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/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<




Trillian McMillian
Trillian McMillian
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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






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.
Find Federal Officials
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Contact The Media
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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.)

Quasar
Hyperbole
Amenable
Taciturn
Ennui
Prophetic
Tawdry
Hubris
Ethereal
Syzygy
Umbrageous
Twerp
Sluice
Omnipotent
Sanctuary
Malevolent
Maelstrom
Luddite
Subterfuge
Akimbo
Hoosegow
Dodecahedron
Visceral
Soupçon
Truculent
Vitriol
Mercurial
Kerfuffle
Sangfroid




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue

Slanglish

It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"


















 
Mail Trillian here





Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.



Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.





Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"







Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.


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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

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

 
Saturday, September 29, 2012  
********UPDATE*********
The lens prescription was correct, however in a twist of optical nuance, the frames were "wrong" for my pupil measurement. A different optician than the one who "helped" me choose my frames immediately suspected what was going on, but checked the prescription and re-measured my pupils to confirm her suspicions. Turns out the frames were too wide overall and the bridge was too wide, so I was getting a tunnel effect in my periphery, which was effectively giving me motion sickness.  These are apparently some of the "dangers" of progressive lenses, especially with astigmatism prescriptions, frame and bridge size become crucial to the glasses. Oh, and, the lenses were slightly bowed, further enhancing the optical nightmare. Adjusting that, straightening the frames, slightly decreased the tunnel illusion but didn't offer much relief. The new optician told me the person who helped me select the frames "should have known" the frame to pupil measurement ratio is crucial and the frames selected, filled with my prescription, were tantamount to physical abuse. So. A new frame has been selected. You live, you learn.

*********


Has anyone out there ever experienced:
  • Dizziness
  • Nausea
  • Extremely (horrific) headache
  • Tunnel vision
 after getting a new pair of glasses?
I've had reading glasses for years, but one of my eyes recently developed astigmatism so I had to get new glasses. I realize this is a huge change for me and having one lens different is undoubtedly wonky to my brain.

However. The above symptoms are severe, as in, looking through the glasses makes me so dizzy I can't walk a straight line. I puked twice the day I got the glasses and once the next. The headache is unlike any headache I've ever experienced. It's not isolated to my eyes or forehead, it's an all-head encompassing ache. The tunnel vision is a combo effect with the dizziness. It's like walking through a rotating tunnel in a fun-house.

Worse, the symptoms don't cease when I take the glasses off - at least not right away. 

I'm only able to read and tolerate the monitor now because I quit trying to wear the glasses yesterday afternoon, and now, 18 hours later, I am finally back to "normal."

"People" tell me this is a normal reaction, it's all part of the process of getting a new lens prescription, my brain is just adjusting to the new information my eyes are sending it. The mechanics of that theory make sense to me, but, the reactions seem kind of extreme, particularly the lingering symptoms long after I take off my glasses.

The same "people" tell me I have to tough it out for a few days and then it'll be great. But toughing it out would entail staying in the bathroom puking while trying to hold an icepack on my head.

Further, when I attempt to navigate in my new glasses, my distance vision is worse than it is without the glasses.

"People" tell me this is normal, as well, especially since one eye is afflicted and the other is not. They then espouse the "brain has to learn to interpret the new information" defense.

Am I just an optical wuss or do I have valid reasons to believe a) the cut-rate eyeglass source that made my new glasses didn't fill the prescription properly, or, b) that the doctor's assistant who wrote the prescription wrote it incorrectly?


12:17 AM

Saturday, September 22, 2012  
As if the personal failure and hurt and self-berating and sleepless nights and embarrassment and financial aspects of foreclosure weren't enough, I'm now facing the fallout of foreclosure in my job hunt.

I received my first official "It's our company policy to not hire candidates with a foreclosure history" rejection notice.

In Illinois there is a state mandate that requires employers to tell candidates a) that they are credit checking, and b) inform rejected candidates if the reason they were rejected is a credit issue, and, further, what specific credit issue caused the rejection.

So, complying with state mandates, a would-be employer sent me a very detailed account of my credit history and cited, specifically, the limbo-foreclosure status of my condo as the reason they are not hiring me.

Credit bureaus don't report details like a 61% drop in property assessment in three years or foreclosure rates in the area causing a glut of empty available homes at low prices rendering it impossible to sell a home for a price higher than the bank auction rates. Credit bureaus just report a financial facts associated with a social security number.

And employers, who have a trove of over-qualified candidates, have to winnow down the candidate pool to one perfect employee candidate. If they have two equally qualified candidates and they like both of them, the credit check provides a convenient deciding factor, "A foreclosure changes everything. We don't want to hire that sort of person. We want don't want that kind of irresponsibility in our employee pool. That settles that, the decision is made."

This recent rejection stings a lot. I wanted that job. I was excited about the company and I have a lot of offer them. I could help them. A lot. And I would enjoy it. I was excited about it. I know better than to get excited about a job prospect, but, this one...well, I couldn't help it. It was a perfect fit for me and my mind was racing with ideas to solve the issues they discussed in the interviews. But, the job requires managing a large budget, and a foreclosure in my background doesn't look good, regardless of the extenuating circumstances.

I knew it would happen eventually. I know employers are checking credit histories and I know they are not hiring people who have any blemish in their credit history. Is it fair? No. But. Who ever said life is fair? It's not. Deal with it.

But. Here's what bugs me and why I'm not just lumping this job rejection in with the hundreds of others and dealing with it: If credit history is a key hiring factor, why not do the credit check first, before putting the candidate through five, count 'em five interviews, and a two hour session of Myers-Briggs-type testing and an IQ test - yes, an IQ test. They called it a skills evaluation but it was a standard IQ test.*  Why invest that kind of time and effort and screening in a candidate before running the credit check?

Further, if a candidate makes it past a) the Myers-Briggs screening and b) the IQ test and, more to the relevant point of the job, c) through five interviews, doesn't it warrant at least a conversation about the credit report? A "Gee, we really like you but we notice a blip on your credit report. Can we discuss this?" conversation? They had no problem discussing my social preferences results from the Myers-Briggs test. They had no problem broaching the topic of their difficult clients and grilling me on how I'd deal with them. There didn't seem to be a problem broaching sensitive topics. But I wasn't given the courtesy of a conversation about my credit report. Nope. Just a rejection letter stating their policy on not hiring candidates with a foreclosure in their credit history.

I'm not sure what the mandate requiring employers to tell candidates they were rejected based on a credit report does for the employers or the candidates. It causes more paperwork and follow-up for the employer, and doesn't tell the candidates anything they didn't already know. I know I have foreclosure in my credit history. I don't need an employer to tell me that. And the reason I have a foreclosure in my credit history is because I'm unemployed. I told the prospective employer I was laid off, they could (I presume) put the two facts together. But nonetheless, they cited foreclosure as the reason they're not hiring me. Kudos to them (I guess) for being honest and following the state mandate in telling me the foreclosure is the reason they didn't hire me. They could have lied and said they went with the other candidate, or, they could have done what the thousands of other employers do: Sent a form rejection email (sent from a do not reply email address), or nothing at all. But nope, this employer took the high road and told me they're not hiring me because of my credit report.

I suppose the thinking behind the mandate to disclose this info is to give the candidate a chance to explain. But. In this case, and I presume in most cases, the case is closed. They hired someone else. I suppose the thinking is that notification of the reason why I didn't get the job would allow me to plea my case, explain my credit issues, explain that I had great credit until I was laid off and even then I maintained good credit until I could no longer pay my mortgage. But why? What would that prove? It wouldn't give me the job - someone else has it, now. And, it's not as if I can repair my credit before the next job application. Unless that job application is seven years from now. Even if there had been an error in my credit report, the company would have moved on to other candidates, probably hired someone else in the interim, and what good would pleading to them about an error in the report do? Knowing that I didn't get the job because of my foreclosure doesn't do anything except depress me. If I had received the usual form rejection email I would have written it off as another disappointment and presumed they had an even better candidate than me, or fixated on that one moment in the interview that I hesitated, or that they went with a better personality fit, or whatever. If I hadn't received any rejection I would have assumed the same things plus written off the company's HR people as unprofessional. But now I know it's my credit report. So what? What can I do about that? The only thing that's going to resolve my credit issue is: A job. A job that pays more than $15/hour. So what's the point of notifying me that the reason I didn't get the one thing I need to help my credit is precisely the thing they're not giving me because of my credit: A job.

So, let's recap. I was laid off with 150 other people in my company. The first call I made was to my real estate agent to put my condo on the market. The numbers he ran for a list price were $30K lower than what I owed on my mortgage. And with four foreclosures in my building at the time, the realistic asking price was more like $49K lower than what I owed. So. I did everything I could to pay my mortgage, drained my savings, my severance and my 401K to pay my mortgage in hopes that a) I'd find a job and/or b) the housing market would improve. Neither of those things happened. The most recent assessment of my condo is $70K less than what I owe on my condo. The bank doesn't want it - they're so certain they can't sell it they're keeping me in foreclosure limbo, offering me all sorts of stalling measures because they don't want to get stuck with it. Which is "nice," I guess, it gives me a chance to find a job, but, I am officially in foreclosure so they're not doing me any favors in my job hunt.

A few states have taken measures to prevent credit checks as a condition of employment, but even in those states there are provisions - if a job requires managing budgets or handling money a credit check is allowed and it's "okay" to reject a candidate based on their credit history.

What really galls me is the ironic circle of finance that's in play. I have to find a job that pays a certain salary in order for me to have enough money to pay my mortgage and affiliated expenses. Minimum wage isn't enough, a low paying job isn't enough. I don't need a lot of money, but I need more than $15/hour to pay my mortgage and affiliated expenses. And so far, I have not been offered a job garnering more than $15/hour. So. I'll lose my home because I can't find a job that pays well enough to afford my mortgage. However. Once the bank takes my condo, they'll be lucky to sell it for the price of a mid-range new car. So whomever buys my foreclosed condo will have a low mortgage payment, a mortgage payment very manageable on a low income.

Banks: Here's a thought: for the myriad people in my situation (there are millions of us), how about taking the hit you're going to take on the price of the foreclosed home, refinance the loan to the price you'll get by selling at auction so that the owner can afford their mortgage on the lower salary they've had to take. My building currently has six foreclosures. Even at ridiculously low prices, three have been vacant almost three years. The likelihood of selling my condo is low. I realize my mortgage is my responsibility and you don't owe me anything. This is not something I take lightly - my mortgage has been the key source of anxiety from the moment I was laid off. My mortgage, how to pay it, what to do about it, has caused me more stress than anything I have ever encountered in life, and let me tell you, I've encountered a lot of stressful situations in my life. The job hunt has been brutal, demoralizing, anguishing and confusing. The main reason I haven't given up, the primary reason I forge ahead, continue the exercise in futility, is because of my condo and its mortgage. This is not something I take lightly, not something I'm irresponsible about.  Normally, the "right" thing to do is sell, but, with the plummeting value, that's not an option - if I had been able to sell when I was first laid off (and that's a big if), at the $49K less than what I owed, I'd still owe the mortgage company $49K and I would have been a) homeless and b) unemployed and c) unable to pay it.

And then, finally, a job appeared and I was a viable candidate and I went through five interviews which all went well...only to be told I didn't pass the credit check because of a foreclosure in my credit history.

Oh the irony. The job I want that will allow me to pay the mortgage in the home I'm trying to keep is the source of rejection for the job.

And this is why there are "discouraged workers." This is why people give up. This is why depression is rampant and heart attack and suicide rates are up.



* This, too, is becoming a normal protocol in hiring, in the past year I've been put through the Myers-Briggs and "skills evaluation" - which is always a standard IQ test - for more job applications than not. A few employers sent me detailed reports, and one thing about these that "helps" me deal with all this is that, in spite of all the crap I've been though in the past few years, I'm testing consistent in terms of personality and IQ. My sociopsychological composition and IQ are almost exactly what they've always been, at least as measured by these standardized tests. I test "socially adept" and "personally creative" on Myers-Briggs tests, and I have a (very) respectable IQ number. A friend tells me this may be a problem, she advised me to dumb down my IQ tests because her company's HR office has decided to hire only average IQ-ed candidates. They're finding higher IQ candidates either don't stay at the company or cause "problems." So now I've been advised to a) dumb down my resume, lie by omission about my education and experience, and b) play dumb on skill assessments. Education, intelligence and experience are liabilities.

7:57 AM

Saturday, September 15, 2012  
I like to think there's order in the Universe - at least on some levels. Close inspection typically shows there is order even in the most chaotic scenes in nature. Biologically we're on a clearly fixed DNA path. The path can be swayed by outside influences and decisions, of course, but, our DNA is set, it's how were wired. And evolution happens. It keeps marching, and responding as necessary.* DNA + evolution = order in the Universe for humans. It doesn't always seem that way, though.

When I can't suss out the order of the order, or understand the march of evolution, I get frustrated/angry/scared and a) hope there's a God so b) I can be mad at Him or c) demand some answers and yes, d) pray.

Timeline.

August 28. I spent the day with Frankie and Benjy who went out of their way to have a layover in my neck of the Universe. It was the best day I've had in months. Good friends. Yes. I do have good friends. Just when I most needed a boost to my morale, down came Frankie and Benjy to remind me that I am worthy of friendship, I'm not an awful person and that, hey, I actually possess a sense of humor and social skills! It was bittersweet because it was such a brief visit, but I was grateful for face-to-face contact, something increasingly rare for us. Skype's great, but it's not "the same." For instance, when you're sitting next to a friend and one of you cracks a joke alluding to Then Again, Maybe I Won't, the knowing glance and out-and-out giggles that ensue can only really happen in person. Oh sure, the joke can be made, the glance can be cast via Skype, but, it's not the same as in person. It's just not. But that makes the moments spent with friends all the better. I cherish them, and I'm telling you this, ramming the point home, you should, too. Do whatever you have to do to turn off your phone/tablet/whatever distractions you have and spend in-person time with your really, truly, madly, deeply good friends. We all know this, I knew it, I know it, but, you know, life, time, etc., it's not easy to find time to just socialize...in person.

My good friends live far, far away so I learned the hard way: You miss them when they're gone, and you miss them in ways you don't quite understand or realize until you see them again.

Frankie and I have that rare thing, that indefinable thing, that makes us "friends." Never questioned, never dissected, never discussed, really. It just is. Like being in love without the sex and complications of romance. During that layover there was non-stop conversation and laughs. One particularly good laugh was the aforementioned allusion to Then Again, Maybe I Won't. The actual joke doesn't matter, and unless you were there, unless you're us, it's not all that funny. But to us, in that moment, it was a side-splitter.


September 5: Judy Blume announced/wrote about her Summer of Breast Cancer. Yes, I read Judy Blume's blog. I read Judy Blume's blog because I've been reading Judy Blume's writing since I was old enough to read and comprehend her writing, probably around age 8. I trust Judy Blume. Judy Blume has helped me deal with pretty much every "difficult" issue in my life, and given that I've had a lot of "difficult" issues in my life(?) that's saying a lot. No, Judy hasn't specifically covered broken engagements and workplace woes and unemployment and homelessness, but she's covered handling your problems and dealing with difficult people and facing tough emotions with dignity, compassion, humor and intelligence. She's the cool/wise/fun aunt I never had in real life. My own aunts were wonderful people but never broached topics like mean girls at school, menstruation, or sex, and on the exceptionally rare occasions boys in the context of dating came up, their "advice" was more snarky remarks about the male gender that where actually thinly veiled digs at their husbands. Judy Blume, on the other hand, was out there in the trenches with me. Through her books every girl/woman under the age of 50 believes we know Judy Blume because she spoke to us, personally it feels, through her books.

News that she has cancer hit me like a punch in the gut. As I read Judy's blog post I gasped, out loud, "No! Not Judy!" as if one of our key tactical strategists had been taken hostage or injured in battle and the rest of us were doomed. As witnessed in her guest book entries since September 5, I am not the only Judy Blume fan who felt that punch in the gut and felt that doom. Once again, Ms. Blume shared her experience, not preaching, not condescending, no high-horse, just facts and how she dealt with it. I've never been sure if Judy meant to inspire, console, educate and guide legions, generations, of women, but she has. I find the wisest people I know, the ones from whom I learn the most, are the ones who aren't actually trying to teach me something. Judy has always felt like one of those people. And now, once again, wittingly or unwittingly, she is tackling another tough issue and showing us how to handle it: Gritting your teeth and confronting it with dignity, humor, and by using your brain and learning about the nature of the beast.

Yes, I my eyes swelled with tears, but Judy, being Judy Blume, forged on, and I sat there thinking, "that's right, Judy, you go, girl, you show cancer who's boss." I said, out loud, to no one and everyone, "She'll be fine. She's going to be fine. She's Judy Blume. She'll be fine." Of course I was just feebly attempting to comfort myself. Because I was confused and angry and scared. The order in my Universe was shaken. In my Universe intelligent, funny, compassionate, kind, spirited, inspirational people who take take of their health and have zero family history of breast cancer do not get breast cancer. Period. There are only a few reasons I survived puberty and evolved to adulthood. Judy Blume is one of those factors. She's accessible, real, and unlike other authors young girls like me like to read - Louisa May Alcott and Laura Ingalls Wilder, for instance - she's very much alive. Girls like me need someone like Judy Blume in order for our species to evolve. So. She's going to be fine. She will be fine. Still. Order has not been restored. The mere fact that it happened at all was enough to unhinge the safe places in my psyche. To say I was angry at the Universe for this injustice is a gross understatement. To say that I thought, "Yeah, there's a God, all right, and He's mean and vindictive and just plain cruel. Evolution wouldn't mutate genes to harm a leader and savior of females of a certain type, evolution would see to it that the leader would survive, thrive and evolve. God, on the other hand...God does some mean shit in the name of 'teaching lessons.'"

September 14. Frankie called me at the crack of dawn. We live in vastly different time zones, we Skype once a week or so, and there are phone calls at odd hours, so I didn't think anything of seeing her name appear on my phone. I had to deal with an issue with my mother, and the morning news was showing the Middle East behaving nuttier than normal, so I let the call go to voice mail. I thought, "I'll Skype her later, when we can solve the problems in the Middle East and share our thoughts on the virtues of Indiana Jones versus Rick Deckard and when, oh when, will Bladerunner be issued on IMAX?" Call me a horrible friend, but I didn't even listen to her voice mail. I just thought, "I'll Skype her in a few hours."

I'll have to live with that lapse in judgment forever.

Turns out it wasn't Frankie calling. It was Benjy calling from Fankie's phone. I found this out several hours later when I got a text from Benjy asking me to call him.

Yadda yadda yadda Frankie started bleeding, profusely, during the night, and it wasn't "period kind of bleeding." Benjy, being a guy, didn't really understand how us girls can tell the difference between "period kind of bleeding" and "not period kind of bleeding" and seemed to be stuck on this point, fixated on it, unable to get past the fact that Frankie (his wife), or any other woman for that matter, is a) capable of bleeding in ways other than "period kind of bleeding" and b) that we can discern the difference. (If more boys read Judy Blume books there might not be quite so much confusion and mystery between the sexes...not that men will ever understand what really happens "down there," and  but Judy's books could be a bridge to understanding why the female psyche is so closely related to that part of female anatomy.)

The fact, though, is that "we" were way, way, way past the point of classifying types of blood that spew from a vagina. By the time I called Benjy, Frankie had been admitted to a hospital and was undergoing emergency surgery...and all indications were that cancer was the root source of the issue. Cancer + anything remotely anatomically female = bad situation.

Many phone calls and several hours later it was confirmed. Cancer. My friend has cancer. My intelligent, funny, compassionate, spirited, adventurous, kind, goofy friend who takes exceptionally good care of herself (rarely has a need to see a doctor other than for a yearly checkup and has never even spent a night in a hospital) and has no family history of cancer has...cancer.

Confusion, anger, fear and far too many questions that all lead to one issue: Why? What evolutionary role does giving Frankie cancer play in the timeline of the Universe? We need more women like her to set examples for other women and girls and the Universe does this? Really?

And then it hit me,  déjà vu. Except it wasn't just a feeling this already happened. It really did already happen. I had the same confusion, anger, fear and questions 9 days prior when I read about Judy Blume's breast cancer. And that's when I figured it out, that's when I understood what it is about Frankie that endeared me to her the second I met her: She's my real life Judy Blume. We don't just share the experience of having read Judy's books as young girls, she, being a few years older than I am, is, and has been, my personal real-life Judy Blume. She's forged the path for me, showed me and shared with me previews of what's to come in life. We joke that we're the sisters we never had (we both have flesh and blood sisters), but now I realize a key component to why I feel such a strong kinship with her. She is the embodiment of the kind and funny and wiser friend that spun ripping yarns that inspired, consoled and educated me when I was a little girl. I desperately wanted to tell Frankie this, but of course I couldn't because she was zonked out in recovery.

And now, though, I'm plagued with, "My friend has cancer. What's the right thing to say? Or not say? If I tell her my Judy Blume coincidence and revelation will she think I'm trivializing her state of affairs? Yesterday, before either of us knew she had cancer I could have told her that revelation and we would have discussed and dissected it and laughed about it and laughed at ourselves for dissecting it. But now...well...now everything's different. Because my friend has cancer."

I'm fairly certain she won't want it to be a defining point, a trait lumped in with her blue eyes and fondness for brussels sprouts, but, it is a fact of her life, now. And it turns out it has been a fact of her life for a while. Back on that halcyon day a few weeks ago, we were all oblivious to the cancer cells waging a war inside her. But it was happening and it seems to weird to think while we were laughing and talking as if nothing was wrong, cancer was attacking her. It didn't define her then and it shouldn't now, but...now we know and she's enduring a lot of physical trauma and so, yes, it's part of her definition, now.

I know I have to get all of this out of my system so that I can be a better friend for her, one who's prepared and stable and not angry, confused and scared. In most ways I'm grateful that there was no test, waiting for test results, more tests, diagnosis, planning surgery precursor. It was just crash, bang wallop, you have cancer and we're removing everything in the general vicinity of the cancer and we'll start talking about radiation and chemo in a few days when other doctors have reviewed the pathology. There it is. Deal with it. Now. Frankie's a spontaneous and decisive person, not one who needs time to plan, so it's fitting it would happen like this.

I'm perversely grateful (and I hate myself for this and question what kind of horrible human being I am because of this) for the timeline of these specific events. I can't know how I would have reacted/felt had I not had the Judy Blume cancer experience prior to my friend's cancer emergency, but I can say I have already drawn strength from that one blog post Judy Blume wrote about her breast cancer.

I had a moment of clarity, "Okay. Well, this sucks, but, Frankie, as Judy Blume dealt with breast cancer, so shall you deal with whatever the heck cancer you have. The woman got us through periods, sex and boys, and she'll get us through cancer, too."

It happened. Deal with it. Maintain some dignity, stay true to yourself and find the humor in it. All lessons we've learned from Judy Blume.

Everything happens for a reason, there is order in the Universe. And that means taking the good with the bad. There's a food chain, an ordered nutrition system, which makes perfect sense but also means some really cute small animals are appetizers for a bigger animal. Very unfair. But very orderly. That's the rationale, I guess, and it does abate some of the confusion, but it doesn't assuage the anger and fear.





*I argue that even outside influences are part of evolution: A drug addict makes a choice to try drugs which are widely known to be addictive and either doesn't care about becoming an addict or believes s/he is above addiction, smarter than addiction, stronger and the one person who can enjoy the drug without becoming addicted.  So, low IQ, depression and ego are the core issues, which are part of nature's way of thinning the herd. "You're mentally unfit for the herd because you are unable to make healthy choices for your body." (This does call the likes of Keith Richards into query: What's going on in his DNA that allows him to survive and survive and survive?

Coincidences...ironies...is it even worth remarking on them? I usually think not, but every now and then the Universe sees fit to hit us over the head with them. Things that make you go "huh." Or "Huh?"

12:42 AM

Wednesday, September 05, 2012  
I'm here today to extol the virtues of self-improvement projects.

I'm not talking about the obvious undertakings  - like taking a more strenuous fitness class, learning a new skill for your job, keeping current with technology - net obvious results. Those types of endeavors, while not vital on a rigorous daily basis, are higher up on the necessary scale. Ideally, we should all make time for those types of projects on a regular basis.

And I'm not talking about the big psychological issues that require outside help. Those self-improvement projects certainly land high on the necessary scale, too, but they require, well, a lot of effort and planning and outside help. All of us could benefit from some professional counseling because we all have emotional hurdles that are too high for us to jump on our own. We know what they are and we know we need, um, guidance, to deal with them, but that takes a lot of effort, time and money. And day in, day out, does is really matter that we're carrying baggage about one of our parents or that we hoard collect white porcelain unicorns? Sure, the bigger issues that could hurt ourselves or other people are a different case. My friend with the horrible road rage knows it would be good for her (and those around her) to "do" something about her anger associated with driving. In her case counseling is the only real solution. Which is why (I think) she doesn't confront herself with it and make herself work on it. Counseling, therapy...those are big concepts. She's not stupid. She knows it's a problem. She knows she's already infected and affected her children with her road rage. And she does feel bad about it. And she wants to do something about it. But. Finding a therapist and going to those sessions means admitting to other people, people outside her circle of trust, that she has a serious problem. That's some heady terrain. I'm not going to tackle that.

I am referring to the very personal, specific self-improvement projects. We all have at least one aspect that we know could stand some polishing, an aspect that doesn't require counseling. An area of our brain that we haven't exercised enough, or perhaps a skill that we once spent time perfecting and then let lapse, presuming we mastered the skill and could let recess to the basement of the brain to make space for bigger skill sets. How's your high school French? Can you still conjugate any French verbs? Can you even still correctly spell conjugate in English? What about those years in band you played saxophone...could you still squeak out Mary Had a Little Lamb? You probably devoted some time to studying, learning, something and attained some skill level at it. The knowledge is somewhere in your brain. It may or may not be like riding a bike, but, given some time and tutelage dusting off that skill set the synapses will start firing again.

Several weeks ago I decided it was time to do something about the deplorable state to which I've let my penmanship lapse. In the grand scheme of life penmanship rarely matters anymore. Many people argue that I'm wasting time redeveloping my penmanship skills.

A friend "caught" me doing a little practice on a cocktail napkin. (Penmanship practice has become my new doodling.) I hadn't told her about The Penmanship Project, but when she saw my doodling she immediately said, "My handwriting is so bad, I've really let it slide..." I smiled knowingly and told her about The Penmanship Project. She's now working on hers, too. She bought us both a dry erase board that is printed with penmanship practice grids.

A few days ago she told me that she told a friend about "our" handwriting awareness program. That inspired her friend, who, thanks to hand-held devices, has let their "real" typing skills slide, to improve her classic keyboarding skills. She's setting aside a little time every week to do classic typing drills and playing Typer Shark to re-establish her keyboarding skills. Does her "real" typing skill set really matter? Not so much. She's a stay-at-home mother who thumb-texts everything.

But. There are greater rewards than the skill itself. Most of them are the lofty ideals our parents and third grade teachers tried to instill in us: Discipline is its own reward. Exercising your brain is never a bad thing. Nothing and no one is perfect, everything and everyone can always use improvement. Small accomplishments lead to big rewards.

And: You never know when you'll need to use a particular skill, so best to learn to do it well.

There I was, a few weeks into The Penmanship Project. My skills were already showing signs of improvement, I made a hasty to-do list that I could actually read several days after I wrote it. It wasn't the neatly scribed penmanship of my yore, but it was definitely better than what I was trying to pass off as penmanship prior to The Penmanship Project. It was a tiny triumph that served as encouragement to continue my practice sessions.

And then came the moment of truth.

Unfortunately I had to send sympathy cards. The death was a truly tragic and untimely one, and the family of the deceased are suffering horribly. There are parents who had to bury their child, sisters left without their little brother, as well as very young children who no longer have a father. My generic note cards wouldn't suffice, and Dollar Store cards were not good enough.

Yep. I had to find the money to splash out for Hallmark cards. There simply wasn't another choice. The situation demands good cards. And not the good cards they sell at Walgreen's or the card aisle at the grocery. The situation demanded good cards chosen from a huge selection and variety of good cards, the ones that smell like they came from a quality specialty stationery store.

Because this was sympathy situation, I knew where I had to go. The cute and eclectic little indie shops are great for different birthday cards and funny boxes of note cards, but when it comes to sympathy cards there's only one real emporium. It's what I call the Cheese Shop, where they have a variety of assorted cheese trays from which to sample and choose. Most Hallmark stores devote at least 15% of their retail space to sympathy cards. That's a lot of sympathy. There's a card for every ilk, and if they don't have your specific sympathy need on display there's a good chance they have one stored in the drawers below the racks or in the back room. This is why I've come to rely on the Cheese Store for life's difficult card sending situations. When a situation demands a good card, which is usually also when I'm at a loss for words, Hallmark always comes through.

Years ago, when I was in a funk about my chosen profession, I considered opening a card shop. Not to compete with Hallmark, but to augment it. But my market research showed me that there were already too many indie card/gift shops and the failure rate was high. While most of us like the smaller, boutique or artsy cards we find at places other than the Cheese Shop, Hallmark reigns supreme in the card shop game. Why? Because there are times in life that require really good cards. Funny, savvy, artsy cards are great for birthdays and get well as you recover from your gall bladder surgery, but certain situations require the distinct type of sensitivity that is Hallmark's forté. Period. And that's how they stay in business, even in the modern age of egreetings. There's no way I'm going to send an ecard to the bereaved family members who just lost a son, brother, husband and father. There is simply not an option other than something from the Cheese Shop with a hand written message.

When my dad died I received a lot of sympathy cards. So many it was overwhelming. The outpouring of kind thoughts, many from very unexpected sources, was kind beyond articulation. I had to read them in small batches because I'd get a little overemotional if I read too many at one go. All of them were the super good ones from the Cheese Shop. And every one of them had a personal handwritten note. It's just what you do. It's one of the things that separates us from animals.

The handwritten sentiments included with the cards were hugely appreciated. Those cheesy Hallmark verses and handwritten sentiments meant a lot to me. Most of us struggle when we have to compose those types of sentiments. But having been on the receiving end I can attest that something as simple as a "thinking of you" packs a powerful punch of comfort when you're in the throes of grief. It's the handwritten aspect that makes it so personal and by association, so touching. Seeing a person's handwriting brings them to mind. Email and texts don't do that.

So now, there I was selecting sympathy cards from an assorted cheese tray at the Cheese Shop. The super long verses were a little too personal, so I opted for short and sweet sentiments on cards that weren't adorned with flowers. I got home and, as I began signing them they seemed a little sparse, a little impersonal considering I've known this family most of my life. So, I spent a lot of time toiling over the right thing to write on the cards to the deceased's parents, sisters and wife.

And then it came time to write the right sentiments in the cards. I got out the good pen. Assumed the proper position at a desk and began writing the personal notes on the sympathy cards.

It was at that point I realized The Penmanship Project is worth more than personal satisfaction over my efforts to regain whatever it was I lost when I let my handwriting decline to state of barely legible scratches. It's times like these that penmanship matters. You're writing heartfelt words to people who are grieving. It matters.

While not completely satisfied with my progress, I was hugely relieved that I've been diligent in my practice and had several weeks of penmanship study under my belt. I shuddered at the thought of how my penmanship would have looked on these sympathy cards had I not decided to do something about my penmanship. I have a long (long) way to go to get back to my former penmanship glory, but I already feel better about my handwriting. Yes, it's still awful, but, I am working on it and it is improving.

I'm finding there are rewards beyond the obvious. The discipline is good for me. Using a dusty part of my brain is good for me. Gaining control over something, even just one aspect of myself, is a confidence and morale booster.

And, I'm part of an apparently small but devoted group of people who believe that penmanship does matter. Maybe we're all dinosaurs, clinging to an old fashioned, outdated skill. Or, as I am coming to see us, maybe we're an elite corp of scribes who see the value of cursive writing beyond an outmoded form of written communication. Developing a skill that allows us to express ourselves in a personal, unique manner is a rare treat. Hand printing and digital messaging remove us from the words, strip the personality from the message. And, yes, in some cases, especially professional communication, that's not a bad thing.

But if you were grieving, what would touch you more: A handwritten or a digitally typed note?


With sincere sympathy and fond remembrances



12:26 PM

 
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