Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Monday, July 26, 2010
I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do with myself, my life, and everything.
I need to re-evaluate and reorganize, rethink and retool.
So, I did a little life assessment.
What's working, what's not working, pull confidence from what's working and set new goals and form new plans for what's not.
Well, crap.
Nothing's working.
There is not one facet of my life that's how I want it to be.
And yes, yes, I cut myself slack for crap beyond my control.
But.
Still.
Crap beyond control is a fact of life; you have to roll with it, adapt, evolve.
For the past year my goals have been: Find a job; pay my mortgage.
Pretty much every second, waking and even sleeping, has been devoted to those two goals. They're omnipresent. Unemployment is all pervasive.
And here I am. Unemployed a year and on the verge of foreclosure. So. Obviously I didn't meet my goals. Obviously.
But I haven't taken the time to think about (or even care) about other facets of my life - at least not in the goal and plan setting realm. I mean, nothing matters except finding a job and keeping a roof over my head. Unemployment does simplify life, reduces it to the bare essentials and forces you to focus on the basics. Money, shelter, food. In that order.
Intrinsic things like fulfillment, creativity, fun, what I want from life...yeah, uh, those things are non-issues. So I don't really think about them. At first I just put those goals on hold. "Job. Find a job. Keep a roof over your head. Deal with the rest later. Focus, focus, focus on the situation at hand."
And here I am. Unemployed a year and on the verge of foreclosure.
Crap.
So, let's take a look. Where do I go from here? What do I want, where do I want it, how do I get there?
Oh crap again.
Unemployment has consumed every facet of my life. And when I say consumed I mean eaten, digested and flushed it down the toilet.
Because I have difficulty even remembering what I want in my life.
And once I did recollect a few things - I vaguely remember something about stability, moving to a child-worthy home, adopting children, travel, making the every day aspects of life an adventure, being creative, helping other people, eating a balanced and healthy diet, figuring out a way to be active with a foot and ankle disability - I got tremendously depressed. Broken dreams are difficult to reconcile under the best of circumstances. In the worst of circumstances reviewing broken dreams is not advisable.
And then I reached waaaaay back, I mean way, way, way back. And revisited what I really wanted in life. You know, before my soul was crushed and I tried to make due with revised desires and hopes and goals.
Um. Yeah. Well. Talk about depressing.
A love-based committed marriage with an intelligent, funny, compassionate, nice guy with similar core values and life outlook. A modest but nice home. A stable career that allows me to use my creativity and insight in positive ways. A couple children. A vacation or two. Helping other people. Being a regular but vital member of society.
Not exactly lofty goals, are they? That's pretty much SOP for everyone. Most people find someone who loves them enough to marry them. I know there are other single people out there. But. There are more married people than single people. Most people get married. It's not a lofty or idealistic dream. It's normal. Even really, really stupid people do it.
But nope, not me. No one wants me. So. Scratch that off the goal list.
Once married, many people work and save money to buy a home.
Okay, well, I retooled that goal to make it singleton achievable. I had to add a couple steps, work a little harder, take a little longer, but it's do-able. So I bought a tiny condo with the goal of selling it in a few years at a small profit, but enough to get me into a bigger, child-worthy home.
Well, thanks to unemployment and now foreclosure I can now scratch that re-tooled goal off the list. Even, even if I magically manage to keep my home in the 11th hour (not likely, as I am currently in the 11th hour), it will take a lot longer to sell at enough profit to move to a bigger place than originally anticipated. I planned on five years and that was extremely realistic at the time. Now it'll take at least another five years, maybe more, for the market to change enough to sell at enough profit to move to a bigger place. That's three additional years, or more. And by then adoption agencies are not going to be exactly eager to even look at my application. It's rough enough to get past the single/zero hurdle at adoption agencies. Social workers like to place children in two-parent homes, or failing that, homes where a single parent has proven success with other children. Add my increasing age to the mix and it's a total non-starter.
So. Scratch those two re-tooled goals off the list.
So that leaves working and traveling.
No one wants to hire me. So. Yeah. That's problematic.
But I do have a gazillion air miles.
So technically I can travel. But. Once I get wherever I go I need, you know, actual money. I'm not scratching it off my list, but, that goal, that aspect of my life is on hold due to a lack of funds. Unless I just travel from airport to airport, and don't think for a minute I haven't considered that possibility. I have honestly planned the logistics of an around the world trip solely on planes and in airports. Technically it's possible. And technically I can do it, I have enough air miles to do it at least twice, three times if I'm clever about the logistics.
And the pattern emerges. I accept failure but not defeat. When I fall short of a goal I re-tool and re-visit and re-organize my goals, my plans, my life, myself.
But now I think it's time to admit defeat. I've re-tooled, re-visited and re-organized my goals, my life and myself so many times that I'm not me anymore. I'm an amorphous blob, a lump of mixed up DNA taking up valuable molecules better used on more successful members of my species.
Oh, chin up, Trill, this is just a rough patch, you're depressed and upset and scared and who wouldn't be? A lot of people are going through this right now. It's hard times.
Yeah. I know. I know.
But.
Not one facet of my life is how I want it to be and the harder I try to change, the farther away from my goals I get. Working hard, making a lot of effort, seems to have an inverse impact, which flies in the face of logic and empirical data. Which means I'm not doing it properly. I change, re-tool, re-organize, but apparently not the right way or at the right times. Which means I'm a failure and now I think it's time to admit and accept defeat. Obviously I'm incredibly unhappy with and in my life. I think I'm a pretty okay person, even a good person at times, and I find as much joy as I can from the little things in life, but ultimately there's not one aspect of my life that's how I want it and every attempt (repeated, and repeated and re-tooled attempts) end in failure, and from there I pick myself up, brush off the affront to my pride and hopes, and update my goals and myself.
I've done it one too many times. I don't know who I am and have difficulty remembering who I was before the crap of life(?) happened and I started re-adjusting and re-formatting my goals, plans and life. I'm just too far away, now, to get back home, to myself. I'd like to find the old me, the original me, but she was full of hopes and dreams and lofty ideals. She'd be afraid of me. She wouldn't want anything to do with me. She'd think, "Wow, that's sad, she's really sad, but that'll never happen to me...I have goals! And plans! And hope, lots and lots of hope! Someone as smart and full of wonder as I am will never end up like that!" Yeah. I used to be plucky and enthusiastic about myself and my future.
Now I'm depressed and fearful.
And I don't want to live that way. That's not who or how I am, it's not my definition of living and not helpful to anyone, least of all myself.
This is usually where I say, "Oh get over yourself. You're just down and depressed, this, too, shall pass. The sun will rise tomorrow and you'll take a deep breath and revise your goals and move on."
But now, this time, I can't formulate a goal that I deem worthy of bother. Even, even if I miraculously get a job and somehow manage to keep a roof over my head, is that really what I want from life(?)? Scraping by, always re-inventing myself to accommodate the revised goals set after yet another failure?
Where's the joy in that? I am, yes, even now, a joyful person. I can find it in almost anything. But. When the most joy you can find is the thrill of being able to afford a quart of fresh blueberries, well, I mean, you know, I like blueberries but c'mon, is that really all there is to life? Maybe so, and you know, not to discredit fresh blueberries. Fresh Michigan blueberries are pretty awesome. Especially when they're on sale and I can scrape together $3 to afford them. But. I mean. You know. They're blueberries. How much joy can I really get from them and how long can it sustain me?
When do you accept and admit defeat? In the end.
Don't get all freaky about this, yes, I, do consider suicide but I would never do that to my mother. Never.
But I'm not me, not who or how I want to be and even trying as hard as I can (reveling in the joy of $3 worth of fresh blueberries, for instance), doing everything in my power (and even reaching beyond my power) I'm still failing. And not just failing at one goal, I'm failing at everything and falling even farther behind. The logical next step is to stop trying.
So.
That's what I'm going to do. The failure hurts too much, now, and the revised goals are weak and stupid and not "me" at all. They're consolation prizes. And I'm not even achieving a consolation prize. Which means I'm not even in the game.
Which is not me. Or not who I was. Or who I want to be.
So.
I don't know that I'm "giving up" as much as I am just finally, finally accepting defeat.
So.
Losers can be humorous but they're boring. Monotonous.
You know how this life(?) goes. Goal, attempt, failure; goal, attempt, failure. Ad infinitum.
You are all great people and good friends and I'm sorry if you're disappointed in me. Believe me, no one is more disappointed in me than I am. I really let myself down and somehow managed to make a complete shambles of myself and my life.
This isn't "oh poor me," this is finally, finally accepting not the failures, but also the defeat. Surrender. That's it, surrender. Admitting that in the end it will have all been a colossal failure and why not just cut to that chase.
I will continue to exist, a lump of DNA taking up valuable molecules but I'm not so sure about the blog. I'm continually shocked, even all these years later, that anyone reads it, and continues to read it. Absolutely, mind-boggling shocked by that. Really and truly it's beyond fathomable to me that you're sitting there reading this.
But I'm boring and it's just the same thing over and over and over again. Oh sure, the occasional Most Affected Man or weird job interview or ridiculous friend situation arises, and it's humorous because life(?) is pretty funny if you choose to look at it that way. But it's really just the same thing, different day.
Ultimately I suppose that's the take-away. If I give anything to the Universe I hope it's a lesson in learning to laugh at yourself and your life. It is funny if you choose to see the humor in it. Most of you do that, so it's not a lesson you need to learn, especially from me.
I have a lot going on in the next few weeks. My brother is helping me move my essentials to my mothers' house, putting the rest in storage and we're de-Dadding my parents' house, prepping my mother for a move to a more suitable retirement community. I'll stay in my parents' house until it's sold or until I find a job that will pay me enough to pay rent. If that doesn't happen, well, then, it's mooching off friends and couch surfing or camping.
I can see the humor in just about anything, but try as I might I can't find anything remotely comedic or interesting about what happens next. Maybe, you know, who knows? Maybe homelessness is funnier than I think it is. If so, I'll let you know.
It's not good-bye, I'd love to hear from you, most of you have great things going on in your lives and I'm very pleased for you and I'd love to keep up with what's going on with you. It's safe to assume, at this point, that nothing good will be going on with me and I don't want to be that lonely, depressed, sad, weary friend who can never quite get her shit together and brings down the party. That's not me. That's not how I am. I don't want to be that person. And I have tried, and tried and tried to put a good spin on all of it, trying to convince myself and everyone else that I can make the best of it, see the humor in it and resiliently moving forward, trying again and revising goals and moving in a new direction.
You know the quotes. "We are not retreating, we are advancing in another direction." "It's a process, not an event." "I never could get the hang of Thursdays."
That's really the sum total of it.
Maybe somehow, someway I'll emerge from this and be re-energized and back here before you know it. But right now I just can't do this anymore. As cathartic as it is, as fun as it is, as much as I love all of you, the whole "what's the point? The point is there is no point!" aspect is tedious. "What's the point?" Well, there isn't one, really. I'm a lonesome, unemployed, homeless loser no one wants to hire or date. I have valiantly tried to rise above, make lemonade, re-tool and re-invent myself. Lots of people love being single. Lots of people use a job lay-off as a springboard to new and exciting careers. But they want to be single, they want a career change.
I don't, and never did, want to be single. I hate being single and always have hated being single. I don't "need" a man, but I like to be with a man, I like being in a good relationship. I don't want to be single. That's what differentiates us lonely singles from contented singles. If us lonely singles could flip a switch and not want to be single, we would. But it's part of our personalities, who we are, we want to be with someone in a good relationship. We want that as much as contented singles don't want to be in a relationship. Ditto the career issue. I was stressed and dealing with a lot of crap at my former job (thanks, nincompoop sycophantic liar of a boss) but I liked my work. I liked what I did. I liked my clients. My work, what actually did, was fulfilling. I don't want a new career. I liked my old one. I wasn't sitting on some wish or dream about a different career. There was no hobby I longed to turn into a new career. There was no desire to leave it and pursue a dream or new line of work. Sure, a different company, the same job at a different company, yes, that would be great. But. It's not happening. And I have no idea what to do to make a living. I'm overqualified for a lot of jobs, and not qualified for a lot of other jobs. The unemployment offices tells me they'll train me to be a plumber or learn Spanish so I can get a bilingual telemarketing job. That pays a little more than minimum wage. I'm not really clever with pipes and wrenches and unfortunately minimum wage doesn't pay rent. Maybe I'm the world's greatest plumber and I just don't realize it. Maybe my future lies in bilingual telemarketing. Maybe I need to be more accepting of these opportunities. N'est-ce pas? I don't think I have latent, dormant dreams for either of those careers, but who knows? Maybe I would find them deeply rewarding. I'm mulling it over, considering it, figuring out the logistics of the training. It depresses me to the point of tears to think about both of those career options, but I've run out of other options, so, I really don't have a choice.
Accepting and admitting defeat. White flag raised. Surrender.
I'm doing this now as a preemptive measure. July 31, 2008 my dad died. July 31, 2009, I was laid off. I'm not superstitious, but let's just say I'm keeping my head down and bracing for impact of what July 31, 2010 may bring. I'm getting everything taken care of before then.
Tidying up loose ends and all that. So, you know, there you are. Loose end of the blog tied.
Maybe I should have guest bloggers? If anyone wants to post anything here send it to me. I'll post it. Maybe that would be fun for you - you could all get to know each other. Kind of like a cocktail party. Yeah, that could be funny, send me a Trillian-inspired post and I'll post it.
Or.
Just.
Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.
Do it.
Only a handful of people are interested in Just Drive, She Said. I'll post the rest at some point or I'll send you the full doc if you want it. Chapter VII is now live.
I met with my real estate lawyer this morning. Discussing options. The end result of the discussion is that if I don't find a job in the next four weeks there aren't options. Bankruptcy then foreclosure then homelessness. Okay, then. Hey, at least I had the discussion, asked the questions, tried.
Oh well.
But that's not the disturbing part. I've known for the last few months that this is where I'm heading.
The disturbing part is that my lawyer's office is a few blocks from my old office and on the way to the train station from meeting with him, one of my former coworkers nearly spilled four cups of Coughuppalottebucks on me as she came out of the corner Coughuppalottebucks. Ah, the mid-morning caffeine run. I never partook. But I knew it existed. It was a ritual among the in-crowd at my old office. They took turns making the run and then spent 30 - 45 minutes in the break room wallowing in their $4 stinky drinks.
I was never particularly close to the coworker who nearly smashed into me coffee first. She was one of the cool girls who hung out with my boss and the other cool girls at lunch and for drinks after work. She was never out-and-out mean to me, but it was a given that the cool girls my boss liked did not associate with me and yes I am very aware of how that sounds but you didn't work there, you have no idea how juvenile, unprofessional and downright weird the office culture and politics were. I was there to do my job, other people were there to augment their social life and pad their resumes.
Okay, so suddenly this woman - who was at best distant and aloof to me when we worked two office away from each other - acted like I was her long lost best friend. She set down the coffee and did that cutesy little girl squeal thing and gave me a hug.
Awkward.
"Ohmygawd Trillian! It's sooooooo good to see you! How are you?! Is your new office around here?!"
"Um, I don't have a new office. I'm unemployed. I got laid off about a year ago, remember?"
"Yes, silly, I know, that sucked, we were all so shocked! We lost so many good people. It's just not the same. (overly exaggerated frowny pouty face) But (my former nincompoop lying sycophantic boss) said you got a new job! So great that you landed on your feet. You know, that's always the way. God closes a door and opens a window."
"Uh, nope. No new job. The doors and windows are all closed."
"Oh. (look of confusion which isn't a stretch, she's easily confused) You're not even consulting with (former client)?"
"Nope. Non-compete clause in my severance. And they're in a hiring freeze, anyway."
"Oh. (look of further confusion) But they pulled their contract with us. Then (my former nincompoop lying sycophantic boss) said you were working for them, account exec or something like that."
"She's misinformed and she misinformed you. The rumors of my success are highly exaggerated."
"Oh. What about (another former coworker)? Is she working there?"
"Not that I am aware. I'm guessing she has the same non-compete clause and the hiring freeze would prohibit hiring her, too."
"Oh. Because (my former nincompoop lying sycophantic boss) said you both got hired right away and that's why we lost the contract."
"I'm not going to speculate on why they pulled the contract but I can say with a high degree of accuracy that no one, former client or otherwise, has hired me. And as for (the other former coworker) I presume she's having as much difficulty finding a new job as the rest of us."
"Oh. Yeah. Things are bad. We're all worried we'll be next. I mean, really, Trill, you're lucky. You got out."
And that's where I got angry. Lucky? Lucky? This ignorant, immature, silly, unaware, lazy, ass kissing moron in a cashmere twin-set stood there and had the gall to tell me I'm lucky? She has a job, a paycheck, her home, her husband and two toddlers, a cashmere twin-set and money left over for Coughuppalottebucks while I've sold or donated pretty much all of my possessions and am about to lose my home and she's calling me lucky?
I'm not an angry person. Really I'm not. And I'm keeping a remarkably positive attitude considering what I'm going through. Shockingly positive. To the point friends are worried I'm in a form of psychotic denial. But. This really tested my attitude. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Deep breath in, slowly exhale out. Higher plane of enlightenment. Serenity now. All that.
"I didn't 'get out.' I was laid off. There was no escape involved." I tried really hard to not affect a tone, to just make that sound matter-of-fact.
"It's just so awful at work now. It used to be so fun. Now..." she pulled the exaggerated pouty frowny face and let the sentence trail, as if the pouty frowny face said it all.
I finished her sentence, "And now you have to actually do something when you're at work? Oh the humanity. What a world, what a world.'
Oooops. That kinda slipped out before I could filter it. I didn't intend to say that out loud.
"You know, it's not easy, we've lost a lot clients and there are a lot of budget cutbacks and we're not even having our staff retreat this summer."
"Oh, that is a shame. (dammit, what's wrong with my filter? Make nice Trillian, now!) I know being one of the ones left behind is no picnic. Things are bad for everyone."
"I hope you find a job soon," she said and picked up the carry-out tray of Coughuppalottebucks.
"Thanks."
What really disturbs me is the my former nincompoop lying sycophantic boss told everyone that two of the people she laid off landed new jobs with one of our former clients. My former nincompoop lying sycophantic boss is very well aware of the non-compete clause in my severance because she signed my "release" agreement. And she swutting well knows that I cannot work for any of my former clients and therefore she knows I'm not working for them! And yet she apparently felt some need to either a) make me look bad, that I violated the non-compete clause and "stole" the client; or b) take some of the guilty stink off her for laying off the two people who did the bulk of the work in the office by painting a rosy picture of our "great new jobs."
I know.
I know.
Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love.
I know.
I will. I promise. I do.
But it bugs me, you know, for other people. I wonder how many times middle and senior managers have used that lie about laid-off former coworkers to calm the remaining troops in the office?
I don't have the luxury of becoming a "discouraged" worker. I have to continue to look for work, with or without a home or money, I have to continue to look for work. I cannot "give up," take myself out of the race, because it's just me. Even when I move home with my mother I have to continue the job hunt. I'm getting (and feeling) older every day, but I still have a lot of years until retirement. (A lot more years until retirement now that I've raided every penny I can from my 401K.)
But here's a snippet on the latest unemployment numbers:
"The unemployed who stop looking for work become classified as "discouraged," and the number of discouraged workers continues to grow. And these discouraged workers are an added twist to the nation's unemployment problem: Discouraged workers are no longer considered unemployed, which is part of why the 9.5 percent rate of unemployment understates our current crisis. It's also one of the reasons the unemployment rate dropped in June from 9.7 to 9.5 percent. If you add the 1.2 million "discouraged" workers to the 14.6 million unemployed, you have 15.8 million out-of-work Americans.
So when will it end? Estimates vary, but the Federal Reserve says that unless job growth rates improve, it will take five years for the unemployment to return to pre-crisis levels."
Keep in mind this does not include consultants, freelancers, contractors, part timers who were never eligible for unemployment and therefore never counted. When Frankie's company downsized they started with consultants. She worked there three years on contract because Benjy had a job and benefits. They kept renewing her contract, she was considered an employee. But when her contract was terminated she got the two month buyout clause money and that was it. She never filed for unemployment because she was ineligible and therefore she's not counted as unemployed.
Okay. Okay. Sorry. I try really hard to not go down this road because it's a pointless dead end.
But apparently, like my former betwin-setted coworker, some people just don't get it. They believe we're recovering and that those of us who are unemployed are just not trying hard enough or are dinosaurs who didn't keep up with the times, that in some way we're responsible for our unemployment, we did something wrong or didn't do something good enough. And yes, some days and a lot of nights, I think that, too. If I'd been more sycophantic, paid more attention to office politics than my job and clients, I might still be employed. I kinda doubt it, but maybe. And no, that's not who I am and I'm better off away from there. But pride, dignity and professionalism don't pay the mortgage.
And, I know I'm not entirely to blame. There aren't 15.8 million jobs available so obviously some, most of us, are going to remain unemployed.
"Why aren't people able to return to the workforce? Economists and analysts say there are currently "five job seekers for every job." There simply aren't jobs out there to be filled. Since the current recession began in December 2007, it's estimated that nearly 8 million jobs have been lost. As long as the economy is suffering, employers aren't increasing their staffs and are leaving empty positions vacant."
Hey, I'm not alone. There are 15.8 of us. All applying and hoping for the same few jobs. It is discouraging. But I continue my job hunt anyway. I'm sure most of us, even the "officially" discouraged, have to continue, we can't give up even though many of us have lost or will lose our homes and pretty much everything we ever owned.
My lawyer tried to help me look on the bright side. There's a certain freedom in losing everything. Once I'm not tethered to my mortgage and hence my home, I'm free to go anywhere, do anything. And hey, I do have a gazillion air miles. But you have to sleep somewhere and eat something, so it's not the total free and easy vagabonding life of fun and adventure that it sounds like. Unfortunately it's difficult for me to see homelessness ending in any result other than living under expressway overpasses and pushing a grocery cart around collecting cans and bottles and eating at soup kitchens.
I know. I need to be more optimistic, more adventurous, more open to the possibilities my new "freedom" will bring. Working on that. Accept.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Since my dad died my mother doesn't travel. My parents spent their entire courtship and marriage traveling. It's what they did. All the time.
After my dad died my mother wasn't interested in traveling. But lately she's been up for little road trips. So a couple weeks ago I took my mother for a drive. We took provisions in case we decided to stay overnight somewhere.
I pulled out of suburban Detroit, hopped on I-75 and drove north. Next thing we knew we were Upnorth.
There are as many definitions of where Upnorth is as there are Michiganders. But I use my dad's definition (because he extolled it with such convincing authority): Anyplace above the 45th Parallel is Upnorth. It makes logical sense to me, not just because of my dad's authoritarian tone. The 45th Parallel is the halfway mark between the Equator and the North Pole. Technically anyplace above the Equator is up and North, but when people say they're going Upnorth for the weekend they're generally not referring to Libya or Cuba or even Tallahassee. Where, then, is the line in the sand, erm, snow, the demarcation of Upnorth? Well, logically dividing the Northern hemisphere into two parts makes sense, nest'ce-pas? (Yeah, I'm still doing that.) And where is the halfway point in the Northern hemisphere? Ta-dah, the 45th Parallel. Other people believe this makes sense, too. There are even official green and white interstate signs noting it. "45th Parallel Halfway Between the Equator - North Pole." If they put an official green and white interstate informational highway sign on the interstate, then it's true.
We're no strangers to Upnorth. We used to go Upnorth a lot. And. On the countless trips to visit family in Minnesota we took the UP (Upper Peninsula) route which took us straight through Upnorth, over the bridge, through the UP and Wisconsin.
When I was a kid The Mystery Spot posted billboards (what seemed like) every mile along the interstate leading to the UP. The billboards alluded to spooky mysterious goings on at the Mystery Spot. I used to beg my dad to stop at the Mystery Spot. And I mean shameless begging. "Please Daddy, please can we go to the Mystery Spot? I promise I won't ever ask to go anywhere ever again if we stop at the Mystery Spot!" "Please, Daddy, please, Mum, please make Daddy stop at the Mystery Spot, I'll never ask for another thing ever again as long as I live!"
Then I'd start The Chant.
"We wanna stop at the Mystery Spot. Stop the car at the Mystery Spot. We wanna stop at the Mystery Spot. Stop the car at the Mystery Spot. Stop, stop, stop at the Mystery Spot."
Even though The Chant was accompanied by hypnotically rhythmic beating of hands on the car seat, it had no effect on my dad. I'm the youngest. By the time I started backseat chanting and hypnotic drum beating my parents were so completely immune to backseat chanting that they were deaf to it. Backseat chants simply didn't register in their auditory recognition sense.
The Mystery Spot is located in St. Ignace, just across the bridge and directly on our route to Minnesota. But my dad never stopped at the Mystery Spot. He stopped for gas in St. Ignace, sometimes he'd stop at a roadside park and we ate the sandwiches my mother packed, gazing at the splendor of the Mackinac Bridge, and a couple times my dad stopped at this place that has an "observatory" on the roof (a telescope aimed at the Mackinac Bridge, lame). Once we went to Castle Rock, the rock itself is kinda cool but Paul Bunyan and Babe are lame, once he stopped at the Injun Trading Post (I'm not making that up, political correctness wasn't an issue in the UP), sometimes he stopped for 'original' pasties and he and my brother would scarf down a pasty (then, as now, I hate pasties) and sometimes he stopped for ice cream. But we never went to the Mystery Spot. "Tourist trap," my dad scoffed. Sometimes he say to my mother, "Never should have taught her to read. Billboards. They're a conspiracy against parents."
When I got old enough to reason and affect sarcasm I countered his dismissive 'tourist trap' comment with, "Oh, and Castle Rock isn't a tourist trap? The roof 'observatory' isn't a tourist trap? The 'Injun Trading Post' isn't a tourist trap?"
That didn't help my case. We never went to the Mystery Spot. I quit begging and began attempting to make one, poignant statement that cut straight to their heart and implied child abuse, "Of course we won't be stopping at the Mystery Spot." (Sometimes I'd say it snarkily, sometimes I'd say it all pathetic, as in, "please sir, may I have more gruel.") "Of course we won't be stopping at the Mystery Spot." "Of course we won't be stopping at the Mystery Spot."
Of course not. We'll stop at the lame 'observatory' or get a putrid pasty but we never stop at the Mystery Spot.
And then my grandmother died. And we, the whole family, all us kids included, made another trek to Minnesota and dealt with a lot of family stuff and generally lived through a weeklong family ordeal.
It was also the last time all of us kids were smooshed into the backseat for a family trip. My sister was in college, my brother was heading to college the next year. Maybe my dad sensed the changing dynamic in the family - maybe he sensed that the family road trips as we knew them were coming to an end. Or maybe he just felt sorry for us kids after all the family crap we endured during our week in Minnesota at his mother's funeral. Whatever the reason, much to our collective shock and amazement on the the way home - without prodding or begging or chanting - my dad pulled into the Mystery Spot.
Oh holy mother of all that's weird!
The biggest mystery of the Mystery Spot was that my dad actually, finally stopped there. I won't divulge what goes on at the Mystery Spot. There's a code. It's mysterious. It's a spot. A spot filled with mystery.* I will say this, though, it was pouring down rain the day we finally stopped at the Mystery Spot and the gloomy weather exponentially added to the air of mystery.
When I took my mother Upnorth a few weeks ago I drove into the Mystery Spot on the return trip. I wanted to get postcards and a t-shirt for my brother's birthday. (Oh yes, the Mystery Spot has a gift shop. Of course the Mystery Spot has a gift shop.) I even did the chant, "We wanna stop at the Mystery Spot. Stop the car at the Mystery Spot. We wanna stop at the Mystery Spot. Stop the car at the Mystery Spot. Stop, stop, stop at the Mystery Spot." Now, as then, my mother was deaf to my chanting. It looks exactly the same as when I was a kid. I didn't take the tour but I presume it's the same as it was when I was a kid. The Mystery Spot still pulls in the tourists. The parking lot was full, a small line was waiting for the next tour and the gift shop was bustling. "Ahhhhh, Michigan's down, but it's not out. The Mystery Spot is still going strong." The Mystery Spot's success made me happy. The automotive industry has been hurting, Michigan's job and economic woes are internationally known. But by golly, the Mystery Spot is going strong. (And for that matter so is Castle Rock.) I left feeling content, even happy, that the Mystery Spot endures, even with far fewer billboards than they used to have.
Once back on the road home there was a back up on the bridge and snarled traffic heading south. My mother had to go to the bathroom. So, we stopped at one of the places we used to stop on the way North. Sea Shell City.
For reasons I can't explain, my parents used to stop at Sea Shell City. For reasons I can't explain, there's a place called Sea Shell City in Cheboygan, Michigan. The Sea Shell City in Cheboygan, Michigan, sells sea shells from seas made of salt water. Even though Cheboygan, Michigan is nestled on Lake Huron, a huge body of fresh water. I dunno. It's been there forever, apparently thriving. Tourist trap.
My mother said she and my dad used to stop there because they had clean bathrooms and my parents figured if they stopped there, prior to St. Ignace, us kids would tone down the begging to stop at all the other tourist traps around the bridge and St. Ignace. I don't recall the clean bathrooms, nor do I recall their diversionary tactic working. In my memory stopping at Sea Shell City only buoyed our hopes of stopping other places - if our dad stopped at Sea Shell City then surely he'd stop at the Mystery Spot! "We wanna stop at the Mystery Spot. Stop the car at the Mystery Spot. We wanna stop at the Mystery Spot. Stop the car at the Mystery Spot. Stop, stop, stop at the Mystery Spot." Chant chant chant!
Sea Shell City also used to get in on the billboard extravaganza. They, too, have scaled back on the roadside advertising, now. However, one of the most enticing billboards remains. The billboard showcasing the Giant Man Killer Clam on display at Sea Shell City. Never mind that the closest thing to a scary clam in the Great Lakes are infesting zebra muscles. Sea Shell City has a giant man killing clam on display.
Okay. When I was a kid I was both awed and petrified of the giant man killing clam. Okay? I thought it was enormous and I totally bought the schtick about the clam killing a man. So great was the giant clam's impact that it features prominently in a lot of my early artwork. My brother played a big role in my awe and fear of the giant clam. You know the scene in Roman Holiday where Gregory Peck puts his hand in the Mouth of Truth sculpture and pretends his hand is bitten off? My brother pulled that trick with the clam. Every time we stopped at Sea Shell City. And every time I fell for it. Look, I was little. My brother's a lot older than me. His performances were very convincing. He'd stick his hand in the giant man killing clam's "mouth" and then pantomime trying to pull it out, screaming that the clam was eating him. I either tried to go to his aid and pulled on his arm, or I ran screaming to my parents. Because the clam was huge, giant enough to kill a man, or at least my brother.
I have not been to Sea Shell City since I was a kid. But I've told people, adults, friends, about the Giant Man Killer Clam at Sea Shell City. "You gotta see this thing, it's HUGE!! Enormous!!!"
So I was kind of excited about stopping at the home of the Giant Man Killer Clam so my mother could use the clean bathroom.
I was even kind of, you know, giddy, as I pulled into the parking lot.
My mother made a beeline to the clean bathroom.
I made a beeline to the Giant Man Killer Clam.
Sad fact of life learned in 3-2-1. You know, it's true. You can never go home again.
I couldn't find it. Finally I asked a Sea Shell City worker where to find the Giant Man Killer Clam. She pointed to a shell perched on a shelf about five feet away from me.
There was a slightly dusty large-ish clamshell, top and bottom parts, sitting with its "mouth" slightly open and the cheapest plastic dusty seaweed I've ever seen coming out of its mouth.
Okay, sure, yes, as mollusks go it's, you know, big. But. Um. Not exactly big enough to kill a man. That never would have scared me when I was a kid. I would have cracked up at the thought of it eating my brother's hand. It would have been comedic to me, even as a small child. It would have sent me into a fit of little girl giggles. This, this impostor clam was an abomination of all that's sacred Upnorth.
"What?! They replaced the Giant Man Killer Clam with its baby?! What happened to the Giant Man Killer Clam? Is the real one out on loan or something?"
I said that to no one in particular, but the Sea Shell City worker was still standing there so she thought I was talking to her.
She just looked at me with a, "huh?" look. "I worked here last Summer. It's the same one."
I was crestfallen. Heartbroken. I wanted to see the Giant Man Killer Clam of my youth and instead I saw a dusty, puny stand-in.
But I wondered what happened to the Giant Man Killer Clam. I thought maybe it went to the Smithsonian or maybe on a world tour of Museums of Natural History. I mused about all the places it might be and all the awe and fear it was exhorting. Apparently I stood there with a faraway look for quite a while because I was shaken out of my reverie by my mother.
"Look! Look what happened!" I exclaimed, "The Giant Man Killer Clam was replaced by this puny shell!"
My mother looked at the dusty clam. And then at me. And then at the clam.
"Uh, darling, that's the same clam."
I couldn't believe her ridiculous attempt to hoodwink me. "No, no it's not! The Giant Man Killer Clam is huge! Remember? It's man killing size! This thing couldn't bite the fingernail of a man."
"You were a little girl, honey, it must have seemed a lot bigger to you. And your brother always used to torment you so. Looks like they haven't dusted that thing since the last time we were here. The bathrooms aren't as clean as they used to be, either."
Great. So Sea Shell City is going downhill. And the Giant Man Killer Clam is really just a moderately large dusty shell with fake plastic seaweed spewing out of its mouth.
Crap.
I should have quit at the Mystery Spot. I should have been sated with that perfectly preserved sweet taste of my childhood. Solid, unwavering, reliable, the Mystery Spot should have quenched my thirst for clinging to something stable in my troubled, turbulent time of need.
But no. No. I had to tempt fate. I got greedy. I wanted more. I wanted a Giant Man Killing Clam.
And I got what I deserved. Dashed memories. Everything I thought I knew about mega mollusks was wrong. Disillusioned, dejected and depressed, and grossed out by shambles that was the once former splendorous clean bathroom, we left.
When we got in the car my mother handed me a small bag. Inside were those fancy guest soaps you're not supposed to actually use to wash your hands. They were shaped into a starfish, seahorse, octopus and a mermaid.
"Awww, they're cute. Thanks!"
"I didn't get you the clam. I didn't want to upset you more," my mother joked.
Okay, yes, it's funny. And I know, it's just a stupid tourist trap and a clam shell. But. Still. I was kind of crushed. In my mind's eye, my memory, the Giant Man Killer Clam was awe, or at least art, inspiring. I never, ever should have gone to Sea Shell City.
It's me, it's my fault. I did this to myself. I grew up. The Giant Man Killer Clam didn't change, I did. Then again not really. I just grew taller. Older, more miles on my odometer, a lot more experienced in the crap of life. But I'm still that goofy little kid excited and a little scared to see a Giant Man Killing Clam.
I was still clinging to the wonder and awe of things mysterious and giant. I was still going around all in awe and wonder of all the remarkable creatures in the world.
And now, well, now that memory is dashed. Pretty much like everything else in my life. First stability, then hopes and now memories. Obviously it's not a huge deal, but I feel stupid and a little more empty. Was I that gullible as a kid? And so much for going around with the vision of a Giant Man Killing Clam in my memory. The place in my memory where that enormous mollusk was lodged now has a lot of empty space - the puny, dusty mediocre clam shell with fake plastic seaweed just sits there looking lame with all the extra space around it where the memory of a much more giant clam used to be.
Lesson learned: Don't go back. Leave the past in the past, savor the good memories. I got lucky with the Mystery Spot but never should have been greedy enough to go for the the clam.
*Whenever I read an article about g-spots and the word mystery is used to describe men's feelings about it (which is surprisingly often, apparently a lot of men are utterly mystified by g-spots), I crack up out loud. Because all I can think about is the Mystery Spot in St. Ignace, Michigan.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Oh crap. I think I'm old. I mean, you know, like, old.
I feel like I've seen and heard it all.
And that is the mindset that makes a person officially old. Because when you think you've seen and heard it all you have nothing to look forward to, no wonder, no curiosity, no "wow, look at that!" moments.
Yikes.
Whoa.
When did that happen?
I'm hoping it's just a temporary thing. Unemployed. Almost homeless. Yeah. That kind of colors one's perspective.
However. I've been thinking, "You know, at least there's some good new music around, we seem to be coming out of a bleak musical era..."
But now I dunno about that.
It was early Sunday morning. I woke up determined to fill the empty boxes in my living room, preparing for the descent into homelessness, boxing up stuff, purging stuff, donating stuff (anyone want a breadmaker? it's like new, only used three or four times.). Even though I wanted to crank some tunes to brighten my spirits during the dismal chore of packing, I resisted the urge to exact a little audio revenge on my neighbor. So, I turned on the television and did some channel surfing. What do you know?! I found actual music videos on VH1!! Holy crap! Music? On VH1?!! Okay, that'll do. So I was packing and purging and thinking a lot of the music sucks, which is what I used to think when VH1 played music videos 24 hours a day.
I did notice that Eminem, older, apparently more wiser, is, um, well, there's no easy way to say this, he's turning into quite a handsome man.
I've seen a few snippets of a certain someone's "controversial" video. You know who I'm talking about. She's everywhere, more famous for her outfits than her musical talent. No, not Madonna. Just a new version, Madonna 2.0. She has this big stinking new video that's supposed to be a big scandalous artsy deal. I didn't see the big deal, it's just a redux of a couple Madonna videos. Naked writhing among militant male dancers, a huge arrow pointing to her vagina, nun/religious iconography, machine gun boob bra all set to a disco beat...meh, yawn. Mock provocative, contrived controversy, staged sedition. Spin. I thought, "Maybe I missed the controversial part, so since it's playing I'll watch the whole thing." My original opinion rests. Naked writhing woman falling around militant male dancers with Mo from the Three Stooges haircuts, a huge red arrow pointing to her vagina, nun/religious iconography, machine gun boob bra all set to a disco beat...meh, yawn.What, no python emerging from her vagina? Or did I miss that part?
Back to packing.
And then Snoop Dog caught my eye. I have a thing for Snoop Dog. A cultural, sociological interest in Snoop Dog. So I was kind of surprised to see him featured in another pop chick's music video. Huh. This is illustrating my point about the cultural/sociological interest in Snoop Dog. Why is he the socially acceptable thug rapper? What sets him apart from other thug rappers? (Let the record state, I dig Snoop Dog, I like his apparent sense of humor and self awareness. That's cool.) But this video, well, the song is lame pop fluff, and apparently the video producers felt the same way because it's like a 3D version of the game Candyland. The singer and her backup gurls ride huge candy canes that turn into brightly colored cartoon snakes. Ahhhh, finally, serpent-as-sexual-loss-of-innocence symbolism I was craving. Complete with girl dancers wearing cupcake frosted bras. And at the end the singer shoots whipped cream from faux Redi-whip cans smooshed into her cupcake bra...at Snoop.
This makes me curious. Why the upsurge in boob/nipple as projectile emitting source? I'm a chick, I have boobs and nipples, I see them every day, so there's no mystery in boobs and nipples to me, so maybe my opinion is biased.
I guess men like the idea of things shooting out of women's boobs/nipples. I guess it's provocative and seductive to men. Maybe that's why I'm single. I don't shoot bullets or whipped cream from my boobs.
Sidebar: Not that I've seen it done as often as the boob emission imagery, a guy shooting bullets or whipped cream or anything else from his penis in a music video or onstage or in general doesn't turn me on. Though let the record state, I'll sit on the review board for penis emission iconography music videos. Anyone up for a Tommy Lee solo video? I mean, he can drive a boat with it, just imagine what he could do with the aid of props and choreography. Still, a mock AK47 strapped atop a guy's penis doesn't often feature in my fantasies. But then I'm not really into mixing violence with sex. I'm a lover not a fighter. So maybe this just isn't my thing. Maybe plenty of other women are into Howitzers in the bedroom.
Here's the thing, though. Pop culture history is filled with boob shooting iconography. So much so that it's cliché. So why are these young video songstresses' producers relying on it?
Maybe if it were done comically, like the Fembots in Austin Powers. Now that's funny and apt use as boobs as firepower. And maybe the whipped cream cans shooting at Snoop Dog is funny. But I dunno. Yawn. Plus this songstress is young enough to be Snoop's daughter so there's a really creepy "ewwww" factor when two streams of whipped cream shoot from her boobs at Snoop. I'm sure he's in on the joke, I'm guessing he knows he's providing hope and vicarious fantasies for millions of mid-life-crisis-aged men, but still, ewwww. I'm just not down with the young 20s woman with middle aged man thing. Speaking of trite and cliché.
And that's when it occurred to me. I'm old. I have seen and heard it all. Even a young girl shooting whipped cream from her boobs at Snoop Dog seems trite and stupid. All I see is a mid-life-crisis inspired fantasy theme. Even a writhing naked young woman with big red arrow pointing at her vagina dancing among military inspired extras from a Three Stooges inspired production of Cabaret and laying in bed with a bright red nun costume bores me.
It's all so contrived. Which is why I never really cared for music videos. I'm just not a forced, contrived, big song and dance spectacle kind of person.
And maybe it's important for a new generation of kids to be exposed to over-the-top video production numbers so that they can decide if they like that sort of thing or not. Were it not for Madonna and Duran Duran I might not have known that I don't like that sort of thing. They did me a favor. By doing what they did they gave me the opportunity to listen, view and form a definitive opinion. Thanks to them I know, without a doubt, that I do not like overproduced, overimaged pop music. Thanks to them I learned, early on, that I'm a substance over style kind of person. So maybe this new slew of videos and trite overproduced pop music is important. Because without it there can't be a backlash.
The Madonna/Duran Duran backlash directly (and thankfully swiftly) resulted in The Pixies, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Nirvana among other notable anti-image, substance-over-style musicians. So maybe, maybe I do have something to look forward to, maybe the resulting backlash against this trite, over-produced spectacle-imagery-based "music" will rock my world.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Have you seen I Write Like? It's kinda fun. I'm not addicted but I did give it a whirl with some different types of blogs and a few chapters of Just Drive, She Said.
I'm not all ego tripping on it. Mainly because it says I write like some, um, well, you know, some authors that, well, hmmm, how to say this, um, some authors that I like but give me cause for reflection on how I think. Because I write what I think, exactly how I think it. And if these authors were the same, then, well, I mean, okay. Let's take a quick look at the list.
Dan Brown
J.D. Salinger
William Gibson
William Foster Wallace
Kurt Vonnegut
Chuck Palahnuik
Margaret Atwood
Dan Brown? Huh? And not just once. A lot of times. Huh? Okay. True confession. I read Angels and Demons and the Da Vinci Code. I know. I know. I know. I know this is a surprising revelation. Look, I read a lot, okay? I don't date. I don't watch a lot of television. I read. And yes, sometimes I read some not-so-great books, okay? (I promise I've never read Sidney Sheldon or Jackie Collins.) I don't understand the I Write Like algorithm, maybe it's a super simple one and merely mentioning God or Jesus automatically puts you in the Dan Brown result category. Or maybe I'm just a very predictable, trite, conventional thinker. (Sorry, Dan, you seem like a nice person, I'm just sayin', you know, we're not talking Dickens, Faulkner, Twain or Adams when we speak of your writing.) Because that's where I'm going with this - not with the writing, but the thinking. I don't give a toss who I write like, but, because I write exactly how I think I am mildly curious to any insight I might glean from it. Apparently I think like a Dan Brown book.
Except for when I think like a J.D. Salinger book.
I mean, really, who doesn't admire, respect and love Catcher in the Rye? No one, right? Everyone loves that book. Everyone loves J. D. Salinger. No arguing that he was a gifted original. And a recluse and apparently an uptight perfectionist. Nice. Reclusive, yeah, I'll buy that, I'm becoming more that way every day and I'm really not bothered by it. But uptight perfectionist? I hope not.
But apparently Matthew and the gang in Just Drive, She Said, are very Salinger-esque because 10 chapters put in the I Write Like-ubator all produced the same result. J.D. Salinger. I suspect it has more to do with the first person narrative than anything else. Algorithms are not subjective. But if that were the case everything written in first person would garner a J.D. Salinger result. So, there are other defining criteria. A few other chapters scored me a William Gibson. Okay...um. You know, Neuromancer's pretty cool, actually really cool, but, um, cyberpunk? Me? Huh?
I like Infinite Jest. A lot. A lot. (O.N.A.N.? Come on, that's gotta be one of the sharpest, funniest, saddest comments on modern society to date.) But. Um. Okay. Um. Well. Huh. It was a sad day when David Foster Wallace killed himself. Life is excruciatingly painful for some people. I do not condemn people who kill themselves. I only hope they find peace in their final decision. I give them the same respect I give anyone else. However. A few suicides have deeply affected me beyond sorrow and left huge irreconcilable voids in my life and heart. A college friend. Kurt Cobain. And David Foster Wallace. So much more to give the world and so much sadness, leaving us all wondering and longing for what might have been. While the possibility of thinking like a David Foster Wallace book is humbling and interesting, it also kind of annoys me. 1) I'm not worthy; 2) It makes me gut wrenchingly sad; 3) Huh?
This is when I thought, "This is stupid. It's a dumb algorithm which has nothing to do with actual writing or thinking. It's merely processing patterns and spitting out the highest matching result. I may have written, thought, one sentence that shares similar characteristics of some of these authors' prose and ta dah, result. Pffft."
But of course I forged ahead.
And the Universe said, "Mock us and we will mock you in ways you cannot imagine."
Chuck Palahniuk. Fight Club? Swutting Fight Club? I think like swutting Fight Club? Jane, stop this crazy thing. I'm not going to discuss this because there's no need to say more.
But I had to try it again in order to cleanse myself of the growing paranoia and concern I had over how I think. "No wonder I can't find a job or man, I think like a Dan Brown, J.D. Salinger and Chuck Palahniuk book. Who's going to hire or date that psychotic mix of a personality type?" What started out as a fun little game was turning into a trip to a self-introspection maelstrom. It's like throwing dice, just one more time, the next roll will be better, then I'll quit, after a good roll I'll quit. (Not that I know a lot about throwing dice. I'm just saying, you know, that kind of a game.)
And it was really starting to bother/concern me that every author was male. Not one woman in the bunch. Okay, maybe they just haven't loaded many female authors' stylemarks into the database. And really, if Jackie Collins came up I'd be a) greatly amused and b) petrified. Still. There are plenty of great female authors surely some are in the data base. And at the very least I like to think I think like a woman, or that I have female characteristic in my thought processes.
Okay, here we go. C'mon, sixes, or whatever the double six writing style equivalent is. Uh-oh. Here we go. That made me think, "Who would I want to think like, in literary terms?" Sure, there are loads of characters I like and admire, but we're not necessarily talking about specific characters. Like I said, algorithms are objective and I'm pretty sure the J.D. Salinger thing keeps popping up because of the first person narrative. Not because of any subjective similarities to Holden Caulfield. So it's more about the essence, the feel for the entire book and the characters in it that would "match" my thought process.
So, you know, obviously, Douglas Adams. Okay, the whole woman thing. My name is Trillian but I am Arthur Dent struggling and confused and wondering and trying to make the best of the weird situations in which I find myself on this trip that is my life(?). That really is me in a nutshell and hence my affinity and fascination with HGTG. But nope, Douglas Adams is either not in the I Write Like database or the one thing I thought I knew for sure about myself is, actually, wrong. Which, ironically, comically poignantly, would be very much an Arthur thing.
Awww crap. Kurt Vonnegut. Really? Kurt Vonnegut? Another man and Kurt Vonnegut? I mean, again, I love his books, and obviously he is another gifted individual whom everyone respects and admires. Brilliant, clever, imaginative yet real. I could go on for days about Vonnegut's books and insight and the raw, pure genius of his gift and what he gave the world. And oh yeah, heh heh, he just happened to be a graphic artist...and he was an agnostic who lauded the lessons of Jesus...so, yeah, that's interesting. Maybe agnostic graphic artists all think alike, even the one's who write Cat's Cradle and Slaughterhouse Five.
Feeling slightly concerned but buoyed, maybe I was onto something with the whole essence of the author thing, I forged ahead.
Finally, finally my results netted a female author. Finally, I think like a woman! Margaret Atwood. Handmaid's Tale. Decent book, horrible movie. And another Canadian. That's it, we're done. I'm outta here. This is a stupid.
And I walked away. I just walked away from it.
And then I walked back to it. And wrote about my I Write Like experience. And fed what I wrote about I Write Like into the I Write Like-ubator and:
And you know, hey, I guess there are worse things than thinking like a Kurt Vonnegut book. I guess cool with that. And now I'm wondering how to use this insight about myself to find a job and a man.
I cut and pasted a few job/company descriptions and online dating profiles into the I Write Like-cubator. Heh heh. Well, this could explain why I'm unemployed and single. None of the jobs I applied to or men I found resulted in a Kurt Vonnegut result. Not that I want a Kurt Vonnegut-esque job or boyfriend, but I thought it might be a good place to start, some common ground, if we think alike, like Kurt Vonnegut, then maybe we'd at least understand each other.
However. The job description for a job I recently applied to netted this result:
Okay, okay, well, that's something. I had a David Foster Wallace result so maybe the writer of the job description and I have enough in common to form a good working relationship. Fingers crossed. I actually really want a shot at that job, it sounds like a good one for me. Here's hoping David Foster Wallace will be the tie that unites me with an employer and we'll work happily ever after.
So now, instead of using I Write Like for it's intended purpose it's become my new Magic 8 Ball. I'm cutting and pasting all sorts of text into it and looking at the results. Job descriptions and online dating profiles were just the beginning. I pasted in email from my sister, my friends, my mortgage company...I won't say I'm obsessed, but, uh, there is an addictive quality to it.
My sister writes like Raymond Chandler, one friend writes like Stephanie Meyer (a-ha! So there are women in the database!), another friend (male) writes like James Fenimore Cooper and my mortgage company writes like David Foster Wallace, which I find infinitely jest-ful.
And on that note, if you're feeling J.D. Salinger-esque, chapter VI of Just Drive, She Said is now live. It's one of the William Gibson-esque chapters. I have no idea why, I cannot crack that code. (See, I'm so not Dan Brown!)
Friday, July 16, 2010
So I had another interview. Woo hoo. Winnowed the candidates down to 10 from over 1,000 applicants, I was lucky enough to get a golden ticket for a phone interview and made it to the semi-finals, the in-person interview, where the interviewer's opening comment was, "You're lucky to be here, we're only bringing in five people. My associates tells me you had a nice chat a few days ago. Let's see what makes you such a shining star among the hundreds of others who want this job."
Niiiiiiiice.
I've heard similar at almost all my interviews. I think most people in the world know there are 14+ million unemployed people in America and that most of us are experienced, educated and eager to work. And most people in the world are aware that there are only a few jobs available. So most people can logically sort out that there are hundreds or thousands of applicants for most jobs, particularly in large cities. So is it really necessary to begin an interview reiterating all those known facts?
Yes. It's an honor to be nominated. I am grateful, extremely grateful, for every interview I've had. I am humbled and full of gratitude to the hiring managers who deem me worthy. I don't have a smug or negative demeanor. I'm friendly, polite, interested, engaged, and appreciative. So please, interviewers, there's no need to assert your authority and power by telling me what I already know: I'm lucky to make it to the semi-finals, the in-person interview, and there are plenty of other willing contenders chomping at the bit for an opportunity for this job.
Instead, can we please talk about the job, the actual responsibilities and goals for the position and my qualifications? Please? Pretty please?
The interviewer in question was my would-be manager. Maybe it was just a bad day. Maybe there's a lot of stress due to the vacancy in the department. Maybe they're just a really insecure and negative person. Which could explain the oppressive pall in the office.
But they don't know who they're dealing with, here. No matter how negative, how overworked, how insecure, how deceptive, how unqualified, how stupid, insipid, lazy or callous the manager of that department is, I spent time under one of the worst managers in America so I'm not scared. I've seen and heard it all. Negative and insecure manager? Bah. That's a good day in my old office.
So, no, hiring manager, no, your opening gambit attempt to throw me off didn't work. I'll see your feeble attempt to rattle my nerves and put me in my place and raise you a warm smile and friendly response.
And when it's over I'll send you a nice thank you letter espousing my gratitude for your time and reiterating my qualifications and interest in the job.
I'm pretty sure I won't get the job, though. The interview continued along with the interviewer's disdain and contempt seething through every question and discussion point. Either this is a really crappy place to work and the manager is just reflecting the company culture or I was not in the running for the job and effectively wasting their time. Or maybe they just didn't like me. I need a job, desperately, and I think I would like that job, I think I'm a good candidate for it...but...clearly there's an attitude issue in the office. Very negative vibes. Emanating from the department manager who would be my boss.
Still, I'd jump at the opportunity. Not just because I'm desperate for a job, but because the job, the actual role I'd play, greatly appeals to me. I'm qualified, I have good insight into their client-base, I have the technical expertise and professional savvy to do a good job at the job.
Attitude schmattitude. I spent a lot of years in a soul-sucking, brain-dumbing, ethics-questioning office under the management of a sycophantic nincompoop who lied about her education and credentials to get the job, offended clients and anyone who didn't agree with her, and then covered up her inadequacies by blaming underlings for not giving her the proper information or by taking credit for other peoples' work. ("We're a team, there's no I in T-E-A-M" was her motto until she was called into question and then boy oh boy was there an I in the T-E-A-M.) I worked for years in a company where the office culture was social politicking and posturing above all else, the job, the actual work product, was way down on the list of priorities for anyone looking to succeed in the company.
Nothing surprises, shocks or scares me. Nothing.
So bring it on, negative manager interviewer, bring it on, throw me your worst and I'll rise to the challenge.
But please, can we please focus on the job, the reason people are hired and given paychecks?
On my way home from the interview a friend called. I barely said hello and she was griping about the traffic, moaning about the car dealership, complain about her husband, bitching about her kid's little league coach.
On the heels of the interview with the negative manager I was not in the mood to hear more negative snarkiness.
Employed people! Married people with homes and families! Please! I'm begging you! Be grateful for what you have and enjoy it!
You hate your job so much you ooze loathsome dread from every pore? Quit and give me a chance! Your husband forgot to pick up the dry cleaning again and that makes you so angry you "want to kill him?" Divorce him and give me a chance!
I know there were plenty of days when I was employed that I complained about my work, my manager, my coworkers...I know. I'm not perfect. And in the moment, on those days, I suppose we all need to vent. And no, honestly, no, now that I've been unemployed for almost a year I do not "miss" the irritants in the office. It was a soul-sapping, brain-dumbing, cesspool of immature, unprofessional behavior. I do not miss it and I would never, ever go back there.
But. I liked my work. I liked my clients. I liked what I did, the work I produced to earn a paycheck. I do miss that. And even when I was having a bad day I was grateful for it. Yes I vented now and then, I suppose it's human nature and hey, that's what friends are for and all that. But. I was grateful for a job. I never took it for granted. There was no lesson in gratitude and humility to be learned.
And I find it sad and kind of offensive that other people don't see or have gratitude for what they do have. My friend ranted and rallied for 20 minutes straight, voice rising in anger, I could feel her elevated blood pressure through the phone, she was truly feeling a lot of hostility. Because her husband forgot to pick up the dry cleaning and her kid's little league coach is an asshole because he didn't start her son because the kid missed two week's of practice and games due to their family trip to Tuscany. How about a little self awareness? How about checking in with the reality the rest of the world, including your pal Trillian, is handling? How about a more gratitude and less hostility?
I got the feeling the interviewer was a similar type as my friend. Perfection driven and angry that "no one" lives up to her expectations. That's a shame. Because from where I was sitting, in the the interviewee seat, the manager of a thriving marketing department in a Fortune 100 company looks like a really nice place to be. Stressful, I'm sure, but that's a given. If you've reached a senior management level you should be well aware of job stress and have developed coping techniques.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
But hey, at least I'm not alone. Too bad all of us single jobless, homeless, car-less people can't find a place to share, a commune sort of thing. Based on the stories I've read and heard we have the skills, education, experience and expertise to achieve world domination if we could all just get together in one place . And yes, there's some comfort in that. It's not personal. Loads - millions - of educated, professional people are unemployed and can't find jobs and are losing their homes. It's bad for everyone but I contend it's worse for singles - we live alone, we make it or break it on our own and we spend long, scary, lonely nights worrying and crying and trying to think of a plan...on our own.
When we lose everything we truly lose everything because we don't have the intrinsic things married couples rely on to console themselves. "We haven't lost everything, we still have each other..."
Many of us singles pour the energy we would channel into a relationship with a significant other into our careers. Our careers matter to us, a lot. Some argue too much, and I agree to a certain extent. But when no one wants to date us and the one thing we have going for us is a successful career, naturally we throw ourselves into it. So when we lose our jobs...well...it's devastating. And we have to deal with being unemployed on our own and deal with the emotional upheaval and anxiety on our own. There's no intrinsic consoling, no getting in touch with what really matters: Spending time with the spouse and kids and forming stronger familial bonds.*
Instead we console ourselves with the stories we hear about other jobless, homeless singles. "Hey, it's not just me. There are loads of other jobless, homeless, loveless singles out there struggling, too." Because that's what people tell us. Married people. People with jobs. People with homes. They quickly tell about someone they know, a former coworker or friend, who's "just like" me. Or they forward links to stories about people "just like" me. That's how I came across this. A friend (married, new house, just back from vacation in Italy) forwarded it to me. "See Trill? This sounds just like you except you didn't have a car to repossess. At least you're not alone." Oh. Right. I'm not alone. (Looks around emptied condo for signs of someone else there. Looks at the meager boxes of possessions - socks and underwear, mainly - for signs of someone else's stuff. Looks at dwindling bank account, solitary signature on mortgage and income tax return for signs of someone else there, too.)
*And there's that pesky religion issue. I know, if I just let Jesus into my heart I would never be alone. But remember, I'm the kid who had Jesus as an imaginary friend for a lot of years. When Jesus was my best friend I still felt alone, though. (Which explains why I had an imaginary friend.) And back then I Believed, oh man how I Believed. But I still felt alone. So. Ya know. I'm just sayin'.
Apparently God and Jesus dislike unemployed single people more than unemployed married people because there are more single unemployed people than married unemployed people. That or Satan has more tricks up his sleeve to use against us unemployed singles. Maybe when it comes to Satan there is safety in numbers.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I was out of town for a couple weeks. Funeral planning and Cherry Festivaling and my sister took me to see Eric Clapton, which was, you know, really cool. She does that - she says or does something brutally hurtful and then redeems herself by saying or doing something completely unexpected and nice.
I had to return to Chicago. I'm still unemployed, I'm not even on the telemarketing schedule, and I'm about a month away from not being able to pay my mortgage. So I have stuff to do. Box up the rest of my stuff, donate what won't fit in my storage unit and then wait for what happens when you can't find a job and can't pay your mortgage. I've never been in this situation so I'm not exactly sure what happens, but I'm sure it's unpleasant and I'm sure it happens quickly. My real estate agent told me foreclosures are not taking as long as they were a few months ago. A sad reflection on society: Banks and mortgage companies have dealt with so many foreclosures in the past few years that they've finally organized personnel and systems to handle foreclosures more efficiently. My real estate agent said it was taking 6 months to a year for most people to be kicked out of their homes but now, especially in the city, it's happening in about two months. So. Yeah. I guess that's what happens next.
So, you know, I wasn't returning home to happy times.
I picked up my mail from the post office. Three job rejection post cards. (It's unusual to get these - it used to be SOP but not many companies do this anymore so that was kind of surprising.) A couple bills. A few postcards from friends on vacation. Some catalogs. And a mailing tube.
A mailing tube? Really? For me? I didn't order anything. Who sent it to me?! What is it?! What could it be?!
I haven't seen him or heard from him since the date. I'll be honest, if he called me after the date and wanted to see me again I was thinking I'd go out with him again. I mean, you know, I can't be picky and maybe under all that surface stuff he's a good guy. The fake esoterica might be getting in the way of his sense of humor. And maybe under all the phony façade of catalog trendiness he's in possession of an actual personality. But, as was made obvious on our date, we're not right for each other. And I presumed he was as sure of that as I was because I never heard from him.
That is until the tube arrived.
You might think I was so overcome with excitement that I ripped open that mailing tube right there in the post office.
I didn't.
Because I wasn't overcome with excitement. I was filled with apprehension. What's The World's Most Affected Man sending me...in a tube?
I got home, went through all the mail, read the postcards a few times, read the catalogs cover to cover, took out the garbage, did some laundry, checked job boards, applied to a couple jobs, packed my sock drawer in a box for storage, threw out some socks I deemed unworthy of storage space, took off the nail polish on my toenails, and took out my neighbor's dirty cat box litter.
The mailing tube sat there getting more conspicuous by the minute. Every time I re-read a postcard, did another chore, went to the bathroom, it loomed more ominously. It even started to look bigger. It became an entity.
I shored up my courage, gritted my teeth and opened it because I was afraid to go to bed with it sitting there all ominous and unopened.
Sidebar. I know there are people out there thinking, "What an insensitive bitch! She goes around saying how lonely and Mayor of Singlton-y she is and a guy sent her something and she's all callously indifferent. Pffft. She should be jumping up and down, ripping open that tube and calling all her friends about whatever awesomeness The Most Affected Man in the World sent her. I have no patience for her and her singleness. She needs to just shut up and be happy a man is interested in her." I understand that sentiment. I said those exact words to myself. But ye gads, you didn't see this guy's house, his traveling electronic thermocooled wine carrier with carrying harness. Or the forced esoterica in his house. And his lack of sense of humor. And apparent unawareness about himself. It's not about me being too picky. It's about me being totally wrong for this guy.
Okay, so I gingerly opened the mailing tube. It's from The World's Most Affected Man so anything could have popped out of there.
I saw a piece of parchment rolled up in the tube and something at the bottom of the tube. I slowly tilted the tube and out slid a USB drive. I'd plug that in later. Maybe. Let's see what's up with the rolled up parchment.
Of course The Most Affected Man in the World sent me a parchment scroll. Sheesh, you would expect anything less from him?
It was tied with a piece of twine with coin and a bead threaded through it. It looked like one of the things he uses to tie up his pony tail. Huh. Okay. I have an old Scrunchy I can part with, I could send him a response scroll bound with a Scrunchy.
When was the last time someone sent you a scroll? Yeah, it's been a while for me, too.
You know what's coming. Parchment. The twine-coin-bead hair tie thing. The Most Affected Man in the World.
He wrote a poem, in calligraphy, on the parchment and adorned it with what appeared to be Sumi ink drawings.
It wasn't an ode, thankfully. Or a sonnet, even more thankfully. But nor was it Haiku. It was a five stanza poem. The iambic pentameter was complexly studied and measured. Of course it is. He is, after all, The Most Affected Man in the World. And yes, yes, I noticed the iambic pentameter, which makes me almost as affected as he is. But: I'm not the one painstakingly writing a poem in calligraphy on a parchment scroll.
Okay. I'm just going to say it, rip it off fast like taking off a bandage.
The gist of the poem was that he was asking me to go to Lilith with him.
You heard me.
Lilith.
The Lilith Fair.
Though not surprising. Of course The Most Affected Man in the World has tickets to Lilith Fair.
I'm sure he's a feminist. Deeply devoted to women's issues. Probably took an Emily Dickinson course as his literature elective in college so he can better understand what it's like to be a woman.
But really. Lilith? Me? I mean, you know me, do I give off any remote impression that I might be the Lilith Fair type?
I looked at the lineup. Huh. Well. You know. I like a couple early Heart songs. And that pretty much covers my interest in the music on offer at this year's Chicago Lilith Fair.
And I don't like those few Heart songs enough to spend a deliriously hot day baking in an outdoor arena in the middle of a cornfield an hour and 30 minute drive from Chicago with Lilith Fairies. I mean, you know, rock on, sisters, girl power and all that. I'm pro girl rock in general, but an entire festival devoted to "women's music" doesn't really interest me. Plus the Chicago lineup is kind of lame. And it's in a cornfield. Or, well, next to one. It's on The Prairie, the official Prairie. And even if they magically transform it to a blissful oasis of harmony and empowerment, it's still Lilith.
Can you see me at Lilith? With The Most Affected Man in the World?
Me, either.
It was at this point I grew anxious about that USB drive. He alluded to it in the poem. Good grief, what's on that thing?
Shored up more stamina and courage and took a look at the drive's contents.
Playlists. Of course there were playlists. MP3s featuring all the Lilith musicians' music. Lilith Music. Awww crap.
I mean, it's a nice gesture, of course it is, but...even if I really liked this guy isn't this all a bit much considering we only went on one not so great date (wherein booze had to be applied to make conversation happen) and I haven't heard from him in a month?
And then I listened to a couple of the MP3s.
It was now 1 AM. I was tired and depressed and in my general state of fear that I'm in all the time these days. Based on the file names I expected to hear some Mary J. Blige.
Picture this: Me. 1 AM. Tired. Depressed. Unemployed. Soon to be homeless. Scared. On the heels of planning my mother's funeral and choosing a cemetery plot for myself. Curled up fetal in my bed, alone, in a dark bedroom, a siren and the distant roar and whistle of the L breaking the night silence. I load up a little music to keep me company and tune out the nagging fear and anxiety-ridden voices in my head. I hit play on Mary J. Blige.
And a loud, male voice starts reciting a lesson on the Kabbalah and the origins of Lilith. It would remind you of the Late Lament intro to Nights in White Satin. "Breathe deep, the gathering gloom..." (Speaking of pretentious affectations, have I ever mentioned that I don't like the Moody Blues?) I thought, "That's kind of a weird intro on a Mary J. Blige song, but okay, whatever."
And then it hit me. I recognized the voice.
Oh yes. It was The Most Affected Man in the World. And he recorded informative or inspirational introductions to each of the songs. He removed all doubt about whether or not he's a feminist. He most definitely is and he most definitely takes women's issues very seriously. And he talks about women's sexuality and their bountiful wombs and the succulent abyss of joy. Oh yes, he actually used the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy." And apparently with a straight face because I didn't hear a hint of humorous inflection when he said it. More than once. And it was swutting freaky. Okay? It's freaky. Especially in the middle of the night. Alone. In my bedroom.
Up to that point I was wondering how to let the guy down easy. Prior to hearing the oral recitations on the condition woman I was thinking, "Before the scroll arrived I would have gone out with him again, so maybe if I just excuse the scroll I'll go out with him again, but not to Lilith. Maybe I can give him a call and explain that I was out of town and just got back, already have plans the day of Lilith..."
But after he used the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy" there was no way I was ever going to see this guy again. And, no, no, just just because of his affected vernacular. If we'd been dating and having sex and discussing having children for, I dunno months or years, then I'd be sort of okay with him talking about my succulent abyss of joy and bountiful womb. I'd even be okay with him talking about my vagina and eggs. But we went on one date. One not so great date. And here he is alluding to sex and baby making. Okay, sure, only in general terms. You're right, he didn't specifically mention my succulent abyss of joy and bountiful womb, you know, by name. He did refer to them only in general terms. He might have just been all hopped up high on Lilith fervor and so inspired was he that he felt compelled to wax poetic about vaginas and ovaries in general (hey, don't we all). And record his thoughts and send them to a woman he took on one date a month ago.
Sidebar, again: Yes, okay, yes. I do appreciate the effort he took. Duly noted, gratitude given. He didn't just go the extra mile, he ran an entire marathon. And yes, I do feel guilty thinking of him toiling away in his library at his replica King John Magna Carta desk, dipping his authentic reproduction Benjamin Franklin quill into a certified replica Dickens inkwell. Scribing original poetry to woo a lady, pausing reflectively, thoughtfully, to work out the perfect iambic pentameter seeking higher meaning from the view to his sundial and Zen garden through the window, then in a fit of inspiration getting it just right, feverishly penning his poetry, hoping she'll notice the care and precision of each word. Using just the right calligraphy style - not too formal, not too casual, on just the right parchment - delicate but strong. Then retiring to the studio to adorn it with illustrations, using the special ritual Sumi brushes received as a gift from a master brush artist to ink cranes, turtles, rabbits and delicate bamboo leaves - honor, protection, fertility and longevity. (And you thought I was a callous bitch. Yes I noticed, I get it. He's very into symbolism and aesthetics. And I happen to speak a little esoteric. Not fluent on his level, more tourist esoteric.) Yes, I do feel guilty dismissing him like this but c'mon. I mean, it's a bit much for a second date, n'est-ce pas? (Speaking (again) of stupid affectations, I'm peppering conversations with n'est-ce pas. By the way. I know it's obnoxious but for some reason I've been doing it lot lately. I can't seem to catch or help myself. I dunno.) Yes, yes, I have considered all of his effort and I am grateful that someone cares enough to bother to care. But, it's kind of a bit much, kind of creepy, kind of like Creepy Perfume Guy, n'est-ce pas?
So now I have to either just ignore the scroll and whatever you call was on that USB drive or let him know I don't want to go. We all know the right thing to do is let him know I don't want to go. He did put a lot of effort into the, um, scroll and, um, recordings. And he was kind enough to invite me to a music festival. I have to give him the courtesy of declining his offer.
Or, I could go with him. To Lilith. And talk about my succulent abyss of joy and bountiful womb.
What say you? Am I being too picky? Should I embrace this guy and his affectations? Render unto him my succulent abyss of joy?
Post-edit: Someone asked me if he'd invited me to Lollapalooza or Pitchfork instead of Lilith if I'd go - if it's merely Lilith that's the real issue. Assuming the invitation came via a phone call or email, and there was no scroll or creepy Moody Blues-esque spoken word song introductions containing the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy," maybe, maybe I'd go. But that does bring up another point. Music festivals are long. An entire day and evening, 12 hours-ish or more when you factor commute and entry line time. That's a lot of time to spend with someone on a second date, especially someone you didn't hit it off with that well on the first date. But it's a moot point, n'est-ce pas? He did ask me to Lilith and he did do so via a parchment scroll bound with one of his twine-bead-coin hair ties and more to the creepy point, he did send me mp3s of him reciting educational and inspirational introductions to songs. Introductions alluding to sex and pregnancy using the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy." Both the Lollapalooza and Pitchfork line-ups are pretty good this summer, but even so, they're not good enough to endure spending 12+ hours with The Most Affected Man in the World who unironically, unsarcastically, unhumorously uses the terms "bountiful womb" and "succulent abyss of joy." Right?
Monday, July 12, 2010
Hi, it's me again, Trillian, asking for some advice.
This time I need advice on advice.
Someone generously offered advice and suggestions for my employment/foreclosure/relationship issues. The advice came with some judgment and opinion, which I respect. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love.
The opinion was that all of my problems - being laid off, not being able to find a new job, losing my home, no man interested in me -stem from my agnosticism and open candor on my lack of faith in God and "Jesus jokes." God and Jesus are mad at me because I question and mock Them and They've turned me over to Satan. According to the advice giver, people who are unemployed and losing their homes are being punished by God and Satan is blocking our progress for new jobs and homes.
The advice given is that I need to accept Jesus into my heart and trust in God and then They will solve all my problems. They will take care of Satan for me, remove his barriers to my progress. It will be miraculous if I just Believe. The advice giver went on to say that the second I do this God, Jesus and President Obama will take care of me in ways I cannot imagine. "Riches will flow and love will envelope me."
I'm really and truly not being sarcastic when I say this, I swear this is an honest, heartfelt question: God, Jesus and President Obama are going to give me a job, pay my mortgage and find me a man?
Let's say this miraculous mystical lifting of burdens happens when you let Jesus into your heart and put your faith in God. Um, don't you kind of have to really believe? Don't They know if you have questions and doubts and can't apply rational logic to what reads, in places, like a really wacky fairy tale?
I'm guessing it's not enough to just say, "Oh, okay, I need to let Jesus into my heart and have faith in God. Jesus, come on into my heart, God, my faith is in your hands." I think you kind of need to, you know, really believe, fully and without question. And I don't think you can force that. I think it's called a divine calling. There's usually a catalyst or a quiet moment where it all just whooshes over a person. At least that's how it appears to me when people suddenly get religion. And honest, really, I think that rocks. But it's a very personal thing that cannot be forced. Or contrived. Or manipulated.
I'm not mocking faith. I have great faith in faith. People who have it, man, I mean, it rocks for them. I respect them and their beliefs. But here's the thing. I've said this, publicly, several times, Jesus, God, Mary, the whole family is welcome into my heart and living room any time. They don't even need to knock, the door is open and they can make Themselves at home, help Themselves to anything they want, have Their merry way with me. I'd welcome Them and it. Life(?) would be a lot easier for all of us if They'd enter into my heart and take the wheel for a while. (Jesus, the Brita pitcher in the fridge would make a nice batch of wine, I'm just sayin'. Ooops, there I go with the Jesus jokes again.)
But unless/until I have some divine moment of enlightenment all I can do (I think) is be open to it, wait for it, and accept it if/when it happens. That's the best I can do without being a hypocritical liar. And my understanding is that Jesus and God aren't big on hypocritical liars. My take on it is that it's better to be honest about your feelings and questions, admit them, I mean, They allegedly know all anyway, no point in pretending you don't have questions. Better to be honest about your questions than to blindly follow even though you have questions and concerns, and yes, doubts, just go along with the flock because you want to believe and want Jesus and God to think you believe. If God and Jesus are as all knowing as suggested won't they be annoyed by religious poseurs?
And that's what I'd be: A religious poseur hoping for divine intervention in my time of personal struggle.
If I wake up tomorrow heart all filled with Jesus and God (and apparently President Obama) lighting my life, you know, awesome in the most pure sense, awe. You'll be the first to know.
But if not, what's the real deal with Jesus and God punishing me by having me laid off, losing my home and letting Satan block my chances for a new job and man? Are the 14.6+ million of us unemployed people really being punished by God and Jesus and thwarted by Satan? Is that how the lay-off selection process is made? In HR offices across the country (and world) is the decision based on religion? God's people get to retain their jobs, Satan's people get laid off? And repented sinners get to find new jobs and keep their homes while the still wayward sheep get thwarted by Satan?
And can someone explain to me if and how President Obama is in cahoots with Jesus and God? Does Jesus give Obama a naughty and nice list?
But probably my bigger questions are 1) Are we really supposed to look to God and Jesus (or Obama, for that matter) for earthly possessions and monetary gain? 2) Do they really deliver the goods? (I thought They are all about the deeper intrinsic types of wealth - wisdom, insight, enlightenment, peace, understanding, you know, spiritual sorts of things.) 3) Aren't greed and sloth sins? Expecting God, Jesus, (and Obama) to find me a job and pay my mortgage seems like the lazy way out and kind of greedy, particularly when so many people are unemployed and homeless and especially when compared to the people in the Third World who are starving and dying and being slaughtered by dictatorial regimes. My problems are insignificant and asking - expecting - God, Jesus and Obama to intervene and pay my mortgage seems really greedy and selfish. Somehow I think They have bigger fish to fry.
I can see asking for guidance, hoping for a nudge to the right path to a job, or a bolt of inspiration on where to meet the right guy, but sitting back and expecting them to do all the work? Yeah, that doesn't sit well with my conscience or what I read in the Bible. (yes, for the bizillionth time, I've read it) But maybe I'm completely wrong, I must be, because obviously I'm still unemployed and still going to go into foreclosure and still the Mayor of Singleton.
I know this sounds sarcastic, especially coming from me, but I'm honestly asking for advice on this advice because I don't fully understand it.
