Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
4 SALE
Eggs.
Unemployed! Facing foreclosure! Everything must go!
Fertile, reproductively healthy female w/eggs to spare.
Mother/producer of eggs is:
Recent and direct British (mostly Scottish) and Norwegian lineage
Tall (5'11")
Natural hair color: Chestnut brn.
Natural eye color: Green/blue/amber flecked
Large breasted (natural 36 DD)
Average build
Non-smoker
Above average IQ (school IQ testing records avail. on request)
97%tile SAT (pre-1995 scoring scale; test records avail. on request)
College educated (multiple bachelor and master degrees; transcripts avail.)
High aptitude in arts and sciences.
Above average language skills
Professional
Creative
Interested, curious, aware, responsible, civic and environmentally conscious (Girl Scout merit badge sash and school citizenship marks avail. upon request)
Family health history: Above average life span and healthy. (documented)
Potential BOGO bonus!! Long documented history of twins on both sides of family!
Ancestral gene pool includes: Doctors, engineers, editors, biologists, chemists, botanists, business owners, sea explorers/captains, pilots, musicians, designers, collegiate level athletes and a few farmers.
Just think what those eggs combined with your sperm and host womb could create! Really sets the imagination and hope for the future ablaze! These eggs won't last forever, act now!
Price negotiable; u pay harvesting expense and all affiliated medical fees. Commit to purchase before March 31 and we'll throw in a 19" Sony monitor and HP laser printer!
Also selling: blood; bone marrow; kidney; spleen; appendix; all healthy and in good working order.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Unemployment does weird things to your perspective. I mean, duh, of course. Unemployment affects and has an effect on every aspect of life. I've made a lot of changes, adjustments and every day I deal with something new I have to navigate on the ever-changing torrential sea of unemployment. I know. That adventuresome metaphor adds an air of excitement to the whole thing. It's an adventure, all right.
The whole sea thing keeps occurring to me because I spend a lot of time at home, while I still have one, that is, and my windows offer a view of Lake Michigan. It's been a rough and stormy Winter on the Lake this year. Lots of chop to the swells. It's also been a very gray and bleak Winter on the Lake. Which is appropriate because it's been the Winter of my discontent. The rough and bleak Lake is in perfect symbiosis with my life and mood. All too often this Winter it's been very easy to look out at the Lake, and, if you squint a little, envision Poseidon himself rearing up and commanding mayhem.
I swear, I truly swear, I saw something out there one foggy night a few weeks ago. Something big, something scaly, something not man nor beast. I tried to blink away my overactive imagining of the visage, yet it remained out there bobbing and reeling in the mist of the evening doom. All Winter I've been thinking that Poseidon is Wintering in Lake Michigan and is for some reason pissed off at me and thwarting every effort I make to get my life back on track.
Yes. I feel like hapless Odysseus (minus the hubris and Penelope and Telemachus) fighting a war I don't believe in, just trying to get home, back to normal, but have a giant sea God angry at me.
I'm not saying my life has taken on epic proportions, but, lemme tell ya, there are days...issues...when it feels pretty darned epic-like. That occurred to me in the second month of unemployment, so I suppose that's why the whole Poseidon thing has been harping at my imagination.
Funny thing, unemployment. It messes with your head. And when you're single days, or even weeks, can pass without face-to-face human interaction with other people. Which can really mess with your head. I scare the bejeezus out of myself sometimes because I can't discern between understandable ("normal") emotional issues related to my "situation" and what are manifestations of disturbing psychoses. eg contemplating the most painless forms of suicide v. seeing a sea beast through the fog in Lake Michigan.
What seems weird to other people doesn't even occur to me. My friends and family are mad that I'm not angry at my former employer. Yes. There are people who are angry that I'm not angry. (Speaking of psychoses.) They think I'm either not letting on that I'm angry or that I'm in denial and repressing it. But I'm not storming around my condo rallying angry outbursts and issuing umbrageous rage filled diatribes punctuated by jabbing fists in the air or hurtling breakable objects at walls. Nor am I repressing the desire to do so. Though I suppose if I am in denial I wouldn't realize it and therefore wouldn't realize what's lurking within me, repressed, itching to get out. Perhaps the sea-being visage is a manifestation of my repressed umbrageous rage. (I like that word, umbrageous, by the way. It's a good one. It's so apt to so many societal issues right now that I'm truly surprised we don't hear it used more.)
Still. Of all the things I have felt, and feel, anger has yet to make an appearance. And people just don't understand that. Which I think is weird because I'm generally not an angry person. So I don't understand why people think I should, or would, be angry about "all this." I generally don't harbor hostility or even (much) resentment.
I get hurt, oh yes, I get hurt. I'm pretty thick skinned, but, I am sensitive enough to get my feelings hurt. I have developed a strong suit of armor man-wise, but my family and friends, people I like and respect, can hurt my feelings. I try not to brood or let those hurt feelings fester, but, you know, I am human. I do have a heart and I do actually bleed. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. (It works. Most of the time.)
I have a friend who so strongly believes that I'm unhealthily repressing anger that she thinks I can't (won't) fully recover and move forward until I start ranting and lashing and truly feeling anger. She even suggested faking it as a way of unrepressing it. "Just start yelling and screaming and doing angry things, fake a tantrum, and then maybe you'll really feel angry and then you can work through it and move forward."
She minored in psychology in college. The one thing she remembers from those classes is the Kübler-Ross stages of grief. She fancies herself as an authority on emotional management. She thinks every negative emotion is really just a form of grief. And in many ways, in lots of situations, she's right. I can't deny that the Kübler-Ross stages are typical responses to many life situations. But. My friend...she's very Kübler-Rossian. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. She believes those stages are crucial to any difficult situation, not just grief. She "works through" the Kübler-Ross stages when her children have meltdowns in the toy aisles. She "works through" the Kübler-Ross stages when she tries a new souffle recipe and it falls. (Apparently she grieves over less-than-fluffy eggs. Don't we all.)
She and I clash a bit because my model of dealing with stuff begins with acceptance instead of ending there. She thinks I'm leaping way ahead of myself by starting with acceptance. She thinks my model is flawed because you can't possibly Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. until you Deny. Get Angry. Bargain. Brood. Accept. Her model would be: Deny. Anger. Bargain. Brood. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. I'm all about cutting straight to the chase and just accepting. Maybe that's denial. Maybe I'm actually just stuck at Phase 1. She thinks that's the case. I don't agree, but, see above, perhaps I'm just so deeply in denial I don't realize it.
But I don't think so.
Why?
Because of Sunday nights.
My Sunday nights are sacred. Or. Well. They were when I, you know, had a job.
Some people have ritualistic Sundays. They go to church, pray, praise, read some scripture, sing hymns, pray, feel filled with glory and hope, have coffee and donuts and go home. My Sunday ritual is very similar.
Put on the comfy sweats, do laundry, sort out clothes for the work-week, apply a deep conditioner and moisturizing face mask, watch the Simpsons, review client files and projects for the work-week ahead, prepare agendas for meetings, have hot bath and glass of wine, go to bed early.
Typically about 4:00 or 5:00 on Sunday afternoon I'd start to feel the pangs, the pull, the need to "end" the weekend. Often, especially the past few years, I felt some relief that the weekend was over. When I stopped dating, when the last of my friends left the city, weekends started to feel really long. Too long. I tried to fill them with activities, chores, excursions, but, when you're on your own the Friday night - Sunday afternoon stretch can feel cruelly long. The to-do list is completed by Saturday afternoon.
But nonetheless, on Sunday night I'd feel sorrow for all that I didn't accomplish over the weekend. Sunday Night Syndrome, it's called. "Another weekend gone and I'm still single/trying to figure out my purpose in this world/wondering about the best placement of the couch." There was the requisite Sunday night feeling of unfulfillment, longing for just a little more time to make it a successful weekend. Before I stopped trying to date, and when I had friends around and up for adventure, the weekends were woefully short. I'd be all, "4:00?! Sunday night? Already??!!! How did that happen? So unfair!! I was having so much fun!!! There's so much more we wanted to do! Oh crap, I didn't finish all the chores on my to-do list!" Then I'd force myself home, begin the ritual, shift gears and go into work/career mode, and by (early) bed-time I was ready to start the work week.
Every Sunday night since I started working M-F jobs that has been the ritual. It's sacred. It takes serious temptations to lure me away from that ritual. It has to be a really good concert, a fabulous movie or a super hot date to persuade me to abandon my sacred ritual. When I do abandon that ritual, even a portion of it, Monday mornings feel "off." I feel like the work-week just didn't start properly, like I can't quite get into gear and hit cruising speed. Which I always find odd because I'm not really a creature of habit - you know, generally. It's only the whole Sunday night thing where I am devoutly regimented.
I suppose it started back in school, getting ready for the school week, making sure my homework was completed and studying for the tests and lessons for the next week. My parents didn't allow a lot of television but Sunday night was Wild Kingdom and Disney and that was must-see TV when I was a little kid. I suspect it's no marketing accident that the Simpsons airs in the time-slot where us kids raised on Wild Kingdom and Disney tuned in every week. I was allowed to watch both shows but only if: Homework was completed, math problems and spelling lists were compiled, reading assignments were up-to-date, hair was washed, body bathed and clothes for Monday morning were discussed and laid out ready for donning Monday morning. If it was an especially riveting Disney presentation my mother prepared a special Sunday night treat. Cake, cookies, or the mother-of-all-snacks: Cheese, peanut butter and crackers. If it was a really special Sunday night (or if my parents hosted a party the Saturday night before) French Onion Dip was involved. (Can I get and Amen to that?)
Now that I'm unemployed (and not going to school) my Sunday night ritual is pointless. I have no reason to unwind from the weekend and gear up for the workweek. Sure, the Simpsons, yeah, they're on, they're there. But they were just a fortunate coincidence to my work-week-prep routine. I don't need to stay home and cool it on Sunday nights. There are no clients, no projects, no meetings, no clothes to launder and iron for work...I can deep condition and moisturize any time I want, and for that matter bathe and imbibe any time I want. I don't have anywhere to be on Monday morning, so there's no need to go to bed early. I know, that sounds liberating and fun. I'm unshackled! Not bound by work-place demands and schedules! Woo hoo. For a person who's not generally a creature of habit this sounds like a free pass to Happy Land, right? No schedule, no demands, no social decorum, no convention, no accountability whatsoever! I mean, that's the Holy Grail of spontaneity.
Well. Yeah. True.
The thing is, though, that Sunday night ritual was the one self-imposed disciplinary routine I had in my life. I could survive without it, I managed plenty of Mondays without the benefit of the Sunday night ritual. But. I felt better, even virtuous, if I adhered to it. If I felt like I lacked self-discipline and structure I assuaged my fears by reminding myself of my Sunday night ritual. "See, Trill? You can exercise discipline and structure, that whole Sunday night thing is very grown-up, very responsible. You take your job seriously, so seriously that you start prepping for it on Sunday night."
So it was more for reasons of self-discipline and responsibility than habit that I continued with the Sunday night ritual when I was first laid off. I thought maintaining a sense of normalcy would help me feel more in control.
But.
What I eventually discovered is that without a job the Sunday night ritual lacks purpose and meaning and therefore there's no discipline and responsibility required. The routine, the desperate quest for normalcy I was clinging to, is a sham. My entire life requires no discipline or responsibility. I mean, I have to pay the mortgage and phone bill, but with each passing month that becomes more difficult...it won't be long before I'm in foreclosure and even the mortgage responsibility will be gone. Which makes me face the sad fact of my life: Without a job I am unaccountable. There's no job requiring my sharp, focused, prepped, rested and creative mind. I don't even have to bathe or launder my clothes because it's just me. There is no significant other owed a clean and freshly laundered partner. Not only do my Sunday nights lack purpose for self-discipline, unless I happen to have a rare interview, my entire life, all of it requires zero preparation or discipline.
That disturbs me on levels I cannot articulate. Hence the scary sea-being in the fog, I suppose.
The problem is that I still feel the Sunday afternoon pang of "welllll, it's about that time, I need to head home, got a big week ahead of me." So deeply entrenched in my psyche is the responsibility for work that even now, all these months of unemployment latter, all the anxiety and anguish over not having a job, I still have the Sunday afternoon feelings of weekend let-down and work-week gear-up. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in denial, I know there's no job and no need for the Sunday night ritual, but, the pangs of "it's about that time..." still persist.
And the problem with rolling with it, keeping at it for the sake of normalcy, is that when Monday morning rolls around and I wake up early, often jumping out of bed and starting the Monday morning getting ready for work routine, the disappointment of having nowhere to go, no purpose for discipline and structure, hits hard. Really hard. Sometimes, when I was younger and more, um, "active," ahem, I used to kind of resent cutting my weekends short for the sake of work. It seemed like the best bands played Sunday night gigs. Even some of the best bars used to show the Simpsons on Sunday nights, thus luring me like a siren to stay out and have a drink rather than go home, watch the Simpsons, have a quiet glass of wine and a hot bath and go to bed. Temptations, temptations. And usually I triumphed over them, more concerned, mature enough, to focus on my job responsibilities. But I kind of resented it a little, kind of hated that I was responsible and career focused and mature.
Now I miss the need for that responsibility. I resent the lack of purpose instead of the need for it. The Sunday night ritual is the benchmark of that.
And I'm not alone. Going bonkers at home on Sunday nights, knowing I have nowhere to be Monday morning, gets to me sometimes. A few times I've tried to calm the nerves by getting out. Except I can't afford to "get out" in the traditional sense so I do what everyone else does on Sunday night when they have no money and it's too cold and rainy to just go for a walk outside. I go to Target and wander aimlessly up and down the aisles. I have one or two items I need - a can of soup or toilet paper, something vital - but spend as long as I possibly can wandering around looking at anything and everything.
And I am not alone.
I notice a lot of people who have the same shell-shocked look in their eyes that I have. The "what happened to me? I used to have someplace to be on Monday mornings" look. We don't have to go to work on Monday morning and we're going bonkers and home but we have no money for recreational activities and don't know what do with ourselves on Sunday nights so we...wander around Target. Carrying our one or two necessary for life-sustainment items we're the zombies of the new millennium: the unemployed. Sunday night at Target is the Night of the Living Dead.
When I discovered that I felt kind of comforted. Safety in numbers. I felt like I belonged to a group. It's not just me, there are lots of people like me. That sort of thing.
Now I just get more freaked out. I'm not angry, I'm scared. Horrified, mortified, petrified, actually. And those zombies of the new millennium wandering around Target on Sunday night only serve to make the whole Sunday night ritual issue worse. "What am I doing here? I should be home getting ready for the work week. Oh wait, there's no work. Monday morning is the same as Friday night is the same as Wednesday afternoon..." A zombie of the new millennium version of Groundhog Day.
Niiiiice.
All because of the Sunday night ritual.
They don't tell you this when they lay you off. They give you a letter outlining your "disengagement" details. They hand you a box to pack up your desk. They tell you your last paycheck will be mailed to you. But they don't tell you that you'll be experiencing a lot of strange and unusual behaviors. They don't tell you that you'll still get the Sunday pangs of responsibility about the job you no longer have. They don't tell you anything truly useful. And no one left behind at that old workplace could ever comprehend how lucky they are to still feel the resentment of a weekend coming to a close and feeling far too short to accomplish all the fun and activities they wanted to cram into the weekend.
