dainty ring to the jeweler in my hometown. (It was a gift from my aunt via my mother and at the end of the ordeal even my unrelentingly patient mother was sick of my insistence on "getting it right.") The most affected man in the world is only the second person in the 6 years I've had the ring to notice/understand it, or at least comment on it. So yes, it was a far deeper compliment than he could have realized. But our mutual admiration and respect for Etruscan jewelry is just a coincidence. Anyone who took a semester of art history can spot Etruscan from 50 paces. It doesn't mean we have soooooo much in common and we're on a collision course with destiny. Besides, he's gay. No straight man says exquisite or cloyingly or devilish unless he's looking to get his ass kicked or is doing a skit on SNL.
Or, then again maybe not.
Because he then took my hand, peered at the ring, and then peered uncomfortably deeply into my eyes and said, "...and that green! Perhaps Spanish? Very recherche. (yes, he said recherche - seriously and with a straight face and while looking me straight in the eyes) A lovely choice for you but the depth of hue and clarity is eclipsed by the two much larger and more stunning emeralds you use to observe the world." (In case you don't speak ostentatious I'll translate: "Nice ring. You have pretty green eyes.")
Except he said it with a tone. And he was still holding my hand. And he used a tone. Not just a pretentious affected tone, but a sort of swaggering, "well helllo there" tone. Yes, I do believe, I think, yes, holy cow, the guy's trying to pick me up! With a really cheesy affected line, no less.
Scratch of record. He's not gay?
And.
He's not gay and he's interested in me?
Mouth agape for many reasons.
I thanked him and then I was thankfully interrupted by someone asking Affected Man if it was time to put the lobster tails on the grill.
He had to take the temperature of the grill to see if it was, in fact, time to put the lobster tails on the grill.
My friends are certainly financially far better off than I am. They have nice homes and nice things. They go on exotic vacations. They eat expensive food and drink good wine. But. They're not total snobs. We're all somewhere in the entertainment middle earth between Budweiser beer bong parties and Glenfiddich in Baccarat on the veranda. This guy was nowhere near our entertainment middle earth. He's in some other realm of party behavior. I know I shouldn't be picky or make snap judgments but...pretension and affectation are high on my list of personality traits that rub me the wrong way. The rest of the evening I tried to avoid one-on-one situations with him. I hovered around my friends and made sure I was never alone the rest of the evening.
Okay, I know, I know. Here's a guy, a live one, a breathing, living man who (albeit ostentatiously) flirted with me. A man who knows Etruscan. I should have been leaping with joy. And yes, yes, I kind of was. You know, forgetting everything about him, on the most basic level, I was feeling pretty good about getting positive attention from a man. But. I am the mayor of Singleton and very comfortably collecting dust up on a shelf. And I'm unemployed and on the verge of foreclosure. Even if I met the super perfect guy for me and wanted to go AWOL on Singleton, I am not a viable dating entity right now.
And then it was time for me to leave. I had to catch a train back into the city. My friend's husband was going to take me to the station. And then...it happened. The most affected man in the world offered to give me a ride home. Because as was previously ascertained, we're "practically neighbors."
"T'would be an honor to give m'lady a ride to the city in my trusty carriage," were his exact words. I have no idea why he was affecting a bad medieval accent a la Renaissance Faire fare. I mean, you know, certain guys can pull off that sort of thing as a cute joke. But this guy isn't the cute joke kind of guy. He's very serious. About everything. Okay, okay, I'll cut him slack, maybe he was nervous. Even pretentious jerks get nervous. That's a lot of the reason why they're pretentious jerks - their insecurity manifests itself in a protective layer of pretension. I get that. I understand. I cut slack. But still. A thermoelectric wine cooler tote with a harness to prevent the tannins from getting aggressive? Lobster tails with a coulis made of mangoes he harvested? Custom made mandals from Bermuda? I mean really. Would you want to be trapped in a car for 45 minutes with that guy? Would you go out with that guy? (If you answered yes, email me, I'll give you his contact info.)
Okay, so, it got awkward and there wasn't a good way to gracefully decline his offer. T'would have been a declivity in manners to forsake thine suitor's kind offer. And yes, I know, plenty of real life drama horror stories start with a woman who doesn't want to be rude or impolite to a man. But this guy was a friend of a friend, a coworker, he's a pretentious, affected bore but he's not a serial killer. Murder and rape would be too messy for this guy. He doesn't want to risk aggravating tannins; he's not going to risk getting bodily fluids on his gossamer Egyptian linen shirt or muss up his perfectly coiffed pony tail. The worst thing that could happen to me on that ride home was learning more than I want to know about custom made Bermudan mandals.
And while I don't mind the train schlepp from the suburbs into the city, it does take almost two hours and the appeal of a ride, even in m'lord's carriage, is strong and all pervading. A ride. A glorious ride.
And so it was that I found myself in a very expensive, very new, very hybrid (natch), car with the most affected man in the world. Let's just say the MSRP on the pretensemobile is more than the price of a nice, modest home in a nice, modest town. It starts with an L and rhymes with hex us. He went on and on about the importance of hybrid transportation, and yes, I agree. But. C'mon. So I, somewhat innocently and somewhat cheekily chimed in and said, "That Chevy Volt looks promising!"
Hey. You can take the girl out of Detroit, but you can't take the Detroit out of the girl. He fell silent. I think he was silent because he didn't know what to say that wouldn't offend me as much I just offended him. And that right there is my point. What's wrong with a Chevrolet? Sure, it doesn't start with an L and rhyme with hex us, but the Volt is a nifty little number and if it's affordable to the masses that makes it more accessible which means more people will buy them and ta dah, we're on the road to more people choosing greener transportation. I didn't say any of that but I think that unspoken conversation was fairly apparent just by uttering the word Chevy while riding in a car that starts with L and rhymes with hex us.
We are not practically neighbors but he very generously went way out of his way provide me safe passage from the suburbs to my front door.
And yadda yadda yadda, in spite of my Chevy Volt gaffe he asked me out. Like on a date.
Huh? I told him I am unemployed. I told him I am close to foreclosure. I even told him I'm safe in my cocoon of singleness. And apparently he's either a) desperate; b) afflicted by the knight in shining armor/savior complex; or c) looking for a challenge, someone to conquer. All three of those things are huge turn-offs for me.
But he's a guy and he wanted me to go on a date with him and sometimes I worry that maybe I am too picky. So I said okay. It's one date. What's the worst that could happen? A dwarf humped my leg on my last date. It cannot possibly be worse than that, right? (Yeah, my bar is really low.)
My friends were shocked that a) he asked me out and b) I agreed to go out with him. "Oh my Gawd, Trillian, you're joking, right? He carries wine in a thermoelectric cooler with a harness, Trill. He harvests mangoes, Trill, harvests mangoes!"
"Yeah, he is kind of Mantha Stewart. But he asked me out, nothing serious, just dinner at this new vegetarian place he knows about, all very casual. I told him I'm unemployed and in a state of serious flux. He knows I'm a dating nonentity."
"Yeah. That's probably what he likes about you. You're a challenge."
"Pfft. Yeah. I'm so complicated."
"Careful, Trill. Remember you're in a fragile place right now. Your judgment might not be, you know, as good as usual."
"Yeah, I know. I'll be careful."
"What are you going to wear?"
"I dunno, probably something Etruscan."
"Oooo, you're such a tease."
Okay, the night of the date arrived and he picked me up right on time. I didn't invite him up, I was down at the front door waiting for him.
He got out of his major mega expensive pretensemobile and had the same super groomed pony tail held in a different be-coined twine. (Okay, again, for the record, I'm not anti-long hair. I'm just anti-over-groomed long hair a la European male models circa 1989.) And another super gauzy linen shirt unbuttoned to his navel. And a pair of slouchy-on-purpose trousers and, yep, mandals. I mean, you know, okay, whatever. I'm not into appearance so no big deal. If the shirt was buttoned at the normal place I wouldn't even mention his ensemble. But as long as he insists on calling attention to his manscaped chest by not buttoning his shirt, he's going to call attention to his expensive pretentious clothes worn with such affectation so as to call attention to them. So I'm calling attention to them.
He had flowers for me. And of course not just any flowers. Cockscomb. Oh yes. That's a real flower. I remembered giggling about it on a biology field trip to a green house in high school. And just in case I didn't know, or remember, what the flowers were, the most affected man in the world presented them to me. Yes, he presented them to me. Because he is the most affected man in the world. "Good evening, Cockscomb for m'lady." (again with the Renaissance Faire accent? Really?) He flourished-gestured a bow and presented the Cockscomb (tee hee) to me. Okay. Time out. It can't be easy to find Cockscomb (tee hee). Clearly he went out of his way to try to find something special and different for me. So, you know, that was nice of him. I do appreciate the effort. Really. Lest you think I'm a cynical, ungrateful shrew. I do appreciate the effort he took for me. It was a very thoughtful gesture. Even if it was Cockscomb. (tee hee)
Okay, so off we drove in the pretensemobile, cockscomb in my lap. The restaurant was vegetarian. But not like the vegetarian restaurants where I usually eat. This was haute nouvelle vegetarian. Vegetarian with an attitude. Affected vegetarian.
This guy was in his element. Reservations required, snooty maitre d', uptight waitstaff, sommelier with expensive (but free trade, natch) wines, and menu items with paragraph-long descriptions and miniscule portions. (I had a green paté of some veggie blend formed into a half dollar sized disc atop a leaf of spinach with three comically small carrots poking out from under it, topped with an (singular) edamame bean and what I think was some kind of balsamic drizzled over it. It was good...but...um...it was $29. For two bites of salad and an (singular) edamame bean.)
My date had something similarly green, tiny and overpriced. Except his had a couple grains of basmati rice and a slice of a cherry tomato.
He ordered a bottle of wine. He knows a lot about wine. I assumed this because of the thermoelectric travel wine carrier with harness. And also because he and the sommelier had quite the conversation about Peruvian wines. He wasn't a total jerk about it...but...he went out of his way to make sure the sommelier knew he knows more about wine than the sommelier. I always feel a need to smile apologetically to the waiter or sommelier when I'm with someone who pulls that bit. I know at its core it's insecurity, nervousness, that drives people to one-up the experts, and I cut slack for that, but still...I find it embarrassing for everyone involved.
Okay, so, obviously neither one of us ate much for dinner. I hadn't eaten much all day, yadda yadda yadda the wine kicked in really fast. One glass of wine and I was feeling tipsy. I suspected the most affected man in the world was similarly effected because for a few minutes there he started talking like a normal person. Or at least that was my perception through the wooze of the wine gone to my head. Cripes. So I cut myself off half way through the second glass.
We left the restaurant and walked around a few blocks and he stopped for a cup of coffee before heading to the pretensemobile. Of course he's one of those people who doesn't go to Starbucks (points to him for that) and prefers much snootier independent coffee shops and of course he didn't order off the board, he requested some special dark espresso drink that took 20 minutes and three people to brew and serve. (points earned for not liking Starbucks lost to snooty indie coffee house and ridiculous beverage selection) But if it sobered him up that was fine with me. I actually kind of liked the tipsy version of him - or the booze was altering my perception of him. But if booze has to be involved for me to connect with a guy, I mean, yeah, that's not good. And I'm not saying we connected. I just vaguely remember through the haze of the wine that I thought he was more tolerable. I must have told him I went to art school because he talked at great length about a sketching holiday he made in Nepal while he was there studying with Buddhist leaders. Yes. He went on a sketching holiday. In Nepal. With Buddhist leaders. Of course he did. We would expect no less from this guy, would we? Still, for a minute there, he talked about some of the feelings and things he learned from sketching and, yes, yes, his feelings about creating resonated with mine.
So, okay, we sobered up and jumped into the pretensemobile. It was still relatively early. At some point on our drive home from our friends' barbecue we talked about art and I mentioned something about pre-war German abstract expressionism. (Speaking of pretension. Hey, I can play that game. At least in the subjects of art and music.) He naturally had a couple books on the subject and suggested we stop by his place so I could take a look at his pre-war German abstract expressionism books and he could also show me some of his Nepalese holiday sketches. (Yeah. An affected variation on the "come up and look at my etchings" line.) Before I could say yes or no he pulled onto a street with a gate and punched in the code on the keypad.
A) A gated community?
B) I didn't agree to go to his house.
C) A gated community?
D) What would the Buddhists think of that?
Okay. Fine. Roll with it. Just roll with it. Chill, Trill. Go with the flow.
While I was telling myself to roll with it, he rolled down the street. It's one of those streets where all you see are gated driveways cutting into super landscaped trees and shrubs. At the end of the street I saw a driveway flanked by rusty metal sculptures. Erm, I mean, sculptures with a lovely naturally aged patina. Of course that's where the most affected man in the world lives. He turned into the driveway and eventually a house came into view. I'll spare you the details. It's exactly the sort of house you're thinking about right now - the sort of house where the most affected man in the world would live. Oh wait, wait, I forgot! As we turned into the driveway in-ground lights lit up along the driveway, but not all at once, they turned on as we rolled up the driveway. You know those over the top song and dance numbers with a staircase that lights up as the singer descends the steps? Yeah. That was the effect. And then other lights around and in the house and yard lit up.
He led me to the porch, one wall of which was a water wall with water rolling over the slate wall and into, you guessed it, a Koi pond, lit from within, Koi flittering around the lights, shadows cast up onto to the porch wall opposite the water wall. Round of applause for the most affected man in the world's swimming-fish-shadows-as-art house entry. Okay, yes, yes, it's kinda cool. And if we didn't live in a climate where the water is frozen 6 months of the year it wouldn't be that big of a deal. Those entries are somewhat common in warm climates where the fish can comfortably live year round. And if the pretension stopped there I wouldn't still be talking about this.
But.
He's the most pretentious man in the world and the water wall and Koi shadow play are just the beginning.
We walked into the front door, he hit a switch and several levels of lights dimmed from off to medium light. And soft music started playing. Philip Glass. Of course. Lately I've been feeling kind of sorry for Philip Glass. He's become the aural talisman for over-the-top pretentiousness.You rolled your eyes when you read, "Philip Glass," didn't you? C'mon, I know. I know. That's why I've been feeling sorry for him. It's not his fault people like the most affected man in the world consider him their troubadour, their Hendrix.
Is there a store or catalog where you can buy pre-fab esoterica? (awesome band name) Store bought enlightenment? (also a good band name) A kit for the newly affected? I'm guessing yes and this guy just said, "One of each. Deliver it all to this address."
I like a good mooch around a flea market or dusty old antique shop. And I know the joy of a rare find.
And I know how rare a joyous find is.
So I know there is no way this guy, who is maybe only a few years older than I am, was able to amass the collection of stuff thus far in his life. Unless he inherited some of it and spent his entire life from age 16 to now on a continuous treasure hunt around the world. I don't doubt that much of it was authentic, but it all seemed recently acquired and placed for effect rather than rooted and part of the home out of affection and fond memories. Acquisitions. That's it, they seemed like acquisitions rather than stuff found along life's journey.
There were gongs, plural, Tibetan and Japanese. There was carved African tribal art. There was a really old looking canoe covered in birch. There was a Calder-esque mobile (possibly an actual Calder). There were Matisse lithographs. (Plural) There were ancient maps and a globe. And antique navigation and charting tools including a giant antique ship's compass. And a giant star map. There were mandolins, violins and acoustic guitars. And something I think might have been a lute. There were African drums. And Buddhist chimes. And an Aboriginal rain stick. There were huge pieces of trees - huge driftwood logs strewn about here and there. And rocks, big rocks, boulders. (Okay, I actually kind of like that idea. If you have a house big enough to accommodate them.) Some of the walls were wood panels and some were rock faced. The rock walls had fossils embedded here and there. (Okay, that was kind of cool, too, though more of an outside thing than an inside thing.) On one of the walls was a huge, 10" long rock panel, a fresco of sorts, of what looked like the cave paintings of Lascaux. There were Persian rugs, Muslim prayer rugs, and Buddhist meditation mats.
In one corner of the living room was a huge loom. Yes. A loom. And a spinning wheel. I kid you not, a loom. And spinning wheel.
Here and there around the house were orchids. He pointed them out, detailing their rarity and place of origin. I asked him if he saw Adaptation or read the Orchid Thief. Somewhat surprisingly, he hasn't read the book and has not seen the movie. To me you can't have one without the other. You can't read the book without then seeing the movie, and you can't see the movie without having first read the book. They're both brilliant but together they're a serendipitous gift of art the likes of which are more rare than the subject matter of orchids. The fact that he grows orchids, is presumably so into art and literature, and has not read the book or seen the movie was reason enough for me to not want to ever go out with this guy again. Clearly the man has no sense of humor, no interest in anything that isn't showcased in Affectation Monthly, and no self awareness. But. In my attempt to be less picky I let the subject drop and continued on with the tour of the Museum of Esoterica, I mean house.
On one side of the backyard deck there was a huge Zen sand garden with a boulder and one of those giant wood rakes for making patterns in the sand. Of course there was a Zen garden. I, regrettably, made a bad joke. "Hey, nice sand box!" Of course he didn't laugh, even patronizingly, and of course he explained the art of Zen gardening to me as if I was a child. Of course he told me about how he studied with a Zen master when he worked in Japan.
At the other end of the deck, behind a row of creepy topiary in strange shapes was a bocce court. Of course there was a bocce court. And of course he pointed out his bocce set that he found in a quaint little shop while he was living in a villa in Tuscany. Out in the back yard there was a softly illuminated giant, and I mean enormous, sundial.
And yes, the mere fact that I know and recognize these items, especially the cave paintings of Lascaux, makes me somewhat affected. I am aware of that.
The house was built around an interior garden walled in by glass windows, creating a central terrarium type of rock garden with a huge tree in the middle and a waterfall and pond. I mean, it's all very lovely. But it was like he gave someone his credit card and said, "Buy anything that seems remotely esoteric." I expected pretense, his cocktail party puffery was a preview of things to come. But this is pretense on a whirlwind shopping trip with a credit card with no limit.
It was like a Robert Bly wet dream actualized.
And then...he lightly took my hand and led me to the library. Because, after all, we were there so I could look at his books on pre-war German abstract expressionism. Oh cripes. There were, of course, floor-to-ceiling shelves on two of the walls, the central terrarium was one wall and there was a window overlooking the sundial in the yard. Below and next to the outdoor window were two enormous leather wingback chairs, another globe and a dry bar. Remember the cartoon where the two old guys sit around their hunting club talking about their exaggerated tales of their big game hunting safaris? That's what immediately came to mind and of course it made me giggle. (that coupled with the lingering effects of the wine) Meanwhile he was poring over his books and then got this faraway look in his eyes, all fey and affected, and said, “All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time.”
I wasn't sure if he was trying to impress me with his knowledge of Ernest Hemingway quotes or if he was trying to pass off Hemingway's quote as his own. Either way, ewwwwww. Especially combined with his exaggerated faraway wispy fey look. And I was already trying not to laugh about the cartoon big game hunters. (what are their names?) So I said, "Okay, Papa, let's see those abstract expressionism books."
Maybe that was snarky of me. Maybe I should have been more forgiving and less nonplussed. But c'mon, who quotes Ernest Hemingway on a date? In his in-home library overlooking a giant terrarium. With his super fine Egyptian linen shirt unbuttoned to his navel. I mean, c'mon. Do women really fall for this schtick? (Apparently not - he's as single as I am.) I owe it to the world, to the Universe, to every single woman this guy will ever meet, to throw the "Papa" barb at him. (Right?)
But I think I kind of threw him off his game. And then I felt sorry for him. Obviously the guy has insecurity issues and I just punched a sarcastic hole in his comfort bubble of affectation. I didn't view it as a victory.
But then again...I mean, he quoted Ernest Hemingway. The man either has no personality of his own or he's so afraid to be himself that he hides behind all the things and affectations of a persona he compiled from catalogs and a high limit credit card. He can't even use his own words - he hides behind quotes from other people. I know, see? That's why I felt sorry for him and wished I hadn't poked fun at him. But. Still. I mean, wasn't he kind of asking for it? Even, even if he's a big fan of Hemingway, instead of just randomly affecting a wispy fey ouvre and quoting him as if the words are his own, try on this, "Hemingway is one of my favorite authors. For Whom the Bell Tolls is such a riveting story. There's a great quote, Hemingway said, 'All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time.' Isn't that interesting? Such a different perspective." See how an ounce of humility and a little self awareness makes it so much more palatable and even an interesting conversation starter?
He finally found the abstract expressionism books. And quietly handed them to me. I was familiar with one of them - I used it as part of my research for my thesis on abstract expressionism way back in college. (But did I mention that I wrote a thesis on pre-war German abstract expressionism? No. I did not. Did I quote Kirchner? No, I did not. I could have, even auf Deutsch, but I did not. Because I am neither a boring, affected pretentious git nor a braggart. I feel no need to impress anyone with my psychotic quest for random bits of information about the things that strike my interest.) The other book was new to me. I flipped through it and tried to make it seem like I was impressed with it- an attempt to salve the wound left by my "Papa" comment.
We then went into the kitchen. You can probably imagine what the kitchen was like. It was like kitchen design on steroids. Yes, it was lovely. Truly. It is gorgeous. And I'm not much of a kitchen person. With all my friends' new homes and home renovations I'm kind of numb from looking at kitchens. So for me to be weak kneed envious of his kitchen, well...it was some kitchen. He asked me if I wanted him to make me a "late night bite." I declined and said it was getting late and I should think about getting home.
I don't think he thought he was going to get anywhere with me; he hadn't made any overtures, anyway, and I honestly didn't think he was that into me. Sure, he took me to his house and showed me his toys, and maybe that was an attempt to show me who he is, but, it's all pre-fab esoterica. I don't know anything about him other than he obviously has some money to spare and that he spends it on things that are supposed to seem or make him look esoteric and hip. I didn't know any more about him than I did when he walked into that party with his thermoelectric travel wine case and harness. He, on the other hand, learned that he can't go around quoting Ernest Hemingway to me without expecting a sarcastic response and that I'm either too stupid to recognize a Zen garden or have a silly sense of humor.
He led me into what I presume is the living room, the loom room, and went to a bar. A very lovely built-in bar (of course) opposite the loom. Apparently when he has guests he wants them weaving and spinning, so, the options are offering booze or a loom and a spinning wheel. I didn't say that out loud. After he explained Zen gardening to me due my sand box joke and the "Papa" comment clearly offended him I leashed my tongue. Not because he's such an easy and obvious target, but because a) I'm a guest and b) he has zero sense of humor and c) I really did not want to hurt his feelings. Some people can tolerate having a mickey taken, some cannot. The most affected man in the world cannot. 'Nuff said.
He offered me a drink from something in a decanter. Remember what I said about Glenfiddich in Baccarat on the veranda? Well, as the scent from the opened decanter drifted my way it was definitely scotch and definitely good scotch and most likely very old Glenfiddich. I know this because my dad was a scotch drinker, as was my granddad. I know that smell. And unfortunately it was Father's Day eve, and I've been thinking about dad and missing him a lot and that whiff of scotch carried me straight to a very, very, very sad place. No, I didn't tear up, but very well could have. I don't know many scotch drinkers so I don't smell scotch very often. It's a life scent that for me is distinctly and uniquely my dad and granddad - very evocative.
If there was any buzz left from the dinner wine that whiff of scotch killed it. I wanted to go home. Right then. I started to feel suffocated. Or, as I used to say when I was little and overwhelmed by museum trips, "Stuffycated." This place fit that bill perfectly. Loads of stuff, stuffy stuff at that, and suffocating. Stuffycated. The most affected man in the world was starting to really annoy me.
Emotional breakthrough and breakdown in 3-2-1: His schtick was old and tiresome and predictable and disingenuous and now his scent persona would mingle with my dad's and granddad's. That made me angry. I realize other people drink scotch. At some point in my life I will encounter people who drink scotch and the scent will remind me of my dad. And if they're decent people that's cool, I don't mind the scent memory of my dad being provoked by decent people. But an affected phony with a Baccarat decanter smelling like my dad? Oh no. Uh uh. No way. Out of bounds.
I had to get out of there. It wasn't his fault he released a hornet's nest of emotions when he lifted the stopper on that decanter. (But really, what straight, single, American man has a Baccarat decanter sitting around his living room...next to his loom?) I'm not blaming him. But, I didn't want to spend another second with him. I just wanted to go home and hide under the covers and cry.
I toughed out some small talk while he sipped his scotch and as soon it was politely possible I said I needed to get home.
To be fair, he didn't protest yet he didn't seem relieved, either. He just said, "Whatever m'lady desires she shall have," turned off the fire fence (oh - I think I forgot to mention he has one of those wall-o-fire things. He lit it at the beginning of the tour) and led me out to the car. It was a quiet ride home. (We are not practically neighbors. I know I mentioned that but I feel a need to say it again. It was long ride.) He escorted me the five steps to my building's door, took my keys and opened the lobby doors for me (even though my doorman was already buzzing me in) and kissed me on both cheeks, handed me the cockscomb, did an overly flourished bow and thanked me for the pleasure of my company.
I dunno. Maybe I am too picky. Plenty of women would love a shot at a guy with that sort of obvious wealth and apparent free time. But I have no idea who he is. No hint at his personality. The closest he got to candor was after the wine at dinner when he talked about his sketching, and even then he was going on and on about how he had to be in Nepal, in the "embrace of Buddhists," to actualize his sketching. That's not really real, that's not enthusiastic candor, that's stifled, affected cocktail party puffery speak.
I did hide under the covers and cry for a few minutes. I miss my dad and I'm lonely and I can't find a job and my life is a total shambles and the only men who like me are jerks. Rinse, lather, repeat; for deeper and longer lasting results follow with therapy treatments.
And then I got a little message from my dad. Well, you know, metaphorically. My dad is dead. I don't get actual messages from him. But every now and then I get a dawn of realization followed by a calm sensation. It's my dad's wisdom kicking in. A bolt of wisdom from out of nowhere. I'm not bright or wise enough to have a bolt of wisdom all on my own. The only way I can have a bolt of wisdom is by finally, finally, applying what my parents taught me to a real life situation. A life lesson finally sinking in. Our little girl is growing up. Finally. Eureka, they're right. In this case it was very simple. (Bolts of wisdom are often very simple. Anyone else ever notice that?) The most affected man in the world is lonely. And probably has been for a very long time. That's why he's searching so hard for something. He apparently hasn't realized or won't accept that what he's looking for can't be bought or worn like a costume. Contentment comes from within.
And I am far richer and more fulfilled than him because even though I don't own much, even though I'm jobless and close to homelessness, and yes, even though I'm lonely and frustrated and unhappy and scared, I know who I am. I'm know I can't buy contentment. I know I need to grow, evolve and change, and I know I will do just that. Life(?) will see to that. I'm not "happy" with myself but I am content in the knowledge that I know who I am. I am even more fulfilled when I take a minute to realize that I am changing and evolving. Maybe not for the outwardly better, but certainly for the wiser.
My loneliness doesn't come from not having someone around to impress and take pride in; my loneliness comes from not having someone to give my love to. Affected Man and I have the same affliction, loneliness, but what a huge difference in cause and symptoms.
He's filling his voids with stuff and trying to buy experience. I only want to fill a void with someone who wants to share life's experiences with me.
The last thing the most affected man in the world needs is a girlfriend. Until he finds contentment within himself women are just thermoelectric travel wine coolers or sketching holidays in Nepal. The right accoutrement to complete his affected vision. Until he lets down his guard, allows himself to laugh at himself (or at all, anything, a snicker a smile, anything), and stops searching for something outside of himself he's going to be lonely.
Me? I just need to find the right guy. Or, like the most affected man in the world needs to do: Stop searching. Just accept and embrace being single. Make my own contentment.
Bolt of wisdom courtesy of my dad. He told me that same thing, more or less, most of my life. And even though I understood it, ("Yeah, yeah, Dad, I know, I know, you can't buy happiness or fulfillment. You can't laugh at anyone else until you can laugh at yourself, I know, I know Dad, I know.") now I really get it.
The most affected man in the world and I are not right for each other. We have some things in common but can you even imagine what would happen if I cranked the Pixies or Nirvana from his stereo? The whole house is wired for sound, can you just imagine Frank Black screaming "Deeebaaaserrrrr!!!!" echoing off the loom and cave painting into the Zen garden? Yeah. Not so much. And can you imagine a giant gong in my living room? Yeah. Not so much, either. Sure, stranger things have happened, odder couples have successfully collided, but, and this is the shockingly bizarre part that has me stymied, we're on two very different spiritual planes, and, gulp, I've already achieved much of what he's trying to buy, I mean find.
So as much as I've mocked and ridiculed him, in the end I pity and hope for him. I can't tell him any of this. He has to learn it for himself. He seems like he could be a nice guy if he could allow himself to laugh (or even smile) a little and not worry so much about what other people think about him. I sincerely hope he stumbles across his own bolt of wisdom and finds the courage to let down his guard and just be him rather than a pre-fab esoterica catalog version of him.
My kind of loneliness sucks. It does. It sucks and it's scary and it hurts. But. I cannot imagine how painful his kind of loneliness is and I am grateful that I have my kind of loneliness and not his. Yep. Be happy with what you've got. A lesson my parents taught me from day one. And one that I understand with more depth and clarity than ever thanks to a man who has a lot of stuff - stuff that would make a lot of people envious. I am happy with what I have in comparison to him, so much so that I pity for him for what he doesn't have.
Am I being too picky because I'm not interested in this guy? If I were truly lonely and truly trying to be in a relationship, putting in full effort, would I lower my "standards" and overlook his affectations, his pretensions, his lack of sense of humor? (And his unbuttoned shirts and manscaping and thermoelectric travel wine cooler harness?)
*If your name is Paulo and you were raised in a Mediterranean villa and you spend a good portion of your life on your private yacht moored in St. Tropezbay and you look like Naveen Andrews then you can wear your shirt unbuttoned to your navel. The rest of you guys: Button up.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Amidst all the crap in my life right now I vowed that I would not be felled by Father's Day this year. I'm a fatherless on Father's Day pro, now. I'm through The First Year. Everything's supposed to be easier and less emotional after all the firsts are on calendar pages past.
Part of the plan was retail establishment avoidance. And that helped. A lot. After last year's Father's Day Target Meltdown I learned the best defense is avoidance. Very easy this year since I'm unemployed and don't go anywhere except my telemarketing gig.
Since LOST ended I don't watch a lot of television - other than Spongebob - so not a lot of playing on emotions Father's Day sales ads to avoid.
So the avoidance technique has helped, a lot.
Father's Day itself will still be rough - I know it will.
I dunno. The whole "gets easier after the first year" thing doesn't seem to be ringing true. Maybe it would be easier if I had a crappy or even mediocre dad. But I have a great dad. And I miss him.
A few months ago my mother assigned me the task of sorting through a file drawer in my dad's office. We've been slowly going through stuff. We're making progress. But my dad's office...ugh. My mother and I avoid it as much as possible. But it reached the point where we can't avoid it, we have to deal with stuff in there. My mother asked me to go through a file drawer that had a bunch of warranties and instruction manuals and receipts for appliances, tools...dad stuff.
My mother is receipt crazy. She's big on keeping receipts. My mother's voice echoes in my head a lot. And quite often the reverberating words say, "Make sure you get a receipt." Or, "You did keep the receipt, didn't you?"
My dad learned early in their marriage that one of the keys to keeping harmony in their marriage was getting and keeping receipts. I found receipts and warranties dating back to a few months after their marriage. They weren't filed and labeled all neatly and organized, but it wasn't a haphazard mess, either. It was kind of sort of chronological. And a lot like an archeological excavation in a tomb that was used by several dynasties through several ruling countries. 17th century Roman coins next to 5th century Asian silk next to 12th century Celtic pottery.
I hit a vein of receipts for stuff like appliances and carpet and a lawnmower and a crib. Yeah. A crib. Based on the date on the receipt my mother signed for the delivery of it a few months before my birthday. It's been a long, long time since I slept in a crib. But my dad still had the receipt for my crib. I was chuckling at that, knowing my dad would have tossed the receipt but didn't because he thought my mother might want to refer to it at some point. Because that's what my mother does. She refers to receipts. And woe to the person who can't proffer a receipt when my mother requests one. We even have a joke about it in our family. "Did you get a receipt?" "Let's have a look at the receipt." "Keep the receipt!"
So I was smirking a knowing and conspiratorial smirk to my dad about the receipt for my baby crib. When they found out they were expecting a third child (me), my parents decided to buy a bigger home. A bigger home way out in the country, far away from the city. It was a long commute for my dad but worth it for the peace and quiet out in the country. And how great for us kids to have a huge yard and the freedom to run and ride bikes all over the place without worry? The receipts from that era tell a story of a family going through a growth spurt and life style change. Receipts for a lawnmower - riding; a washer/dryer combo; a freezer; carpet for four rooms- a staircase and hall; a crib. And a baby.
Yep.
Right there in my dad's warranty and receipt file was a small yellow slip of paper from the county clerk's office. In the info portion there's a handwritten notation, "Baby girl McMillian, $3.25. Cash. Rendered to father." Cash was underlined. Twice.
Yes. My dad paid $3.25 (cash) for me. He kept the receipt to prove it. The date on the receipt was about seven days after my birth.
My mother told me "back then" mothers and babies stayed in the hospital several days, even a week, after delivery. (Her editorial comment was, "That was a much better idea than how they rush mothers and babies home so quickly now. Mothers need some time to rest and adjust.") And before you could leave the hospital with your baby you had to get the birth certificate from the county clerk's office. Kind of like proof of insurance when you take delivery of a new car. Proof of paternal ownership. You show up with a birth certificate from the county clerk's office, you get the baby. My dad was sent to procure the birth certificate from the county clerk's office so they could take me home.
But. The receipt, by itself, looks like a receipt for a baby. A baby who cost $3.25. Cash. (Underlined twice.)
Okay, I get the whole county clerk rigmarole. And I understand my father's concern about keeping my mother happy by keeping receipts. But. The reason my mother is so funny about receipts is that she worries about the "just in case it breaks or you have to return it" possibilities. My mother also believes that paying in cash gives the consumer negotiating power. But it also comes with risks so you always have to get a receipt when you pay cash for anything. Even a baby.
But.
Um.
Still.
Tucked in amongst a receipt for a lawnmower, carpet and a freezer was a receipt for me.
I'm sure my mother's "be sure to get a receipt" advice was ringing in my dad's ears when he went to procure the birth certificate. But why did he keep it all these years?
I thought when I dug deeper on my excavation I'd find receipts for my brother and sister. I thought it would be funny to give them to them. "Dad kept the receipts for us!"
But I never found receipts for my brother or sister. Maybe I was special. They thought they might need proof of ownership. Or maybe he and my mother had concerns. "Keep that receipt. Just in case she breaks or we want to return her..."
Or my dad tucked the receipt away with all the other receipts of that hectic time and forgot about it.
And many years later I unearthed it, the first time it saw the light of day since way back then. As a stand-alone piece of paper - without the information my mother gave me about having to procure the birth certificate from the county clerk's office before taking the new baby home - it's pretty funny. "Baby Girl...rendered to father...$3.25. Cash." I'm keeping it, maybe even get it framed. My dad paid $3.25, cash, for me. He kept the receipt to prove it.
The Two Day Uninterrupted Crying Uncontrollable Sobbing While Intently Pacing Aimlessly phase of unemployment.
Yikes.
That's a bad phase.
I don't like that phase. The uncontrollable part is really awful. Normally when I have a crying jag I'm well aware of what's going on, I maintain control while just rolling with it, letting out, releasing the pain, taking a deep breath, getting a grip and feeling better blah blah blah. 5, 10 minutes, tops.
This was different. I was aware, all too aware, but I couldn't get a grip.
So yeah. That sucked.
And I don't feel better. And I'm still worried. And I'm still scared. And I still have no clue as to what I should do. About anything.
So yeah. That sucks more.
People warned me about it. People who have logged more unemployed days than I told me tales of days of pacing and crying but I didn't think that would happen to me. Ha. Of course it did. I am not special, I am not immune.
I think what triggered it was the rejection emails I received. Three in the same day. Almost in the same hour. It's as if they all met in a board room, devised a strategy of rejection and agreed to implement it at the same time. I didn't get the college job. And I didn't get two other jobs I interviewed for (two interviews each).
Okay, I know, I'm very lucky. I had interviews. I have had several interviews. I get past the resume review firing squad, into the right hands and I get into the office for interviews. It is an honor just to be nominated. Really. Benjy's been unemployed for 18 months and has had a grand total of two interviews. And he's extremely qualified, has impressive experience, a stable of A-list clients in his past and loads of great ideas. And yet...two interviews in 18 months. I hear this over and over from other people who are unemployed. So yes, I do feel exceptionally lucky to even be considered for an interview.
But ultimately I'm no better off than the people who aren't getting called for interviews. We're all still unemployed.
I've certainly had a load of rejection, though, so why the big deal about these jobs? Why the trip down psycho crying girl road?
Well, for a start I'm desperate. With each mortgage and condo assessment payment the money I robbed from the 401K kitty gets depleted.
And the rejection emails came on the heels of the news that my ridiculously low paying telemarketing job hours are being cut. Not that the $66 I take home for 22 hours of work was in any way "helping" my financial picture. But still. It was something. It paid for 2/3 of my phone bill.
And the rejection emails came wrapped in what I consider the most offensive and lame insult that can be hurled at a job hunter: Overqualified.
When did having years of solid relevant work experience, a good college education in a related field, stellar references and a history of steady, quantifiable project success become negative job candidate traits? All three of those rejection emails mentioned what a great candidate I was and how impressed they were with my background and insight into their companies and what I could bring to the job and their companies, and how much they would like to have someone like me on their team...and that I am, unfortunately, overqualified for the position "at this time."
"At this time." Huh? At another time I wouldn't be overqualified?
One of them even came out and said that my "obvious executive credentials" were not a "good fit" for their current creative team.
Huh?
You're a company. You have a marketing department. You have good talent but no supervision, goals, strategy, direction or organization. You decide you need to hire a creative manager. You get a candidate who has exactly the experience needed for the job and even offers ideas at the interview and follow up correspondence. You invite that candidate for a second interview and pick her brain about creative workflow strategy. And then you don't want to hire her because she has "obvious executive credentials?"
So, what am I to learn from this? That I should go in all scatterbrained and dull and not mention anything about my previous job experience and education ask no questions and don't offer any ideas?
Dumb and inexperienced? Are those the traits employers are craving?
Based on my job interview results and my past office experience I'm guessing the sad answer is yes. It's the only way to explain some of the people who get hired and promoted at most companies where I've worked and heard horror stories about. Stupid, inexperienced, uncreative, lazy and insecure? Well, do we have a job for you! Work for us! We'll even give you a hiring bonus and an extra week of vacation just to entice you!
Intelligent, experienced, creative, loyal, eager and hardworking? Nah. That's all very impressive but at this time it's clear you're overqualified to work here.
It's all such a stupid game. And I'm not competitive or a game player. I suck at pretending to be someone I'm not. So. I don't know what to do. I need a job but is playing dumb really a solution? If so, I'm in trouble. Bigger trouble that I imagined. (and I imagine that I'm in some pretty serious trouble)
My new boss at the telemarketing place went off on a strop about how he doesn't think they should hire people with marketing experience because we know too much and affect a tone that sways consumers. I don't know about a tone, but I do know that unless you're a Cold War era counter intelligence spy it's technically impossible to know too much.
And my friend's husband's words about how, at this stage in my life, men presume I'm intelligent, I've had a career a long time, but they don't see me as anything other than the smart chick from the office.
Once more with red eyes and stinging cheeks and a snotty nose, "When did being intelligent become such a liability?"
Companies won't hire me, men won't date me, and my telemarketing job is cutting back my hours because I'm overqualified, too smart and too experienced. I mean, huh? It's not as if I go around all self-righteously flaunting what I know. But then again, at least on the job interview realm, isn't that exactly what you're supposed to do? Talk about your credentials, give real-life on-the-job examples, talk in quantifiable terms, show how creative and capable and interested you are in your profession and in the job opening?
And for that matter, with men, too. Not that I care because I'm on the shelf and the Mayor of Singleton, but, for the sake of the professional women who do want to date men, why would anyone, male or female, straight or gay, want to date someone who has no ambition, goals, ideas, insight or a career (or at least a job or hopes for a job)? Don't people want to date someone who's not only interested, but interesting?
Or, are men actually like the companies who interview me? They say they want lots of related work experience, a proven project track record, good education credentials and eager self-starters with lots of ideas and energy, but when that person literally knocks on their door they deem them overqualified "at this time."
I won't go so far as to say the companies (and men) who rejected me were intimidated and overwhelmed by what I have to offer. I'm not that smart, that experienced or that eager. It's impossible to know too much (except in Cold War counterintelligence spy circles); there's always more to learn. I approach each job interview as prepared as I can be, but worried that I don't know enough, or the right things. I am humble. I ask questions that show interest not only in the job but also about the company and the industry in general. If I come away from an interview having learned something useful I feel like that's a huge bonus, a gift. "That's a different way to construct your database, what a great idea! How did you assign your key fields?" That sort of thing. I think I come off as knowledgeable but humble. Or at least I hope I do. I mean, you know me, I know I don't know what I don't know and I'm the first one to admit it. I know stuff confuses and confounds and frustrates me. And I'm eager and willing to learn in an effort to be less confused, confounded and frustrated. I dunno. I really, I just, I dunno.
I'm fairly certain the "you're overqualified" "at this time" comment is the job interview equivalent of "it's not you, it's me" "right now I need some space," a polite way of saying, "we hired someone else." Just like the guy who says, "It's not you, it's me" and "right now I just need some space, some alone time" will marry someone else 6 months after he breaks up with you.
Which is why I find the "overqualified" rejection so offensive.
It's just a line, a polite way to reject someone while assuaging your own negative feelings about what you're doing to that person - and their life.
And probably a lot of the reason why I couldn't stop crying for two days. And why I don't feel any better as a result.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
So I have a new boss at my part time telemarketing job. I have several bosses. One for my performance, one for scheduling, one for my data collection tracking...yeah, the title manager is used liberally.
He's, um, well. He's a part time middle manager at a telemarketing company. You can do the math.
He's worked at the company 11 months. He started just like me, on the phones. And now look at him! Three promotions later and he's a manager! Two more promotions and he'll be eligible for full time hours. Yessirreee, there's big potential here!
We don't know each other. I've only encountered him once, during one of my four hour shifts. Today I went in and was told he was promoted to the Shift Scheduling Manager, Telesales and I was to report to him at the end of my shift.
Oooooooo! A meeting with the Shift Scheduling Manager, Telesales! Maybe I'm already getting my first promotion!
So, I went into his cube (now that he's a Shift Scheduling Manager, Telesales he gets to share a cube with the Shift Scheduling Manager, Teledata), I was all pepped up about what great news might be coming my way.
We had a little general chat about marketing. He told be that before this job he was a systems analyst and that he didn't know much about marketing. Now he's Mr. Madison Avenue. So, we were talking about one of our clients and how the calls during the past few days were not garnering many sales. He pondered if we needed new scripts (sales scripts are written and given to us from above, way, way, way above). Then I made a big mistake. I used the term empirical data. I asked if there was empirical data from the client's previous telemarketing or even from other media strategies.
My boss got mad at me.
"You can't think. You're not supposed to think. You'll sway the consumers if you think. This is why I don't like to hire marketing professionals. You know too much about marketing to talk to consumers, you think too much into it, you think about the data, you get a tone that effects the customers. You're loose cannons. Lemme tell you something, if you want to get anywhere here you have to stop thinking, turn off your brain, you can't go all rogue marketing pro."
Whoa.
Whoa.
Seriously.
Whoa.
I'm a swutting telemarketer. How is it even possible to go rogue?
And affecting a 'tone?' People tell me to fuck off, yell at me, tell me to get a real job, try to engage me in phone sex, and hang up on me and my new boss is worried that I'll affect a 'tone' of insider rogue marketing pro that will sway the consumers' attitude about the products and skew the data? Seriously? I mean really? Seriously?
I have no doubt I affect a 'tone' now and then but it has nothing to do with maniacal marketing voodoo. (awesome band name) My 'tone' affects something more along the lines of misery, contempt, existentialism and treachery, think Squidward, more like, "I hate this job and my life and the second I can afford a life insurance policy I'm killing myself."
So I laughed at him.
I laughed. I know. I shouldn't have laughed. But I couldn't help it. It was too funny to not laugh.
He didn't like that I laughed.
And he said, "It's not funny. When you start using terms like 'empirical data' (he used air quotes) it's a sign you know too much."
Apparently he looks for "signs" in his employees. "Signs" that we know too much about marketing. At our telemarketing jobs.
And then he told me he was cutting my hours.
I logged 22 hours in a two week span. Because the previous Shift Scheduling Manager, Telesales, scheduled me to work those hours.
Apparently there was a suspicious trend - I logged more hours than some of the other new hires. 22 hours in two weeks.
And now it's been revealed that I know too much. I'm a rogue marketing professional. The empirical data is all right there on my resume - too many years of professional experience, I know too much, I can't be trusted. I could affect a 'tone.'
So my already measly hours are being cut back. I kid you not.
The empirical data proves that I will be in foreclosure and on my way to homelessness in 6 weeks.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Thanks for reading the first chapter of Just Drive, She Said. I'm humbled and surprised by the response. I'm kinda shocked anyone even read it. So. You know. Thanks and everything.
Okay, so I said every 10 days-ish and it's only been 7-ish but I've got stuff going on (hey, I have stuff, stuff that goes on) so if you're looking for chapter 2 of Just Drive, She Said, it's posted. Here.
Warning to the religiously sensitive: There's a potentially offensive paragraph or two, but I promise it's not gratuitously offending religion - it is contextual and relevant.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
So, obviously I'm depressed. Duh. That's a given.
I'm unemployed. I'm approaching the one year anniversary of my lay-off. And I'm no closer to landing a full-time job than I was the day I was laid off.
I knew it would be "a while." I knew it could be a year.
But.
Now that I'm actually closing in on a year the reality of my reality is hitting hard.
The depression seems to be kicking up a couple notches. People told me there'd be depression and I thought I was braced for it.
But hooo boy, this is harder than I imagined. And what I imagined was awful.
And the telemarketing gig is beyond awful. It may in fact be killing me.
So. Yeah.
I do all the things you're supposed do to combat depression. Stay positive. Find happiness in small positive things, little things I enjoy like music, movies, books, etc. Get some exercise. Call a friend.
Okay, so, maybe calling my friends isn't the best way to combat depression.
I've known for a while that my friends are a source of stress and depression. But I know it's not them, it's me. They're not doing anything wrong, they're not purposely depressing and stressing me. They're just being normal people. And some of them have been extraordinarily great to me since I was laid off.
But.
Most of my friends haven't worked for 5+ years. They are all married. Most of them have children or are trying to have children. They've all moved to nice big houses in nice suburban communities. Something that, when they were single or first married, most of them staunchly swore they'd never do. But it happens, life happens. I know their lives aren't perfect. I know they have stress and issues and problems and it's not one big prozac moment.
But.
They haven't worked much less endured work-related stress and stress from losing their jobs. When they got married they had two incomes to save up a large down payment so their mortgages are relatively low. A few of my friends are even close to paying off 30 year mortgages in 15 years thanks to low mortgages thanks to sizable down payments thanks to two incomes. And I'm happy for them, really, when we were all single these are the things we talked about and planned and hoped for in our lives. Though very few of them planned to quit working. We all said we'd work, in some capacity, no matter how many children we had. Some of them had careers that would easily translate to work-at-home jobs. One by one they met great guys and got married and followed through with all the plans we talked about when we were single. They moved forward. And, oddly, none of them continued to work or even migrated to their work-at-home ideas. Their careers, their interests, their goals...poof! gone. These were highly educated professional women. Now they're highly educated women who consciously choose to not work.
I, on the other hand, did not move forward. I worked. That's it. I worked. At first my friends insisted there's someone for everyone and someone, some man would come along and I'd get married and have two incomes and save for a house and have kids and I was going to be a great mom...yeah, the statistics, the cold hard facts, the body of concrete evidence pointing against me evaded them.
I, on the other hand, looked at the stats, crunched the numbers and realized that since women my age outnumber men 4 to 1 there's no swutting way there's someone for everyone and with each passing birthday it became more clear that a) there's not someone for everyone and b) I'm one of the people on the single side of the stats. In life, as in schoolyard games, I was not good enough to be chosen for a team.
Some of my friends finally stopped being ridiculously deluded by their own rose colored glasses and admitted that I was right, the stats don't lie and I'm not getting any younger and the man prospects were getting more narrow all the time. I am the Mayor of Singleton. Someone has to be.
So they insisted that just because I'm single doesn't mean I can't follow through with the lives we planned and hoped for when we were single. They encouraged me to try to buy a condo, live there a few years, sell and make a profit, move to a bigger place and then be a foster parent and then adopt. That's the path a lot of single people who want a home and family take. It made sense to me. It wasn't how I imagined my life, but, it was good. A woman no man wants adopting kids parents don't want. Sounds very Hallmark Movie Night. And it appealed to my sense of compassion. It wasn't the "ideal" situation, I would prefer to have a husband and raise children in a two-parent home. But. As we know, my life(?) is not exactly ideal. A lot of rejection, disappointments, unforeseen issues, and a lot of Plan Bs. And as long as there are children who are not wanted, there are children who need a home, even a one parent home is better than no parent and no home. The whole thing started to make a lot of sense to me. My parents were even coming around to the idea. They encouraged me, told me I wouldn't be doing it on my own, they'd be there with full grandparent support. Everyone told me if anyone could manage a job and single parenthood it was me.
So, I found a small condo with good resale potential, planned to live there 4 -5 years, build some equity and save some money, buy a bigger place and then start the foster and adoption process.
There you go. There it is. The story behind the story and the bigger reasons behind why unemployment and foreclosure are even more depressing than "just" being laid off and losing my home. I was working on my revised life-plan. I wrote down a plan, had all the sub-goals and steps to get to the big goal. By the end of 2011 I would embark on finding a home big enough to be social-worker approved for a couple kids and have a little money saved. I read every book I could find about foster parenting and adopting older or special needs kids.
And now I'm not working. Not by choice. And I'm going to lose my home. And last week I boxed up all the books on foster parenting and adopting and sent them to a book reseller.
Yeah. That's that.
When I was first laid off I crunched the numbers and tried to figure out how to stay on track, what I had to do to keep up with my plans. Being unemployed for longer than six months would mean putting my plans on hold until 2012 or 2013. Which would put me older and closer to the age where social workers and adoption agencies start questioning and vetoing single-parent adoption. Single parent adoption is difficult. You have to jump through a lot of extra hoops. And there are already a lot of hoops for adoption. When you're single there are almost double the amount of hoops.
When I hit the six month mark of unemployment I refused to give up, but, I did force myself to start accepting the reality that my plans were not only postponed, but probably going to have to be canceled completely. So I've been kind of upset about that. Each month I thought, "Okay, I can still turn this around, if I get a job this week I might be able to get back on track." And now that I'm closing in on a year...and there are more foreclosures in my building...and the value of my condo has dropped to almost half what I paid for it...and I'm still unemployed...there's no way I can a) sell my place; b) recoup the loss in just a couple years; c) even consider adopting or fostering even a cat let alone a child.
A few weeks ago I made myself stare into the face of reality, deal with it, accept it and stop pinning hopes on an unrealistic fantasy. I was deluding myself. It was unhealthy. It was a form of denial. Denial not only of my current situation, but of the slim chances of my plan working even if I hadn't been laid off. So many things had to happen "just so" for my plan to work. The housing market had to stay stable. (It did not.) I had to save money. (I was doing this but not enough thanks to a wage freeze.) I had to find a suitable for children home that I could afford. I had to prove my worthiness and stability (financial, emotional, physical, professional) to social workers. Someone else had to choose to not want their children. I mean, there are a lot of factors and if even one of them wasn't perfect, and I mean perfect, the plan wouldn't happen. I now see the lay off and ensuing unemployment as a way to hasten my acceptance. If I hadn't been laid off I would have clung to my plan. And the reality is that it was a very long shot under the best of circumstances. Difficult as it is, I'm trying to see that this is actually a positive aspect of unemployment. Facing cold, hard reality. No more clinging to false hopes and elaborate, slim-chanced plans.
It is good that I'm dealing with it now. But it's still depressing. That's why the past couple of weeks have been especially difficult for me.
And then, because the Universe loves to throw poignant irony at me, one of my friends announced that she and her husband are expecting child number three.
And, then, a few days later, one of my friends who's been through every possible type of insemination is finally pregnant.
Yep. Two of my friends are expecting babies.
And yes, yes, I am really and truly happy for them and their husbands.
But it's really depressing for me to be around all the jubilant happy family planning.
I feel selfish and guilty for feeling jealous and depressed by their happy news.
It's not their fault that sometimes they depress me. It's my fault. I'm the failure, I'm the one who can't get her life together. I'm the one who's too sensitive. They're just doing what people do. They're just living normal lives. They're not horrible people self righteously flaunting their success and happiness in my face.
Or, well, you know, not usually. Not intentionally. A few days ago one of my friends came over to help me lug some stuff to the charity shop. She brought her kids. It got to be nap time. The kids hugged their mom and laid down on the couch for a catnap. As they drifted off to sleep they called out, "I love you, Mommy." I know. I know. They could not possibly be any cuter. My friend said, "...and that, Trill, is how I keep my perspective and sanity and why I don't go back to work. No one, in any office where I ever worked, told me they loved me. I hear it, unsolicited, many times a day."
Gee. How nice for you, friend. That got me thinking. How many times a day does someone tell me they love me? None. Per week? Other than my mother? None. Per month? Other than my mother? None. Per year? Other than my mother and occasionally my nieces and once or twice a far away friend? None. When was the last time someone other than a family member or friend tossing out the occasional cursory "love ya" told me they loved me? I can't remember. Probably 2001. Nine years.
And I wonder why I'm depressed?
I decided I have to find a way to deal with this. I either cut myself off from my friends, just drop them, because we have little in common and just by being them they depress me. Or. I figure out how to deal with my depression, envy and inability to achieve what I want in my life.
I have "lost" a lot of friends in the past 10 years. They got married, moved, had kids, stopped working, moved again...we drifted. So if I cut myself off from my few remaining friends I'll be nearly friendless. MAF and his partner are working in Europe so right now, at this moment, I have no single friends closer than 6,000 miles from me. If I cut myself off from my married with children friends MAF's absence makes a social life a bit problematic. If I cut myself off from my married with children friends basically I have no friends.
But, if I don't find a job soon I'll be homeless, I'll have to move home with my mother hundreds of miles away and this will all be a moot point. My social life will be my mother and her senior citizen friends and neighbors. So, you know, ultimately this is all a stupid waste of emotion anyway.
Okay. So. That's way more information than anyone wants. But I could use some advice. Advice other than "find new friends." I've tried. I do try. I know people, lots of people, but friends, real, get together and socialize friends are hard to find, especially single, childless friends. What do single people do to handle the envy and depression caused by their married with children friends? (Again, other than "find new friends.") Therapy?
Or ultimately is this just evolution at work, the thinning of the herd? If we were a herd or flock of animals and no males wanted to mate with me I'd be viewed as a liability. I'd be ostracized from the herd/flock. Are humans any different? Are mateless, childless members of our herd a liability and socially cast out and ignored? Do I just need to accept this as the reality of single life?
I read a statistic about unemployment that only fueled this whole contemplative depression. In the last two years childless employees were laid off 1.5 to 1 over employees with children under the age of 18. That works out that in a company-wide layoff of 300 people, 200 of them will be childless. Thinning of the herd. Evolution. Plus it's easier to tell a childless person they're being laid off. There are no cute photos of grinning children on the desk. There are no college funds being jeopardized. It's just less painful to lay off a childless employee. The lay-off only affects one person, not an entire family, not children.
And please, spare me the "single people can be very happy on their own, lots of single people are very fulfilled and happy" line. I know that. And that rocks for them. Yay them. But they are the single people who do notwant to be in a committed relationship and/or have children. They're living the life they want to live. So naturally they are fulfilled and happy without a spouse and/or children.
So, back to my question. What do I do about my friends and the depression they cause me? Is the only option figuring out a way to get past and give up on what I want in my life, accept the loneliness/lovelessness and just be happy for my friends, maybe even live vicariously through their lives? Now that my save money/buy a bigger home/adopt plan has slid away from me is there another option?
I know - just get over it and "make peace" with my life as it is, however it is. There is real human suffering in this world and my failure and loneliness is inconsequential and trivial compared to what a lot of people deal with on a daily basis. I know this. I am very aware that my problems aren't problems. Well. Okay. Losing my job and home are problems. Big problems. But. Lots of people are unemployed and homeless. I'm not special. But I do need to figure out how to deal with all of this. And it's all tied into one big depressed jumble. All of the issues are related to each other. I don't think there's one answer to solve all of it, but I do think there must be a way to deal with the resulting depression, emptiness and envy I feel toward my friends. I'm certainly not the first person who's gone through this. What are the coping mechanisms? What is the "best" way to deal with resulting depression?
